James Heneghan - Fit to kill

“Is someone picking you up?” Lucy asked the woman after she emerged from the shower.

“Pick up? No.”

She was attractive and had an accent, eastern European by the sounds of it. “I was asking because of the murders,” said Lucy. “The West End isn’t safe for walking after dark.”

The woman smiled. “Hotel not so far.”

“My dad picks me up,” said Lucy. “We could drop you off.”

“Thank you, but I am okay.”

Lucy tried again. “You know that today is the thirteenth day, don’t you? It’s dangerous out there.”

“Bayshore Hotel only short walk.”

Lucy toweled and dressed. The other woman was taking her time. Before she left, Lucy said, “Are you sure you don’t want a ride? It’s no trouble.”

The woman shook her head, smiling.

“I be fine.”

Lucy skipped down the stairs. She could see her dad’s car through the rain-spattered glass doors.

“Hello, sweetheart!” Alan Lambert opened the car door for his daughter.

“Hi, Dad.” She leaned over and kissed his rough cheek as he started the car and moved off.

She couldn’t help thinking about the woman with the lovebirds, hoping she’d make it to her hotel all right.

Marta Poljansek dressed and dropped her towel and skimpy exercise outfit into her bag. Marta liked to travel light. Happily unmarried at the age of forty-two-though looking only thirty-she traveled the world for a Prague pharmaceutical company. She had been to Vancouver several times before and preferred this local gym to the one in her hotel. Tomorrow she was due to make a presentation. The convention went to Sunday. She was looking forward to it. Especially if there were any good-looking men. When possible, Marta liked to combine business with pleasure.

She hurried out of the West End Fitness Center and bumped into a man standing outside the door with his gym bag.

“So sorry,” she said.

“No problem,” said the man with a smile, rubbing an elbow where the edge of the door had assaulted him.

“Is my fault.”

“No, no. I’m fine,” he said. “No problem. Let me walk you home. It’s dangerous for a woman alone at night.”

She smiled. “Am okay. Is only the short walk.”

“But I insist,” he said courteously. “I have an umbrella, see?”

“You are nice gentleman.” She allowed him to fall into step beside her.

Canadians were such kind people.

A Dumpster diver discovered a body in the lane behind the sushi restaurant on Robson Street, Wexler reported to his colleagues. “White female, no clothing, no id.” Wexler sounded weary.

“And no head,” mumbled Doug Duchesne, who was fiddling with his cameras, his back to them.

Ozeroff glared at him.

Wexler nodded. “Number five.”

“In the garbage,” murmured Ozeroff, about to cry.

Casey and Wexler watched her.

Ozeroff sat, elbows on knees, face hidden in her hands.

Silence.

“You okay, Deb?” Casey placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” she said in a small voice.

Wexler said, “Let’s go eat.”

Casey helped Ozeroff on with her raincoat. “You coming, Doug?”

“No, go ahead. Things I gotta do.”

The threesome headed down the hill to Hegel’s. Today it wasn’t raining and the air was mild. The tide was out at English Bay, exposing the beach strewn with the usual debris. The water glinted green under a light gray sky.

“Thirteen days since number four,” said Wexler once they’d found seats.

All Ozeroff wanted was a cup of coffee.

Casey said, “Look, Deb, if something comes up at night, call me or Jack and we’ll cover for you. Right, Jack?”

“Right,” said Wexler. “No problem.”

Ozeroff gave a hard laugh. “What about ballet? Or opera? I can’t always expect Vera to drop what she’s doing to come with me.”

“Ballet! Yuck!” said Wexler.

“Or what if I have to cover a fashion show?” said Ozeroff. “What then?”

“No problem,” said Wexler. “One of us will go with you, same as when you went to the pussy concert with Casey, right?”

“That’s Debussy, Jack, not pussy,” Casey whispered.

“That’s what I said.” Wexler sounded indignant.

Casey couldn’t tell whether Ozeroff was laughing or crying.

When Lucy Lambert’s father picked her up from the gym the next day, she told him about the woman in the shower. “Do you think it could be the same one?”

Alan Lambert shrugged. “Could be, Lucy, it was the thirteenth night. But maybe we’ll never know. It’s hard to identify a person who has no…” He stopped.

“That’s okay, say it. No head. But what about a tattoo?”

“She had a tattoo?”

“A pair of lovebirds. On her bum.” Lucy laughed nervously.

“You saw it?”

“I couldn’t help it. She was in the shower right across from me. And it was a big tattoo.”

“Hmmn. You realize, Lucy, if you tell the police, they’ll expect you to take a look at the body.”

“I already thought of that. If they keep her covered except for her behind, then maybe I could do it.”

“Body’ll be in the morgue. Not a nice place. You sure you want to go through all that?”

Lucy said, “If it will help catch this creep, I’ll do anything.”

“You want me to come with you?”

She went alone.

It was the same woman all right. There was no mistaking the two lovebirds on her left buttock.

Lucy had never seen a dead person before. Though she didn’t see this one, not really. They slid open a huge drawer, and the woman was in it, like a slab of meat, covered with a sheet. One of the men flipped back the edge of the part that covered her behind.

Afterward, they took Lucy outside into the gray daylight and walked her across the lane into the Public Safety Building. Then upstairs to an office where they had her help an artist draw a picture of the woman from a special identity kit.

Lucy felt just fine.

But when she got home, the place seemed empty and cold. She checked the thermostat: normal. Though it was the middle of the day, she climbed into bed, pulled up the covers and wept.

“According to Ozeroff, serial killers think they’re smarter than the police,” said Casey.

“Perhaps they are,” said Emma.

“So they leave deliberate clues. The killer’s letters to the papers, for example. Or revealing that he kills every thirteen days, mocking police efforts to catch him.”

Emma said, “So other than the letters to the police, what other clues has he been leaving?”

“No others as far as I know. The police don’t tell us. Knowing that the killings occur every thirteen days hasn’t helped either, even with extra police everywhere on the night.”

They walked. She was very aware of him beside her. His bulk and height. The dark tracksuit, the canvas gym bag in his hand. The tweed cap, the red hair curling at the neck. And his blue eyes looking calmly down at her.

She pulled his head down and kissed him.

They didn’t go to Devlin’s. They went to her place instead. Emma made Irish tea, sent by her mother.

Emma said, “When’s the next one-the thirteenth day, I mean?”

“January tenth, a Wednesday.”

“That’s my Parents’ Night. Seven to nine.”

“I’ll walk you there and pick you up- wait-Wednesday’s bad for me too. I have a parks board meeting. It’s my job. The Stanley Park Zoo is on the agenda. They’ll be discussing the whale pool. Big issue.” He shrugged. “Can’t miss that.”

“That’s okay. I’m only a couple of blocks from the school. What can happen in two blocks?” She smiled. “I’ll be quite all right.”