I have been accused of speaking Southern French. Anne’s accent left me in the Dixie dust.
“This is just a cooling-off period, right? A marital sabbatical?”
When I was married to Pete, Anne and I often joked about the “marital sabbatical.” It was our code phrase for “road trip, no men allowed.”
“I could be dead a week and Tom Turnip wouldn’t notice I was gone.” The fork came back up, this time pointed at me. “No. That may be harsh. If Tom ran out of toilet paper he might holler to inquire as to my whereabouts.”
Anne gave one of her full, throaty laughs. “There’s a pretty picture, darlin’. The great barrister, caught midstep taking a dum—”
“Annie.”
“Hon, the boy is history.”
For a few moments we ate in silence. When I’d finished, I gave the topic one last shot.
“Annie, this is Tempe. I know you. I know Tom. I’ve seen you two together for twenty years. Tell me what’s really going on.”
Anne laid down her fork and began working the paper napkin under her wineglass. A full minute passed before she spoke.
“Things were amazing when Tom and I first met. The March of the Toreadors every night. And things stayed great. The books and talk shows tell you that married couples go from towering inferno to not so hot, and that that’s normal. But it didn’t happen with Tom and me.”
Jagged scallops were appearing along the napkin’s edge.
“Not until a couple of years ago.”
“Are you talking about sex?”
“I’m talking about a major, total downshift. Tom stopped smoldering and began focusing on anything that wasn’t me. I began settling for less and less of him. Last week it struck me. Our paths were barely crossing.”
“Nothing terrible had happened?”
“That’s just it. Nothing had happened. Nothing was happening. Nothing was about to happen. I’d begun to feel numb. And I’d begun to think numb wasn’t so bad. Numb began to feel normal.”
Anne gathered the napkin scraps into a tiny mound.
“Life’s too short, Tempe. I don’t want my obituary to read, ‘Here lies a woman who sold houses.’”
“Isn’t it a bit soon to just pull the plug?”
With a sweep of the hand, Anne sent the scraps spiraling to the floor.
“I have aspired to be the perfect wife more than half my life. The result has been deep disappointment. Cut and run. That’s my new philosophy.”
“Have you considered counseling?”
“When hell and the golf courses freeze over.”
“You know Tom loves you.”
“Does he?”
“We meet very few people in this life who truly care.”
“Right you are, darling.” Anne drained her fourth chardonnay with a quick, jerky move, and set the glass onto the mutilated napkin. “And those are the folks who hurt us the most.”
“Annie.” I forced my friend’s eyes to mine. They were a deep, dusky green, the pupils shining with an alcohol buzz. “Are you sure?”
Anne curled the fingers of both hands and placed her forehead on her fists. A hesitation, then her face came back up.
“No.”
The unhappiness in her voice stopped my heart.
* * *
During dinner the wind had blustered up for a personal best, and the temperature had dropped in opposition. Negotiating the quarter mile home felt like mushing the Iditarod from Anchorage to Nome.
Gusts moaned up Ste-Catherine, manhandling our clothing and sandblasting our faces with ice and snow. Anne and I ran hunched like soldiers on a bunker charge.
Rounding the corner of my block, I noticed oddly drifted snow against the outer door of my building. Though cold teared my eyes, something about the white mound looked very wrong.
As I blinked my vision into focus, the drift expanded, changed shape, contracted again.
I stopped, frowned. Could it be?
An appendage snaked out, was drawn back.
What the hell was going on?
I dashed across the street and up the outer stairs.
“Birdie!”
My cat raised his chin slightly and rolled his eyes up. Seeing me, he shot forward without seeming to flex a limb. A small cloud puffed from my mouth as my chest caught his catapulted weight.
Birdie clawed upward, laid his chin on my shoulder, and pressed his belly to my jacket. His fur smelled wet. His body shivered from cold or fear.
“What’s he doing out here?” A gust snatched Anne’s question and whipped it up the street.
“I don’t know.”
“Can he let himself out?”
“Someone had to have opened a door.”
“You tight enough with anyone to give out a key?”
“No.”
“So who’s been inside?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, we better find out.”
Pulling off her mittens, Anne produced a Mace dispenser from her shoulder bag.
“I think that’s illegal here,” I said.
“So shoot me.” Anne yanked the outer door.
Entering the vestibule was like stepping from a vortex into a vacuum.
Handing off Birdie, I removed my mittens, reached into a pocket, and took out my keys. Palms sweaty, I unlocked the interior door.
The lobby was graveyard quiet. No snow residue or wet prints marred the runners or the marble floor. Heart hammering, I crossed and made a hard right. Anne followed.
Faux brass wall sconces light the interior lobby and corridors. Normally, the low-level illumination is sufficient. Tonight, two candles were out, leaving murky pools of darkness between the islands of yellow dotting my hallway.
Had the bulbs been out when we left? I couldn’t remember.
My condo lay straight ahead. Seeing it, I stopped dead, totally unnerved.
Black space gaped between the open door and jamb.
10
THROUGH THE GAP, I COULD MAKE OUT DISORDERED shadows and an odd luminescence, like moonlight on water.
I glanced over my shoulder. Anne stood with one arm wrapping the cat, the other upraised, Mace at the ready. Birdie clung to her chest, head twisted one-eighty to stare at his home.
I turned back to the door, straining to hear sounds on the far side. A footfall. A cough. The whisper of a sleeve.
Behind me, Anne’s ragged breathing. Beyond the door, intimidating silence.
The three of us held stock-still, eyes wide, a triptych in trepidation.
A heartbeat. A lifetime.
Then Birdie made his move. Scrabbling upward, he gave a “Rrrp,” rocketed off Anne’s chest, and shot toward the opening. In a lunge to grab him, Anne only managed to divert his flight path.
Paws slammed the door, sending it backward into the wall. Birdie sped inside as the door ricocheted back from the wall and shut.
Blood drained from my brain. Options kaleidoscoped.
Retreat? Call out? Dial 911?
I find cell phones in restaurants annoying beyond tolerance. I hadn’t brought mine to dinner.
Damn!
I turned to Anne. Her face was a tense white oval in the dim light.
I pantomimed punching numbers on a cell phone. Anne shook her head, canister on high. Lady Liberty with Mace, but no phone.
We traded looks of indecision. I spoke first, barely a whisper.
“Could the latch have failed to catch?”
“I pulled it tight. But it’s your damn door.” Barely a sibilant, but she managed to hiss. “Besides, that doesn’t explain Birdie being outside.”
“If someone was waiting to assault us, the door wouldn’t be open.”
“Assault us?” Anne’s eyes saucered. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Are you talking about some homicidal crazoid you’ve pissed off through your work?”
“That’s not what I meant.” It was exactly what I meant. “I meant some random intruder.”
Anne’s eyes ballooned. “Great. S
ome crazoid rapist.”
“That’s not the point. Leaving the door open would be a dead giveaway of a break-in.”
“Excellent choice of wording.”
Under stress, Anne’s sarcasm keeps its cool.
“If it’s a routine burglary, they wouldn’t announce their presence with an open door. The door makes no sense if anyone’s inside.”
Lady Liberty relaxed her arm a fraction, but said nothing.
Creeping forward, I placed my ear to the door.
No noise.
But something else.
Squatting, I held my hand to the crack. Cold air was seeping out.
“What?” Anne was still using her church voice.
I straightened.
“There’s a door or window open inside.”
“Meaning the Ripper has split? Or settled in for a Guinness and garroting?”
At that moment the lobby door opened. We both went rigid.
Voices. Male.
Anne’s Mace arm shot skyward.
Footsteps retreated down the wing opposite mine. A door opened, closed.
Silence.
Then more footsteps. Coming in our direction!
I motioned Anne into the stairwell hallway parallel to my door. We shrank sideways as one.
A figure filled the frame of the main entrance to my corridor, tuque pulled low to his eyes. Dimness and the hat obscured the man’s face. All I could make out was body form. Tall. Lean.
The figure hesitated, then pulled off the tuque and strode toward us.
Anne’s knuckles went white around her canister.
The figure passed under a sconce. Sandy hair. Bomber jacket.
Relief flooded through me. Followed by embarrassment. And feelings of which I was uncertain.
Defusing Anne with a gesture, I stepped forward.
“What are you doing here?” Whispered, but shrill, thanks to the adrenaline pumping through me.
Ryan’s smile sagged, but held on. “I’ve come to view that greeting as a sign of affection.”
“I’m always saying that because you’re always showing up unexpectedly.”
Ryan placed both hands on his chest. “I am a man smitten.” He spread the hands wide. “I cannot stay away.”
Anne lowered her arm, a look of confusion crimping her features.
Ryan turned, preparing to beam charm in Anne’s direction. Seeing the Mace, his smile wavered. He looked a question at me.
Annoyance and embarrassment began a full-court press against fear and relief. If the break-in wasn’t real, I didn’t want to look like a fool. If the break-in was real, I didn’t want to need Ryan’s help. Or his protection.
Unfortunately, at that moment, I suspected I needed both.
“Someone may have broken into my place.”
Ryan didn’t question what I’d said. He spoke without moving.
“How long were you away?”
“A couple of hours. We’ve been back five minutes or less.”
“Did you set the alarm when you left?”
Normally I am good about security. Tonight, Anne and I had been intent on catch-up.
“Probably.” I wasn’t sure.
Pocketing gloves and tuque, Ryan unzipped his jacket, drew his Glock, and gestured us back toward the stairwell.
Anne slid left, back pressed to the wall. I moved behind Ryan.
Ryan twisted sideways against the wall and rapped the door with his gun butt.
“Police! On entre!”
No answer. No movement.
Ryan barked again, in French, then English.
Silence.
Ryan pointed at the lock.
I stepped forward and used my key. Sweeping me back behind him with one arm, Ryan nudged the door open with his foot.
“Stay here.”
Gun gripped in both hands, barrel angled skyward, Ryan crossed the threshold. I followed.
Something crunched underfoot.
One step. Two.
The mirrored wall in the foyer gaped densely black. Courtyard light sparked like phosphorous off the marble floor.
Three.
A saffron trapezoid gleamed from the glass-topped table in the dining room ahead. Other shapes formed out of the darkness. The writing desk. A corner of the sideboard.
A sudden sense of foreboding. I’d left lights burning.
Again, Ryan called out.
Again, no answer.
Ryan and I crept through the darkness, predators testing the air.
Sounds of emptiness. The refrigerator. The humidifier.
Cold, from the direction of the living room.
At the side hall Ryan reached out and flicked the switch. Motioning me to stay put, he made a hard right and disappeared. Lights went on in the bedroom, the bath, the study.
No one bolted. No one rushed past me. Ryan’s movements were the only sounds.
Backtracking to the main hall, Ryan moved forward and probed the kitchen, then the living room. In seconds he reappeared.
“Clean.”
I took my first real breath since entering the apartment.
Seeing my terror, Ryan reengaged the safety and holstered his gun, then wrapped his arms around me.
“Someone cut the glass in the French door.”
“But the alarm?” My voice sounded stretched and quavery, like an overused cassette.
“Wasn’t breached. Do you have a motion detector?”
“Disabled.”
I felt Ryan’s chin tap the crown of my head.
“Birdie kept triggering the damn thing,” I said defensively.
“What the hell?”
Ryan and I turned. Anne was standing in the doorway, Mace aloft, eyes wide.
“Bienvenue à Montréal,” said Ryan.
Anne’s brows shot skyward.
“He’s a cop,” I said.
“Serve and protect,” Ryan said.
Anne lowered brows and Mace. “My kind of community policing.”
Ryan released me and I made introductions.
Hearing voices, Birdie fired from the bedroom and raced a figure eight around my ankles, fur erect with agitation.
“Detective Ryan would be the ‘sort of’ referred to at dinner?” Anne floated one brow in query.
“Someone’s been in here,” I said, shooting her a “not now” look.
“Holy shit,” Anne said, crunching into the foyer.
As Ryan phoned burglary, Anne and I assessed the damage.
While the French door pane had been cleanly cut, without damage to the security-system trip wires, glass had been shattered in the foyer, dining room, and bathroom mirrors, and in every picture frame in the place. Fragments glittered from furniture, sinks, countertops, and floors.
A few books and papers had been tossed here and there, but otherwise, the main living areas were unharmed.
In contrast, the bedrooms were chaos. Bed pillows were shredded, drawers pulled out and upended, closets ransacked.
A hasty inventory turned up two losses. Anne’s digital camera. Anne’s laptop. Otherwise, nothing seemed to be missing.
“Thank God,” said Anne, drawing out the deity’s name.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, gesturing lamely at her belongings.
Tossing the jewelry pouch onto the dresser, Anne shot out a hip and placed a hand on it. “Guess the little pricks didn’t care for Tom Turnip’s taste in gems.”
* * *
It took an hour to do the paperwork. The officers promised that crime scene would check for prints, shoe impressions, and tool marks in the morning.
Anne and I thanked them. No one had much enthusiasm. We all knew that her belongings had disappeared into the black hole of petty theft.
Ryan stayed. Perhaps to inspire diligence on the part of the CUM. Perhaps to buoy my flagging spirits.
When the cops had gone, Ryan offered his place as refuge. I looked at Anne. She shook her head no. Her eyes told me the adrenaline was yielding to the alcohol.
<
br /> Anne and I did some rough cleanup while Ryan went in search of duct tape, cardboard, and plastic. When he returned, we watched him construct a temporary patch on the French door. Then Anne excused herself and disappeared into the bathroom.
Watching Ryan drop the extra tape into a paper bag, I realized I hadn’t a clue why he’d come.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I began.
“No thanks required.”
“I’ve been so caught up in this”—I waved an arm at the mess behind me—“circus, I haven’t even asked why you stopped by.”
Ryan laid the bag on the coffee table, straightened, and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his face softened, he brushed hair from my cheek, and his hand went back to my shoulder.
When I thought I could bear his silence no longer, he spoke.
“I’m going to be scarce for a while.”
Stomach clutch. Here it comes. The end of the end.
“I can’t go into details, but it’s big—CUM, SQ, RCMP, even the Americans are involved. Op’s been under way for several months.”
A moment went by before I got it.
“You’re talking about a police sting?”
“Claudel’s in, so’s Charbonneau. I’m not compromising anything by telling you that.”
My mind was just not forming the links.
“Why are you telling me that?”
“Claudel’s lack of interest in your pizza bones. I know it’s been grinding at you.”
“You’ll be away?”
“It’s not what I want.” The hint of a smile. “Comes with the glamour and the big bucks.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I hate to leave you alone with this.”
“I didn’t call for backup, Ryan. You dropped in.”
“I don’t like the look of this, Tempe.” Ryan’s voice was gentle.
“It’s not a big deal.”
I could feel cobalt eyes roving my features.
“I’m requesting stepped-up surveillance.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Ryan raised my chin with one finger.
“I’m not sure what went down here, but I intend to find out.”
“It’s a pissant B and E.”
The finger went to my lips.
“Think about it. What was taken? What was left behind? Why the slick entry, then all the smashed glass?”