by Hal Ross
“Bad news?”
“The worst. I’ve been put on the clock.”
“Anything I can do?”
“I wish there was.” I threw up my hands. “What I need right now is a miracle.”
47
April 4
Joan Ward tossed and turned for most of the night, finally getting up at 6 a.m., trying to make as little noise as possible so as to not wake her husband, Seth. She felt an oncoming headache and knew the reason why, continuously racking her brain for something that remained elusive.
She took a quick shower, got dressed in a rose-colored cotton sweater and three-quarter length capris. Barefoot, she strolled into the kitchen where she made herself a decaf coffee, along with two pieces of whole wheat toast with strawberry jam.
The blinds were seldom drawn so she had a perfectly clear view of her lanai, brilliantly lit now by the sun, already blessing this part of Florida with what many considered an elixir of good cheer.
Bah, humbug, Joan thought. This getting old is for the birds. She never considered herself to be a flake. She could remember things that happened years ago as if they occurred yesterday, but something from last month, last week, even last hour? Forget about it.
When she met with Deputy Miles a recollection came to her, something she believed to be important, an incident triggered by the man’s mention of not overlooking the most innocuous incident. Yet now, a day later, she still couldn’t shake it loose.
Joan completed her breakfast and placed the dishes in the sink. Then she took pen and pad in hand and returned to the kitchen table. She wasn’t going to allow depleting memory cells to defeat her. It was one thing to not have the stamina she once had, to not have anywhere near the energy, vitality, or even the patience of the woman she was a few short years ago. But this—whatever it was—knowing it could be important, would not be allowed to remain elusive much longer.
She began as if writing a diary, going back three months, noting the date and copying down everything she could remember that occurred. Some things were easy, like when she played golf or bridge. Others not as much, like where she and Seth went to dinner the Saturday before last.
Her page quickly filled up. When there was no room left, she stood from the table, balled the sheet of paper in her fist and threw it toward the wastebasket, but missed. She glared at it, let it remain on the floor, a reminder of her ineptitude. No matter what, she would not give up. Even though it might all be for naught. Her frustration could rage on; she didn’t care. One way or another, she would force her mind to spit out what she was looking for. And then she would determine if it was meaningful or not.
48
The same day
I entered my office and took a seat behind my desk. My head reeled with the realization that there were three days left for me to solve the murder case, or at the very least, come up with a likely suspect. Having the FBI take over would be a mistake. Based on what Diggs had told me, the Feds had their own methodology for running an investigation. One based on facts, not theories. They’d likely start from scratch and re-interview all the workers, using their more thorough techniques. I was afraid they’d end up taking more time rather than saving time.
I’d forwarded Hugh Bostwick the amended subpoena he requested. The next day, I received a short, preliminary list of people in Bonita Springs who had filled Narvia prescriptions in recent weeks, with a promise of more to come. Five names in all. There was no explanation as to why the list was incomplete. I assumed Foster’s president wanted to get something to me quickly to shut me up. But the clock was ticking.
Pederson and Wellington stepped into my office, right on time for our 10 a.m. meeting. I noticed Brad could barely contain himself and asked what was going on.
He reviewed the results of the interviews he’d conducted and said all were cooperative and readily gave up the information that was asked of them. Of course, he couldn’t push too hard because of the narrow guidelines Walter Diggs was able to get the court to approve.
“But that’s not what’s got you worked up,” I noted.
“No, it’s not,” he concurred. “Denise Gerigk and I have met on various occasions, chiefly at the charity events we both volunteer for. But when I interviewed her the other day, she acted like she hardly knew me. She was distant and cold, sort of spacey.”
“Were you able to find out if she’s using Narvia?”
“She wouldn’t say right away. But I noticed there were cuts on her arms. Some were healing—others looked fresh. We were seated across from each other. She kept fidgeting with her blouse, trying to pull the sleeves lower. In my estimation, the wounds were self-inflicted.
“Anyway, at one point she stood up and ostensibly went to the kitchen to get herself a refill of iced tea. Next thing I see she’s pulling a knife out of a drawer and—to best describe it—I’d say she was fondling it. Without moving her head, her eyes shot a look my way. But I couldn’t say for sure what she was thinking. Could it have been a desire to use the knife on herself? Or was she considering using it on me?”
I felt this little thrum in my brain. “And she is on Narvia?”
“Yes, she is. But she said she experienced no side effects that she could recall.”
I liked and respected Denise Gerigk. Was it a coincidence that a knife was used on our latest victim and Mrs. Gerigk seemed obsessed with knives? How should I interpret her odd behavior? Weren’t the FBI profilers convinced our perp was male?
Go slow, an inner voice cautioned. Don’t be blinded by your desperate need for a resolution.
Still … side effects from drugs knew no gender bias. At the very least, didn’t this warrant further inquiry on my part?
* * *
After dismissing the others, I sat alone in my office, door closed. They had brought me up to speed before leaving. The two service contractors—Turk Lagerfeld of Comcast and Harold Brown of Florida Power and Light—had been looked at from every conceivable angle and were finally cleared. Meanwhile, Frank Sinclair hadn’t been seen in weeks. I always thought he made a good suspect. If we still couldn’t reach him by the end of the day, I’d have to consider issuing an APB. His alibi was solid for his wife’s murder but not for any of the others. Besides, if he wasn’t Cathy’s actual killer, who’s to say he didn’t hire a professional killer to eliminate her and perhaps one or two more to make it look like the work of a serial killer?
So where does that leave us?
Unfortunately, with four suspects: #1—unknown, #2—Frank Sinclair, #3—Mrs. Gerigk, #4—myself. This meant I had to go nonstop over the three days left to me, pressing the hunt into an entire new gear.
* * *
I called the office and cell numbers I had for Hugh Bostwick; both went to voicemail, so I left messages. I needed the full list he promised, not a meager sampling of five names. I turned on my computer and tried searching out whatever background information I could find on Mrs. Gerigk. Google helped but it wasn’t enough. Finally, I called an old acquaintance of mine—Jean Brunel, a lieutenant with Surété du Québec—and explained what I needed.
“Give me an hour,” the genial Brunel said.
“One hour?” I asked in surprise.
“Bien sur. Unless you want me to take longer?”
“No, no. An hour would be wonderful. I didn’t think you could accomplish much on such short notice.”
“Have you forgotten whom you’re dealing with, mon ami?”
I laughed. Jean and I had worked a case many years ago when I was with Chicago PD. A brutal drug dealer who had slipped our grasp and made his way into Canada was brought to justice within 24 hours by my fast-acting cohort.
“I didn’t forget,” I told him. “I’d really appreciate your magic touch one more time.”
“You’ll get it. I promise.”
49
One week prior.
Frank Sinclair headed south on I-75 and took the University Parkway exit for Sarasota. Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the non-gated community of Saddlebrook. Frank had maintained a pied-à-terre here for the past five years. A small condo to escape to without prying eyes, where he could carry on his assignations without his wife or anyone else being the wiser. It was 1,200 square feet on the lower level of a triplex; all the amenities without the hassle or the upkeep of a private home.
He drove into the garage and parked, then made his way into the condo, where he dumped his car keys onto the kitchen counter. Without pausing he stepped up to the cupboard, removed the bottles of red and white CinZano, along with the bottle of Canadian Club. The first Manhattan of the day always tasted best. But before he could pour the drink, Frank realized time was of the essence. Move. Move before it’s too late.
He left the bottles where they were and raced into the bedroom, dumping the contents of his travel bag onto the bed. Within minutes he had everything repacked into a suitcase: a change of clothes, fresh underwear, shirts and socks, the usual toiletries.
Frank didn’t know if a warrant had been issued for his arrest and, if it had been, how far-reaching that warrant might be. It could cover the area between Naples and Fort Myers which included Bonita Springs, or it could extend even farther, across all of Florida, possibly all of the United States.
He figured going to the airport in Sarasota without using a disguise would be sheer stupidity. His name and a photo could be on a “no-fly” list. Anything was possible.
Frank unlocked the strongbox he kept in his bedroom closet and removed $12,000 in cash. That and the $20,000 he’d taken from his hidden stash at his home in Bonita Palms should keep him going for a while. He also collected the fake passport he’d used once before, when he believed Cathy was rightfully suspicious about a trip he had planned to the Hedonism Resort in Jamaica with his latest sexual conquest. He’d purchased the passport under the name of James Deverol through a drinking buddy, whose contacts included an underworld figure whom Frank was better off knowing nothing about.
He stepped into the bathroom and removed a wig and moustache from the bottom drawer of the cabinet. This purchase was made from a men’s salon noted for their quality, and not shy in charging an exorbitant price for their discretion. Black, longer, and styled vastly different from his own artificially-enhanced brown hair, it took Frank a few minutes to be sure the glue adhered properly to his skin and that the look closely resembled his passport photo.
He walked a few blocks to the bus stop, and thirty minutes later disembarked a short stroll from the main entrance of the Sarasota/Bradenton International Airport. The female clerk at JetBlue, the official operator in this part of the country for Qatar Airways—an average-looking woman around his own age—raised a wary eyebrow as he counted out the $6,300 in cash for his Business Class ticket.
Frank was normally not one to remain on edge, but he felt uncomfortable in his disguise. Still, he made direct eye contact with the agents when he went through security and also with the flight attendants when he boarded the aircraft. Play it cool, he reminded himself throughout his layover in Boston and his stopover in Qatar. After boarding the last leg of his trip to Bangkok, he finally gave himself a self-congratulatory pat on the back. He’d not only escaped Florida but was certain that the payoff—young, eager-to-please girlies—were awaiting him at the end of his long, insufferable journey.
50
April 5
The Air Canada flight from Fort Myers got me into Montreal before noon. The Ford Taurus I rented at Hertz had a GPS, but it spoke French … until I realized there was a way to switch it to English.
The city truly was the Paris of North America, but I didn’t have time to enjoy it. The FBI were set to take over the murder case on Friday night, which left me very little breathing room.
Jean Brunel had gotten back to me and explained the need to come to Canada. I tried to argue against. The last thing I wanted was be away from my office.
“You won’t accomplish anything by phone,” he’d said. “The person you’ll be seeing doesn’t speak English. On the phone it’ll be impossible to understand her or for her to understand you. I’ve arranged for an interpreter. Drop everything and fly up here. And let me know how it turns out.”
I was early so I cruised along Rue St. Germain, south of Sherbrooke, until I came to the house where Denise Gerigk, née Bernier, was born. A working-class neighborhood, with duplexes and triplexes for the most part, jammed together, uniform in style—mostly dull brown brick—without much in the way of green space … or any space to speak of at all between buildings.
There was still a little snow on the ground, temperature in the low forties. I’d forgotten about Canadian winters and how they often lingered well into spring.
I checked my watch; time to move on. I entered the address I was given into the GPS and ten minutes later pulled up at L’école Notre Dame de L’Assomption, an old school standing near the corner of Hochelaga and St. Germain.
Sister Therese St. Claire had to be in her early eighties. She was tall, dressed in a nun’s black habit adorned with a silver cross. She appeared frail until she shook my hand with such surprising strength I was taken aback. Beside her was another nun, sixtyish, of average height, with expressive, deep blue eyes. The translator.
They led the way to an office—no bigger than eight-by-ten—where Sister St. Claire cleared a handful of French Bibles off the lone chair facing her desk so that I might have a seat. There were a few files, a black rotary-dial telephone, and a Tiffany lamp. The second nun remained standing and introduced herself in near-perfect English: “I am Sister Diane Labelle. It is a pleasure to meet you, monsieur.”
St. Claire spoke in French and I waited for Sister Labelle’s translation: “We understand this is about a past student of ours—Denise Bernier. Here—” I was handed a school yearbook. “Third girl on the left.”
I took the book in hand. The photograph vaguely resembled the Denise Gerigk of today. Blonde hair worn longer, face more narrow. She was a member of a high school class, most likely grade nine or ten. About thirty students, all girls, each wearing a white blouse and Blackwatch skirt, with three-quarter length navy socks.
For the next few minutes Sister St. Claire’s French was followed by Sister Labelle’s translation into English:
“I taught her throughout high school. One of the sweetest pupils you can imagine. Until her father died, that is. Then she changed. Started running with a wild crowd. We tried to help her, me and the other Sisters. She wouldn’t listen. Time and again we met with her mother, but the poor woman was in a terrible state herself. Her husband’s death had come so suddenly, without warning.
“Her brother and both sisters were also affected, as you can imagine, but were able to cope a lot better. You see, there was quite a difference in age between them and Denise. Being older, they were more … mature. Especially the boy.” St. Claire’s paused and I noticed her eyes glossing over. She spoke again and I waited for the translation: “Pierre, her brother, had such a way about him. Her sisters—Monique and Sylvie—not so much.”
There was a musty smell in the small office making me uncomfortable, though I couldn’t afford to rush. “You mentioned a change in Denise. Can you be more specific?”
St. Claire said, “Les drogues.”
I didn’t need a translation. “Drugs?”
“Yes. Not only taking them, but she started to … traffic on them?”
“She was selling drugs to whom?”
St. Claire shrugged when she heard my question transposed into French. “The girls in her class mostly. Maybe to others.”
“Others? You mean to total strangers?”
Sister St. Claire clamped up. Something unspoken passed between her and Sister Labelle and neither would look directly at me. I figured there was a secret to be learned, but how to get
it out of them?
The silence became uncomfortable. An invisible clock started to tick in my head when Therese St. Claire began a long discourse about Denise’s brother:
“Pierre had such manners. There were few like him. Smart. And what athleticism. The boy could skate … and play hockey. Captain of the school team. The highest scorer for two years in a row. There was even talk of Les Canadiens showing an interest. And then his father died; Pierre was never the same. No one in their family was the same.”
I could see the nun held a soft spot for the boy. But she was putting me on. She knew it and I knew it. This was a stalling tactic, yet I could do nothing about it.
Then she stood, spoke, and the translator said: “Thank you for coming here today. That’s all she can tell you.”
I remained seated. St. Claire eyed me strangely.
“I need more information,” I said calmly. “Four women have been murdered. More may die if I don’t find a way to stop this madness. I need to hear whatever else you have to say, even if it’s confidential. You have my word it will remain between us.”
Sister St. Clair took her seat again, folded her hands and waited.
“Just a few more questions,” I said. “Was Denise Bernier ever arrested?”
“Not that I know of,” was St. Claire’s reply.
“What sort of trouble did she get into?”
“It was all a mistake.”
“What was?”
“It was long ago. Teenage girls can be so … vulnerable. With the sudden death in the family, Denise had no one to turn to. I tried to … take her on my wing, if that is the correct expression. I invited her to help around the school, to do volunteer work. And she did … but it didn’t last.
“Seven months after her father’s passing, she disappeared. Her mother became very upset. The police were called, of course. We all thought something had happened to her. None of us believed she would run off on her own.
