His Hand In the Storm: Gray James Detective Murder Mystery and Suspense (Chief Inspector Gray James Detective Murder Mystery Series Book 1)

by Ritu Sethi

  “Get this fixed,” she said.

  He knew he wouldn’t.

  He would sculpt Craig’s face nightly, and he would sculpt using both his good and claw hand: the frozen fingers and scar viscerally linked him to an event and a place – the place where he’d last been with his delicate son.

  “You shouldn’t worry about being left alone,” he said to Vivienne, letting his hand drop. “I’ll always be here for you.”

  “You don’t know that...Chief Inspector.”

  He told her the only thing he knew for certain: “You’ve been trying so hard for so long, trying to make everything work perfectly. It may be time to let go; let everything that isn’t yours fall away.”

  She didn’t reply, merely raised an “isn’t this the kettle calling the pot black” eyebrow before turning and crossing the road to her car. He watched her get into the silver VW and drive away.

  He still held his car door open. Gray dusted the snow on the damp driver’s seat and sat, noticing the passenger seat to right – slashed in about a dozen places by a knife, the gray plastic separated with tufts of white filling visible in each cut. Someone had been inside the car, watching the bistro and their table as they ate. Someone who dug an angry knife into the passenger seat. From where he sat, the inside of the bistro was clearly visible until the light switched off. Yannick was closing for the night.

  Gray took a deep breath and contained the welling anger in his chest. He switched on the police loaner’s sputtering engine and headed home.

  It was late by the time he parked behind his house. Moving towards a drinks tray by the piano, he poured three fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler and closed all the curtains. He downed the single malt and relished the smoky, slow burn. It seemed to course through his veins and relax his insides – the clenching in his gut, the aching of his tense shoulders.

  He felt himself go limp and loose, easing the seeming vise around his head and the back of his neck.

  Sudden fatigue assailed him – both sore and pleasurable. Maybe he could skip sculpting in the studio tonight, perhaps he could fall asleep without it. After having a drink of water, he went upstairs to his third-floor bedroom and undressed.

  Peeking through the paned bedroom window, he scanned the street. Black slush coated the road. No shadows shifted in the dark cracks and crevices between trees and houses, and no cars drove by. The silence was absolute.

  Sliding under the crisp cotton sheets, Gray closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep.

  Something about the instructions he’d given Doug made him pause. He couldn’t help thinking the answer already lay before them, as it sometimes did at this stage of an investigation, if only they could see it.

  Gray reviewed the night’s discussion, but his scotch-drugged mind refused to function. Still, he couldn’t help feeling the elusive thread, if he could grab hold, would lead him to the killer. And sleep came.

  He didn’t know how long he was asleep, but suddenly he was awake, bolting up from bed, he threw the sweat-dampened sheets to one side and swung out his legs.

  The room shifted; the walls closed in. Grief found its way back to him and flooded his insides with a juice which made his heart race, made him want to burst out of his skin – out of this existence.

  Gray jumped up and raced down the steps naked.

  Inside his studio, the moon’s beams streamed in from the skylight under a backdrop of studded stars. The pinpoints glimmered like rhinestones suspended in the air – making time stand still.

  Gathering some water and a chunk of clay, he moulded yet another bust of Craig’s face, heedless of the cramp in his right hand, heedless of his aching forearm muscles. His heart began to slow down; his sweat-sheened naked body felt its first chill.

  The sculpture began to take shape – a head, the outline of his son’s ear... A half hour in the studio, and then he could sleep. Then, he could rest.

  A man coped any way he could after killing his only son.

  ***

  Vivienne parked her car across the street from her two-story house on rue Hotel de Ville. None of the rows of houses had a garage, so residents got monthly permits to park on the street. Tonight, she was lucky enough to secure a spot close to her house, a few doors south of rue St. Joseph. Climbing the porch steps, she relaxed and let go the frustrations of the day, let go of worrying about Gray, her immense dislike of Doug, and the aching between her shoulder blades.

  The house wore a hundred years of history in the manner of a grand Victorian lady in an embroidered, jeweled robe. After turning the oiled lock, she stepped inside.

  The overhead crystal chandelier blinded her after the relative darkness outside. She held up her hand, and dimmed it, wondering why Saleem had it on maximum.

  Throwing her coat over the wooden banister and dropping her shoes to one side, she dug her toes into the southwestern rug her mom had knitted and soaked in the atmosphere of home.

  While it remained her home.

  With the distraction of work temporarily laid aside, a sudden spasm hit her solar plexus, fueled by a reel of fatalistic thoughts projecting across her mind. Her insides felt eaten-away. She’d be single again soon.

  How would she face these upward curving steps alone night after night, knowing he wasn’t here? How could she return to that solitary life?

  The grandfather clock in the corner struck eleven o’clock. Wafts of egg, pastry, and fennel emanated in her direction, accompanied by footsteps coming towards her from the kitchen.

  Saleem wore a crisp white shirt and an apron over his black slacks. His linen apron, captioned She’s With Me For My Cooking, encircled his slim hip.

  “How was your day?” he asked, giving her a firm kiss on the lips. Good, he wasn’t mad after their most recent blow-up. She pasted a smile on her face and pretended, as much to herself as to him. His hips pressed into hers. There would be dessert after dinner.

  Ten years had done little to calm her reaction to him. She had none of the sexual ambivalence shared by her thirty-something friends, and she wholeheartedly credited this to being childless. He was the most handsome man she’d ever met – six-foot-two with curly black hair that reached his shoulders in adorable disarray which smelled of musk, earth, and something primal. It felt of silk between her fingers.

  “Another murder,” she said. “Ever seen a body without a face?”

  Saleem gave her an even look. Nothing surprised him. His stern mouth curved into that familiar crooked smile – always her undoing. Women frequently gasped when he entered a room. To think that this gorgeous man had eyes for only her – pretty, but somewhat ordinary Vivienne – defied comprehension.

  “No,” he replied. “Urologists don’t notice faces.”

  Vivienne followed him into the kitchen, watching his slim hips move in supple, masculine strides. She retrieved a bottle of Chianti he’d brought back from a recent business trip to Italy and poured out two glasses. Out of the oven he brought out, as if by magic, a perfect soufflé. The golden egg and cheese dish began deflating, releasing an audible hiss, and making her mouth water.

  Saleem believed in eating before it deflated, and he spooned them both a generous portion onto warmed plates. He’d prepared a side green salad with prosciutto and caramelized pears and walnuts. A fresh, warmed baguette sat beside the large bowl of greens – the aromas blended together, making her want to canonize the moment, keep it forever when she no longer hand it, no longer hand anything.

  They sat together in strained camaraderie, and she sensed he was trying to make things right between them. Words stuck in her throat for fear she’d say the wrong thing and all hell would break loose.

  If he discovered the truth, if he discovered what she’d done behind his back in the name of career and independence, she’d lose him. But she had to be able to make her own decisions or she’d suffocate, and the even only punctuated the central difference between them which no after-dinner dessert would fix. How long before he found out?

&n
bsp; She wiped clammy palms on her pants. Maybe the stress of the case was getting to her. Outside, the neighbor’s dog yelped his usual nighttime howl.

  “So, who’s the poor guy with no face?” Saleem asked, taking his first bite.

  “A doctor. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Norman Everett? We haven’t officially ID’d him yet.”

  Saleem gulped his wine down instead of sipping it, which was odd. Something unreadable passed across his face.

  “Yes, I know him,” he answered. “Infectious disease specialists get treated like royalty at the hospital.”

  “What do you know about the startup he’s involved with, and their system, PAS?”

  Vivienne took a bite of the soufflé. It tasted like a cloud melting in her mouth, smooth and creamy, the center moist. Thank God Saleem could cook, or they’d be living on takeout since her own expertise in the kitchen began and ended with boiling an egg.

  “PAS is a big hit,” Saleem said. “We’re thinking of bringing it to the urology department if they can adapt it to our needs.” he took another bite. “Norman is dead? How did he die?”

  “His heart stopped. Something about an arrhythmia. The killer strung him up by the river, this after removing his face with acid. Can you believe what the world is coming to?”

  Saleem sat suspiciously quiet. He’d barely touched his food, while her plate was nearly empty. She must have been hungry. His silence continued to nag at her. More than once, she’d wished she could read his mind with the ease with which he read hers.

  “An arrhythmia,” he said, absently under his breath.

  “Why? Do you know anything about his health?”

  Saleem shrugged. “He popped his pills like clockwork. Didn’t make his heart condition a secret. Everyone knew about it. Maybe the poor guy died naturally. Has Gray considered that?”

  “And then strung himself up after burning off his face? Hardly.” What could Saleem be thinking? Doctors made terrible detectives. Unless, someone had found Norman dead; someone who wanted to make it look like murder? That might have mutilated the body...taken it to the beach...

  Saleem put his cutlery down with a clang, sat back, and stretched out his arms. The fabric strained against his muscled chest. Fine hairs were visible under the thin, white fabric – not too many, just enough. Vivienne swallowed. Met his dark eyes.

  “I see where this talk of dead bodies is leading us,” he said. “You police are a little twisted.”

  “Oui,” Vivienne replied. “Twisted, and complicated.”

  They completed their meal quickly.

  A few minutes later, they were upstairs having dessert.

  CHAPTER 8

  April 1, Midnight

  THE SECOND VICTIM was about to be chosen.

  Jimmy got off the elevator and surreptitiously approached HealSo’s double glass doors. A dimly-lit office, empty and teeming with night-time shadows, scared him to death. It reminded him of closet monsters imagined as a child, of Halloween nights spent huddled in the dark awaiting Mom’s arrival home while trick or treaters banged on the apartment door.

  He checked his watch – nearly midnight. Some part of him felt scared being out alone this late. Evil existed; Jimmy was sure of it. It may be beyond his comprehension, but flashes of it popped up in people’s eyes, in the furtive touch of their hands, their seemingly dulcet tones.

  If he hadn’t scurried out of the office earlier after being interviewed by Gray, he wouldn’t need to sneak back in tonight to retrieve his laptop. An important product deadline hung over his head, and he only needed a minute to run to his cubby hole, grab his computer, and jet out as fast as possible.

  Placing his ID badge on the reader caused the door the click open, but the alarm didn’t engage. Probably, the last person out forgot to arm it. He felt annoyed before noticing an answering shaft of light streaming in from down the hall

  His heart lurched. Someone was inside.

  He slowly crept through the foyer, one eye on the light, his nails digging into his fists. The air became soupy and hot and impossible to breathe. A faint scent coming from the server room – sour and metallic – made him turn.

  Only the black outlines of cupboards and computer servers stood lineated in the dark, but the server room shouldn’t be unlocked at night. Julie, the Admin, always locked it.

  A woman’s voice rang out. “Who’s there?” Making him jump.

  Damn. Not Holly of all people. Did she work day and night? Didn’t she have a home and baby to go to? He should run out before she saw him. Facing her after Norman’s unexplained disappearance made his hair stand on end, but leaden feet which refused to obey his commands kept him in place.

  “I said, who’s out there?” Holly’s stiletto boots clicked across the lacquered cement, her long body stood backlit in the hall. Strong musk shoved the earlier metallic smell out of the way, causing his sensitive nostrils to flare.

  He swallowed. “It’s me.”

  “Jimmy?” Click, click, click. Holly strutted towards him, emerging from the shadows looking as thunderous and intimidating as ever. “What are you doing here?”

  “I...I forgot my laptop, and we have a product deadline. You know I don’t keep the security stuff from PAS on my home computer.” Great. His babbling would only make her madder. She tapped her steel-toed boot against the floor, always judging, always impatient, and he reflected at what an awful mother she must be to that poor, defenceless baby she’d adopted. Nothing like Mom. No one was like Mom.

  Holly switched the lights on without warning, blinding him momentarily. His hands flew to his face.

  “What are you really doing here?” she snapped, standing backlit by the server room.

  Pressure built inside him. Jimmy had something important to tell her, and it was best to simply blurt it out without fuss. He hoped rather than expected she wouldn’t lash out.

  “I’ve had a better offer from Flubber,” he said. “I’m leaving HealSo.”

  She stiffened, a flush snaking up the tight cords of her neck. The throbbing muscle in her jaw appeared inhuman, almost obscene.

  “I promoted you from the Back End team,” she said. “Catapulted you to Chief Software Architect, even though you weren’t fully qualified.”

  “I know.”

  “If we’d advertised out of house, there would have been a dozen applicants. You’d be working in some other company doing menial tasks. Instead, you’re Chief Engineer at the hottest startup in the country, and I see no signs of gratitude or appreciation.”

  His feet moved with a mind of their own, shuffling back and forth; tumbled words, half-frightened, half-affronted, caught in his throat. Why should she assume he’d go nowhere with another company when he’d graduated first at Waterloo, one of the most competitive Computer Science programs in North America before Simon persuaded him to join the startup? Everyone had heard Bill Gates claimed Waterloo was one of the best universities from which to recruit talent.

  “I...I didn’t plan this. It’s not about the money, and you know it.”

  “Then why?” she snapped.

  “You’re gonna sell. I don’t want to be here when it all comes out.”

  Holly grabbed his arm and yanked, digging her long red claws into his skin. Her underlying scent always smelled strong and ripe, no matter how much perfume she used.

  “Be quiet,” she said. “Nothing’s going to come out. You understand? There’s nothing to come out.” Her hot breath fanned his face – sour, stale, smelling of a sneaked cigarette and making his stomach lurch.

  The world went in and out of focus which meant he must be hyperventilating again and must do what Mom told him: even his breathing; calm down.

  In...out...in...out.

  Though a malevolent voice screeched in his head: Norman’s gone, and someone might have killed him; maybe the very person you see now, Jimmy.

  “The acquisition will proceed as planned,” Holly said. “You’ll continue in your capacity as Chief Architect until we secure a
n offer, and after that, you’ll deliver whatever the deal demands. That includes staying long enough to fulfill the terms specified in our agreement. Do you understand? Look at me.”

  And here, her voice grew soft, speaking those ominous, teeth-rattling words she’d said to him once before. That Norman had said to him prior to his disappearance.

  “No one’s going to hurt you, Jimmy.”

  A frog leaped in his chest. His eyes darted across the ground, searching for something else on which to focus, which they found at the center of the server room floor directly behind Holly.

  A dark red blob lay over roughened, eroded tiles – a blob which absolutely hadn’t been present a couple of days ago when Jimmy had performed his routine check of the servers.

  “What is it?” Holly asked. “You’re turning green. You sick?”

  He crept towards the puddle as though fearful it would pounce upon him at any moment, the sound of his raspy, asthmatic breathing abnormally loud within the confines of the small room.

  Behind him, Holly pivoted, her boots scraping against the floor before clicking forward.

  Dried splatters fanned out from the central spill as far as the opposite wall.

  Was it blood? If so, whose blood, and how had it gotten there?

  “What’s that?” he blurted, pointing one shaky finger towards the offending, congealed glob.

  She crouched beside him, lids hooded and lips pressed into a thin line – ever the inscrutable businesswoman. And an answer came fast – too fast.

  “Oh, I spilled some red ink earlier. You know, the kind we keep in the cupboard. Don’t worry; I’ll clean it up.”

  Jimmy’s voice cracked. “That’s not ink.”

  The muscles in his thighs ached from being tightly clenched. Horrid possibilities flung across his mind like a boomerang – all returning to the same place – all returning to Norman declared missing...possibly dead.

  The same Norman who only a few days ago had pushed Jimmy into a corner with one hairy hand gripping the edge of Jimmy’s T-shirt, bullied him, and scared him half to death.