Chosen for Death (7 page)

"Did she sleep with Todd?"

"I think she did."

"She never told you?" His tone implied disbelief.

"Well, yes, she did tell me that she was sleeping with Todd, but it wasn't a routine subject of our conversation. I don't like to know too much about people's intimate affairs." He made me snappish no matter how hard I tried to stay cool.

"Did she sleep with any of the other guys?" I tried to avoid an answer with a vague shrug, meaning to suggest I didn't really know. I wasn't used to dealing with people who make their living getting people who don't want to talk to tell what they know. "Is that a no, or an I don't know?" Lemieux asked.

"Sometimes," I said.

"Sometimes what? Sometimes you know, or sometimes she slept with guys other than Todd?"

"Sometimes she slept with other guys," I said, knowing I sounded like a sulky child. "But she wasn't promiscuous." He lifted one dark eyebrow, a subtle insinuation of skepticism. I could tell he was dying to get into a debate about our different definitions of promiscuous, so I said, "Was there anything else you wanted to know?" I glanced at my watch. I had to get out of here soon.

"Was your sister a tease? Did she like to turn men on and then say no?"

"Not that I ever knew."

"Was your sister into kinky sex?"

My hand flew to my chest in a perfect imitation of an offended dowager. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

He laughed in my face. "Did she like to be tied up? Spanked? Rubbed all over with salad oil? Penetrated with vegetables? Fucked in the ass? Do it with two guys at a time? That's what I mean by kinky. Did she like any of that stuff?"

I couldn't believe the things he was saying. How could he talk about my sister like that? It made me sick just listening to it. I stood up. "I'm leaving," I said. "I am not staying around to listen to any more of this. And if you can get your mind back above your belt, maybe you should devote your energy to finding out who killed my sister." I headed for the door, but he beat me to it, blocking my exit.

He glared down at me. "Go sit down."

"I won't," I said, glaring back. "I'm leaving. Please let me by." He didn't budge. "I'm not under arrest, am I?" I asked. He shook his head. "Good. Then let me go. You have no right to make me sit here and listen to you say filthy things about my sister. You shouldn't violate her privacy like that."

He stayed there, filling the doorway. There was no way I could get around him. He sighed as though he'd heard that line too many times. "Look, Mrs. Kozak," he said, "I'm sorry I upset you. I tried to tell you..." Amazingly enough, he really did look sorry. "I thought you understood. Before you storm out of here in a fine state of moral outrage, please sit down for a minute and listen." I was so astonished at the change in him that I did what he asked.

Once I was back in my chair, he stopped guarding the door and sat down, too. "I'm going to speak very frankly," he said, "so that you can understand. Murder isn't nice. It isn't polite, and murderers are not respectful of people's feelings. The unfortunate but necessary result is that murder investigations aren't nice, either."

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, staring at the calendar. "Murder victims don't have a right to privacy. The killer takes their privacy when he takes their life. When we don't have much to go on—and we don't in this case—we need to know as much as possible about the victim to help us know where to look. That's why you're here, to help me learn about your sister so we can find her killer. I'm not asking these questions because I enjoy it."

"OK," I said, "so you want to learn about my sister Carrie. I can understand that. I can tell you what she liked to read, the kinds of places she liked to go, her favorite music, what she drank, how she dressed, how she liked to spend her spare time. Lots of things. I'd be glad to tell you all those things..." I checked my watch again. I didn't have any more time if I was to get to Camden before Mrs. Bolduc left. "...when I have time. But I don't understand why you want to know about her sex life. Maybe you can explain it to me some other time. I'll be around all weekend. Right now I have to go."

"Where?" he said.

"Where what?"

"Where do you have to go?"

I hesitated about telling him. It was really none of his business, but I had no reason to lie. "I have to go clear out Carrie's apartment. I don't have a key, and her landlady said she'd only wait until five and then she's going away for the weekend or something. She says if I don't get the stuff out she'll throw it away. She is an impossible woman and she won't listen to reason, so I've got to get there on time."

He opened the file and flipped through some papers. "Mrs. Bolduc, right, on Mountain Street?" I nodded. "I'll take care of it," he said. He got up and left the office. He moved quickly and quietly. I stared at my fingernails, which were badly in need of a manicure, wondering what he was up to.

He wasn't gone long. "It's all taken care of," he said. "A trooper is going by now to pick up the key and bring it here. I don't think she'll refuse." The idea of the police leaning on Mrs. Bolduc pleased me.

"Now," he said, "you want to know why I'm asking about your sister's sex life, right? Do you know how your sister died?"

I was beginning to wish I'd walked out while he was gone, even though he was being almost pleasant now. My lack of sleep and the long drive had caught up with me. I was lightheaded from fatigue. I felt like leaning back in the chair and going to sleep. And I didn't want to hear what he wanted to tell me. "She was killed by a blow on the head," I said, "by someone who wanted to assault her. We didn't want to know the details."

"I think maybe you should." Lemieux pulled out a thick manila envelope, tipped it up, and dumped out a stack of photographs. He selected one and set it down on the desk, facing me. It showed a wide gravel path going uphill through the woods. Far ahead, something was lying on the path. He waited until he was sure I'd seen it, then dropped another picture on top of it. Now I could see the something was a person. A person with blond hair. I assumed it was Carrie. I'd always known that eventually I'd have to find out how she died. It looked like that time was now. Another picture. A closer shot, showing only the top half of her body. The side of her head toward the camera was OK, but there was a smear of blood across her face. She looked surprised.

He flipped another photograph onto the pile. This one showed her from the other side. Most of that side of her head was bloody. Toward the back, her skull was pushed in. I'd never seen anything like it. Her head was lopsided and awful. My stomach lurched and felt like I was going to be sick. I looked up at Lemieux, struggling for control. Was he trying to shock me into cooperating? "What did he hit her with?" I asked.

"We don't know," he said. "Something big and blunt. A sledgehammer, or a rock. We haven't found anything that matches the wound, and there were no traces of the weapon in the wound itself to give us any clues. And here's the answer to your question." He set another picture in front of me. Carrie's body, looking up from her feet. She was naked below the waist, her legs spread wide. There was a stick between her legs, smeared dark. He dropped another photograph beside it. It was a close-up of her crotch, with the stick disappearing up inside her. The stick and the ground around it were dark with blood.

"Oh my God," I said. I was definitely going to be sick. I hoped I could make it to the ladies' room in time. I pushed myself out of the chair. "Where?" I mumbled through the hand over my mouth. Lemieux was out of his chair in a second. He grabbed my arm, dragged me down the corridor, opened the door marked "Women," and shoved me through it. I made it as far as the sink.

When the heaves finally subsided, I leaned against the wall, panting, until the worst of the shakes were over. Then I washed out of the sink, tied back my straggling hair, and splashed several handfuls of cold water over my face. I studied myself in the mirror. I looked like someone who had just seen a ghost. My eyes were huge and green in a dead-white face. I walked back to Lemieux's office, my legs wobbling, hands shaking, and breath ragged. The only thing that was in working order was my temper.

Lemieux was leaning back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head. The pictures were gone. There was a key sitting on the desk where they had been. I picked up the key, my purse, and my jacket. His eyes were watchful, waiting for my reaction. I don't know what he expected. Maybe that I'd come back babbling. Or that I'd be reduced to tears and putty in his hands. He didn't say, and his face gave nothing away. I said nothing either. My thoughts were unspeakable. He'd probably heard everything included in my opinion of him before. His dark, shiny eyes followed me as I walked out the door.

Chapter 6

It was a miracle that I didn't have an accident on my way to Camden. I was in no shape to drive a car. I gripped the wheel tightly to still my trembling hands, shaking from exhaustion, rage, and shock. And all the way there I saw, not the road, but that wide dirt path, and Carrie's body lying sprawled on the ground, violated by a tree branch. I'd read that people don't bleed much from injuries after death, which meant it had been done while she was still alive. My poor baby sister.

I lowered the window and let the cool air blast me. Shook my head furiously from side to side. Dug my nails into my palms, and even tried singing, but nothing I did would drive that picture out of my mind. I even tried to think about David, but I couldn't quite remember his face. Why had Lemieux shown me those pictures? He hadn't seemed like a brutal man. Was it something about me? Would he have done the same thing to my mother? They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Those words would have been so much kinder.

I've come to believe that my Saab has a superior intelligence, and can pilot itself when I'm incapacitated. It always gets me home when I'm tired, or when my mind is on an audit we're conducting or an interview I've just completed, and even on those rare occasions when I've had too much to drink. It didn't let me down today; it brought me to Camden without incident. I hoped Mrs. Bolduc had gone wherever she'd planned to go. I couldn't face an encounter with her right now.

The directions Carrie had sent were in my glove compartment, but I thought I'd remember the way. Downtown Camden has only one main street, and since it's also Route 1, I arrived in the center of town without having to ask directions. The road slid downhill past a row of big old houses, past stores on one side and a pocket park on the other, and then through a tunnel of inviting shops before starting back uphill past another park and the library. The library was my landmark. I turned left onto Mountain Street. Carrie's address was Mountain Street, but her apartment was in the ell of a big house stretching back along a side street.

Her battered little Chevette wasn't in the driveway. No one had mentioned it; I'd have to track it down at some point. Maybe the police had it, but contacting them to ask where her car was would mean I might have to speak with Lemieux, and I never intended to do that again. My dad the capable lawyer could handle it.

I parked, got out my suitcase, and walked up the little brick path to her door. From the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of movement. Someone was standing in an upstairs window, watching me. Ignoring the invisible figure, I let myself into the apartment, and shut the door behind me.

The apartment still smelled faintly of Chantilly, Carrie's favorite perfume. A bouquet of late roses, their pink faded to pale brown, dripped petals onto the pine dining table. Something was wrong, though. Something that wasn't the same as when I'd visited her. I studied the room, trying to identify it. Someone had been looking through Carrie's things. Books were off the shelves, magazines were scattered around, and many of the drawers were half open. Carrie was neat, like Mother. She would never have left things like that. Probably the police had done it while they were looking for information about her sex life. I wondered what they'd found in her diary. Carrie had always been meticulous about keeping it up to date.

I lugged the suitcase upstairs to the bedroom and set it on a chair. Like the living room, this room showed signs of a search. I went to the linen closet in the bathroom and got some clean sheets. I wasn't going to sleep in the same sheets she had used. I automatically dumped the dirty sheets into the hamper, which was silly. I'd only have to take them out again to pack them.

Whatever Mrs. Bolduc's faults, she hadn't been stingy about furnishing the apartment. The furnishings were pretty as well as useful, and the apartment was bright and inviting. Some of it was Carrie, of course. She'd added pictures, pillows and knick-knacks, books, and the flowers. Carrie always had to have flowers. When she was little, she was always picking other people's flowers and bringing them home. Poor Mom, she couldn't get mad at a little girl handing her a special bouquet, and yet she had to stop Carrie from taking the flowers. She'd solved the problem by helping Carrie plant her own little flower garden in the backyard. In the winter, Dad would take Carrie to the flower shop each week to pick out a bouquet for the family. I wondered if Mrs. Bolduc had let Carrie plant some flowers here.