Beyond the Grave

by R. W. Wallace

  Evian doesn’t say anything but signs for Tulle to continue her report.

  “I’ve added location to all the deaths you had me search earlier. There’s a little bit of everything but the number of hotels is surprisingly high.”

  “Those will be the ones we look into first,” Evian says to Doubira, who nods.

  “I’ve done some cross-referencing,” Tulle says. She grabs her braid and throws it over her shoulder. That seems to be a nervous tic. “If any of the police officers had any kind of hierarchical link with Villemur or de Villenouvelle, the info is in the file. I’ve mentioned if the officer was located elsewhere than Toulouse, as this might mean it’s less likely they had a link with the people we’re after. Whenever possible, I’ve also noted if the officer was known for being easily influenced.”

  Three pairs of eyebrows shoot up, with only Clothilde not finding this information particularly surprising. “How did you get hold of that information?” Evian asks.

  Tulle purses her lips as she looks from Evian to Doubira, and back again at Evian. “You may not want to know that. There’s a reason I’m giving you the information on a USB drive and not sent over the network. I’ve been working exclusively on the drive—so there’s only one other copy and I have that in my pocket—and I may have…improvised somewhat on certain aspects of my search.”

  Evian turns her head to look out the window for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “Ignorance is bliss, isn’t that so?”

  Tulle grabs her braid and brings it back to the front. I don’t know the woman well enough to read her yet but I think she realizes she took a great risk by putting highly confidential information in the file. And she also knows it will be helpful, so she did it anyway.

  Evian flips what is apparently called a USB drive over in her hand. “Should I read this on my computer here at the station?”

  The flinch is small but it’s there. “At home would be better. Preferably while you’re not connected to the internet.”

  Doubira eyes the tiny little object in Evian’s hand that apparently holds so many secrets. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

  “Better safe than sorry.” Tulle gives her braid one last tug and nods to Evian. “I have to go. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. In any case, I’ll try to find the time to continue mining the data tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Nadine,” Evian says. Her eyes are soft as she watches the smaller woman leave. When the door closes behind her, she turns her gaze on Doubira. “Well, Malik, I think it’s time we called it a day, too. I’d invite you home to look at the files with me but I don’t think we’re quite there in our relationship yet.”

  Doubira breaks out in a huge smile, flashing all his perfectly white teeth. “That’s okay. I’ll watch one episode of something stupid and dive right into bed. I’m exhausted. I’ll take the files tomorrow night if you want.”

  “That sounds great.” The softness has stayed with Evian. It’s like her body has decided that the work day is indeed over and the hardness she imposes on it is letting go.

  “You did great today, Doubira,” she says as he exits the office.

  He acknowledges the compliment with a tip of his imaginary hat, and then he’s gone.

  Evian stays, leaning against the windowsill. My little finger tingles as she touches the bones in her pocket, stroking them if I’m not mistaken. She seems pensive. And tired.

  I lean in and speak softly in her ear. “You did good, too.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Emeline breathes out a heartfelt sigh as she pulls open the front door of her building. Even at this hour of the night there was traffic. She might need to ask for a bike in lieu of a rental car—it would allow her to get around faster.

  It’s been a long day and she’s exhausted. To the point of hesitating in front of the elevator. Usually, she takes the stairs. It’s just two floors, it’s exercise, and it means she doesn’t have to stand in a moving box as if that’s a natural place for a human to hang out.

  Still. Tonight it’s almost tempting.

  Almost.

  Emeline takes one step toward the staircase then stops as someone opens the front door and a whoosh of chill evening air flows over her.

  It’s her neighbor. Amina. With the exuberant, curly hair and sparkling green eyes.

  “Hey there, neighbor!” she says with a huge smile. She lets the front door slide shut behind her and walks—at a normal pace and not skipping or running—across the lobby to press the elevator button.

  Her smile is as brilliant as Emeline remembers but her eyes are tired. She wouldn’t qualify her posture as a slouch, exactly, but it’s definitely more subdued than the other day.

  “Long day at work?” Emeline asks. She’s still standing in the middle of the lobby, halfway to the staircase.

  Amina rolls her eyes and groans. “The longest! I had this client who was such a pain in the ass, and then he decided to complain to management. Which went fine, by the way, my boss isn’t about to let idiots like that mess with her staff, but it took almost forty-five minutes, so all my other clients were annoyed by the delay. And now I’m coming home almost an hour later than usual.”

  The elevator doors slide open and Amina steps in.

  Emeline follows. “What kind of job do you do?” She presses the button for the second floor and as she leans close to Amina she notices a smell of coconut. It’s relaxing.

  “Oh, on Wednesdays I’m a masseuse. The salon is just two metro stops away and my boss is really cool. So it’s great.” That huge smile again. It seems like even exhausted, this woman exudes energy and joy.

  “On Wednesdays?”

  The elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open. Amina walks out. “I have three different jobs,” she says lightly. “Never could decide what I wanted to do with my life. So I’m doing all of it.”

  Emeline stares at her neighbor in surprise. Then realizes she’s standing in the elevator when she should be getting out. And that the ride hadn’t freaked her out in the least. Apparently exhaustion is good for something.

  She’s about to ask Amina what her other two jobs are, but the woman beats her to it.

  “So what do you do?” She looks Emeline up and down as they walk side by side down the corridor. “Something tiring with long hours, apparently.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Emeline answers. She tries to gauge Amina’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. Not everyone likes the police.

  But Amina gives Emeline a quick once-over. “Yeah, that fits.”

  Emeline can’t help but chuckle. “I don’t think that’s a compliment.”

  “Maybe you should think so.” Amina comes to a stop in front of her door but makes no sign of getting her keys. “Why would you assume that looking like you’re a police officer is a bad thing? Do you associate the police with being unjust? Oppressors? Or is it a femininity thing? Why shouldn’t a female police officer be sexy? There are other forms of femininity than huge boobs and skirts.”

  Emeline stands there gaping for a moment. She’s not getting her keys either, and her arms are hanging limp by her sides as she tries to take in the tirade her neighbor threw at her.

  “Well.” She shakes her head, trying to get some last mileage out of her brain before it shuts down for good for the night. “I guess I’m used to people not being particularly open to the police being human, too. It’s often easier to look at us as ‘other.’ And I’m not going to go into the whole femininity thing at this time of night. My brain’s not up for it.”

  “Which means I’m right. You think a woman needs a dress or a skirt to qualify as sexy or feminine.”

  Emeline chuckles and shakes her head. She finally remembers which pocket her house keys are in and takes a step toward her own door to open it. “Too late, Amina. Try me again some other time.”

 
The tiredness is still apparent in Amina’s eyes, but her smile is genuine and playful. “I will.”

  They both unlock their doors and Emeline gives a small nod.

  “Wait!” Amina takes one step into Emeline’s apartment to stop her from closing the door. “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “It’s Emeline.” She wonders if she should invite the woman in now that she’s halfway there anyway, but she really is too tired.

  And Amina doesn’t seem to have been fishing for an invitation because she steps away immediately. Still smiling. “That suits you, too.”

  When she’s finally in her own living room, sitting in the silence with an empty bowl of cereal on the coffee table and her current mystery novel abandoned because it took too much effort to read, she pulls out the two finger bones from her pocket.

  She’s been carrying them around all day, like some sort of talisman of her motivation for solving this case. At least that’s what she thinks it is. For some reason, she cannot bear the thought of parting with them, as weird as that sounds.

  The gut feeling that has helped her so often in the past is particularly strong on this case—and it’s linked to the bones.

  Perhaps Clothilde and Robert are somehow with her as she searches for answers on their behalf.

  Emeline starts to scoff at her own thought but doesn’t even finish as she rolls the bones over in her hand.

  Bones won’t help her solve the case. Hard work will do that. Bones won’t help her keep her focus. It’s a given she will stay focused until she either finds the killers or has tried absolutely everything. That’s just how she’s wired.

  But she’s not getting rid of the bones.

  Might as well accept it.

  And she should find a safer and more discreet means of transportation than her jacket pocket. She doesn’t want to lose them if she gets hot and throws her jacket over her arm.

  Even more importantly, she doesn’t want anyone else to see them and realize she stole pieces of the victims of her current serial killer case.

  That might not go over so well.

  She needs to keep them safe and keep them hidden.

  She turns them over in her hand a couple of times. They’re really not very big. She could sew them into the lining of a piece of clothing and nobody would be the wiser. Except she doesn’t have a piece of clothing that she wears every single day. She might be able to fit them into her wallet somehow but this actually increases the chances of discovery.

  She could make them into a necklace. Or a bracelet. Anyone who knows her will know that a necklace is not normal—but she can pull off a wrist bracelet.

  So despite the hour, she sets to work. The previous tenant left behind a box of threads, buttons, and other colorful stuff, and Emeline finds everything she needs. She doesn’t try to do anything fancy, she simply places the bones on a thick piece of thread, and then uses thinner colorful threads to wrap them to the central piece, round and round until they’re secured tightly, and in no danger of slipping from their cocoon. Less than an hour later, she has a bracelet which will go twice around her wrist, with two sections that are thicker than the rest that will rest against each other.

  Suddenly, she realizes she hasn’t even attempted to look at the file that Nadine Tulle gave her earlier. She was too tired, and then decided what little energy she had left should be spent making necromancer jewelry.

  She holds up the bracelet to frown at it. “What is it with you guys? What the hell is going on?” Shaking her head, she places the bracelet on the kitchen counter. “I’m not going to figure this out tonight. But one thing is certain: you’re staying out here.”

  Then she goes to her room, her comfortable bed calling to her.

  She closes the door firmly behind her.

  Twenty-Nine

  The next morning we ride into the police station on Evian’s wrist—not our ghostly forms, of course, but our earthly remains. My right little finger tingles slightly with every movement, as the threads tighten around the bone but I’m sure it’s a feeling I’ll get used to.

  Evian has decided to leave the rental car at home today and walked the kilometer between her apartment and the station. I think she quite enjoyed the walk, and so did Clothilde and I. It allowed us to take our time in observing the changes of the city, and the people around us in general.

  As Evian pushes through the revolving doors into the police station at nine o’clock sharp—a couple of weird seconds there when we are forced to squeeze into the small space with her—she is greeted by three people loitering at the reception desk. A woman in her late forties who is out of uniform but clearly police, with short dark hair and brown eyes that don’t seem to miss much. One black man with salt-and-pepper hair and a matching mustache who must be close to two meters tall. He towers over the other two by at least a head. I’d say he’s in his fifties but this estimation is based solely on the color of his hair. The last man looks Spanish, with tanned skin and dark hair and eyes. Probably closing in on forty.

  “Emeline Evian?” the woman asks as Evian is about to walk past them toward her office.

  Now she stops, pulls her shoulders back and give all three of them a once-over before replying. “Who’s asking?” She’s not exactly hostile but she seems to have decided they’re not here to chat about the weather.

  I agree with her assessment.

  Clothilde is already in the middle of the group, studying them up close. “You know any of these clowns?”

  “How would I? These people were in diapers or at best in high school when I worked here. They might look older than me, but they’re actually not, you know.”

  “Hmm.” She steps up on an imaginary support to get close enough to study the tall guy’s features—from less than a hand’s breadth away. I’m glad nobody can see her because in real life her behavior might have warranted a trip to the doctor. “This guy doesn’t really look at ease.”

  I’m curious what she means but decide not to say anything. I don’t want to miss what they’re saying to Evian.

  “I’m Sophie Spangero,” the woman says, the annoyance in her voice clearly betraying that she doesn’t usually require an introduction. “Head of the region’s Judicial Police.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. She might have been right in expecting to be recognized. The Toulouse PJ must answer to the regional PJ, who in turn answers to the guys at 36, Quai des Orfèvres in Paris. I’m not sure who decided to invite Evian to come down here from Paris to investigate, but it must not have been this woman since Evian doesn’t seem to know her.

  Spangero must be quite a few steps above Evian in the police pecking order but that doesn’t seem to scare Evian.

  “This is Nouh Diome,” Spangero continues, indicating the tall man. “Head of the Toulouse PJ.”

  Diome nods his head gravely at Evian. “We are acquainted,” he says in a voice so deep I’m wondering if he has built-in bass speakers in his pockets. “I am the one who asked Captain Evian to come to Toulouse, after all.”

  Well, that’s one question answered. And his use of Evian’s official title is interesting.

  Spangero indicates the last man. “And Diego Gonzales, my right-hand man.”

  Evian shakes hands with everybody. I’m proud to see her attitude in the face of a group of people who all outrank her. She’s not going to scrape and bow just because they expect her to.

  Spangero asks Evian to follow them to Diome’s office, and since this group is not one for chit-chatting, I take the opportunity to talk to Clothilde again.

  “What made you say Diome wasn’t at ease?”

  While I’m walking a few steps behind the group, Clothilde is still right up in their faces, studying their facial expressions and body movements. She’s gone straight through Spangero two times already but the woman has made no sign of noticing.

  “His breathing
was uneven,” Clothilde answers absently as she stares intently at Gonzales’s neck. “He hid it well, but he seemed really nervous. Kept swallowing and sweat was forming at his temples.”

  She points at Spangero, who is walking a couple of steps ahead of everyone else, her low heels clacking angrily against the tiled floor. “She’s pissed off.”

  I chuckle. “Even I can tell that much.”

  “Yeah, but she’s even more angry than she’s letting on, I think. Her pulse is off the roof and her breathing really, really short.”

  I glance over at Evian, wondering if I should somehow warn her, only to discover that her eyes are on the woman stalking along ahead of her, making an assessment. She might have picked up on the clues all by herself, but I’m guessing Clothilde’s observations are also helping.

  Clothilde chews on her lip, her face still way too close to Gonzales’s for comfort. “This guy, I can’t figure out,” she says. “I get the feeling he wants to please his boss, but he keeps sending worried glances at the tall dude. There’s tension here and this guy doesn’t like it.”

  As we walk into Diome’s office, Doubira comes out of the men’s room down the hallway. When he sees Evian, he takes a step toward her but Evian gives a slight shake of her head and he stops.

  Inside the office, Evian closes the door behind her without being told.

  Spangero sits down behind the desk, in Diome’s chair, and silently invites everybody else to take a seat in the visitors’ chairs across from her.

  Except there are only two chairs.

  Evian solves the problem by standing at parade rest next to the door. “What did you want to talk to me about that had you coming all the way from Bordeaux?”

  Spangero frowns up at Evian, probably regretting her choice to sit down. “I did not come here for you. I have meetings here all afternoon, which were set up long before you set foot in Toulouse.”