without saying good-bye.
Vicki grinned down at her answering machine. Mike Celluci was no better at apologizing than she was. For him, that was positively gracious. And it had obviously been left before he talked to Mr. Bowan and found she’d been there first. Any messages left after that would have had a very different tone.
Finding the tabloid’s unnamed source had actually been surprisingly easy. The first person she’d spoken to had snorted and said, “You want old man Bowan. If anyone sees anything around here it’s him. Never minds his own fucking business.” Then he’d jerked his head at 25 St. Dennis with enough force to throw his mohawk down over his eyes.
As to what old man Bowan had seen. . . . As much as Vicki hated to admit it, she was beginning to think Coreen might not be as far out in left field as first impressions indicated.
She wondered if she should call Celluci. They could share their impressions of Mr. Bowan and his close encounter. “Nah.” She shook her head. Better give him time to cool off first. Spreading the detailed map of Toronto she’d just bought out over her kitchen table, she decided to call him later. Right now, she had work to do.
It was easy to forget just how big Toronto was. It had devoured any number of smaller places as it grew, and it showed no signs of stopping. The downtown core, the image everyone carried of the city, made up a very small part of the whole.
Vicki drew a red circle around the Eglinton West subway station, another around the approximate position of the Sigman’s building on St. Clair West, and a third around the construction site on Symington Avenue where De Verne Jones had died. Then she frowned and drew a straight line through all three. Allowing for small inaccuracies in placing the second and third positions, the line bisected all three circles, running southwest to northeast across the city.
The two new deaths appeared to have no connection to the first three but seemed to be starting a line of their own.
And there was more.
“No one could be that stupid,” Vicki muttered, digging in her desk for a ruler.
The first two deaths were essentially the same distance apart as the fourth and the fifth; far from exact by mathematical standards but too close to be mere coincidence.
“No one could be that stupid,” she said again, smacking the ruler against her palm. The second line ran northwest to southeast and it measured out in a circle that centered at Woodbine and Mortimer. Vicki was willing to bet any odds that between midnight and dawn a sixth body would turn up to end the line.
Just west of York University, the lines crossed.
“X marks the spot.” Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose, frowned, and pushed them up again. It was too easy. There had to be a catch.
“All right. . . .” Tossing the ruler onto the map, she ticked off points on her fingers. “First possibility; the killer wants to be found. Second possibility; the killer is just as capable of drawing lines on a map as I am, has set up the pattern to mean nothing at all, and is sitting in Scarborough busting a gut laughing at the damn fool police who fell for it.” For purposes of this exercise, she and the police were essentially the same. “Possibility three”; she stared at the third finger as though it might have an answer, “we’re hunting a vampire even as the vampire is hunting us and who the hell knows how a vampire thinks.”
Celucci was as capable as she of drawing lines on a map, but she reached for the phone anyway. Occasionally, the obvious escaped him. To her surprise, he was in. His reaction came as no surprise at all.
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Vicki.”
“So can I assume Toronto’s finest will be gathered tonight at Mortimer and Woodbine?”
“You can assume whatever you want, I’ve never been able to stop you, but if you think you and your little Nancy Drew detective kit are going to be anywhere near there, think
Vicki grinned down at her answering machine. Mike Celluci was no better at apologizing than she was. For him, that was positively gracious. And it had obviously been left before he talked to Mr. Bowan and found she’d been there first. Any messages left after that would have had a very different tone.
Finding the tabloid’s unnamed source had actually been surprisingly easy. The first person she’d spoken to had snorted and said, “You want old man Bowan. If anyone sees anything around here it’s him. Never minds his own fucking business.” Then he’d jerked his head at 25 St. Dennis with enough force to throw his mohawk down over his eyes.
As to what old man Bowan had seen. . . . As much as Vicki hated to admit it, she was beginning to think Coreen might not be as far out in left field as first impressions indicated.
She wondered if she should call Celluci. They could share their impressions of Mr. Bowan and his close encounter. “Nah.” She shook her head. Better give him time to cool off first. Spreading the detailed map of Toronto she’d just bought out over her kitchen table, she decided to call him later. Right now, she had work to do.
It was easy to forget just how big Toronto was. It had devoured any number of smaller places as it grew, and it showed no signs of stopping. The downtown core, the image everyone carried of the city, made up a very small part of the whole.
Vicki drew a red circle around the Eglinton West subway station, another around the approximate position of the Sigman’s building on St. Clair West, and a third around the construction site on Symington Avenue where De Verne Jones had died. Then she frowned and drew a straight line through all three. Allowing for small inaccuracies in placing the second and third positions, the line bisected all three circles, running southwest to northeast across the city.
The two new deaths appeared to have no connection to the first three but seemed to be starting a line of their own.
And there was more.
“No one could be that stupid,” Vicki muttered, digging in her desk for a ruler.
The first two deaths were essentially the same distance apart as the fourth and the fifth; far from exact by mathematical standards but too close to be mere coincidence.
“No one could be that stupid,” she said again, smacking the ruler against her palm. The second line ran northwest to southeast and it measured out in a circle that centered at Woodbine and Mortimer. Vicki was willing to bet any odds that between midnight and dawn a sixth body would turn up to end the line.
Just west of York University, the lines crossed.
“X marks the spot.” Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose, frowned, and pushed them up again. It was too easy. There had to be a catch.
“All right. . . .” Tossing the ruler onto the map, she ticked off points on her fingers. “First possibility; the killer wants to be found. Second possibility; the killer is just as capable of drawing lines on a map as I am, has set up the pattern to mean nothing at all, and is sitting in Scarborough busting a gut laughing at the damn fool police who fell for it.” For purposes of this exercise, she and the police were essentially the same. “Possibility three”; she stared at the third finger as though it might have an answer, “we’re hunting a vampire even as the vampire is hunting us and who the hell knows how a vampire thinks.”
Celucci was as capable as she of drawing lines on a map, but she reached for the phone anyway. Occasionally, the obvious escaped him. To her surprise, he was in. His reaction came as no surprise at all.
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Vicki.”
“So can I assume Toronto’s finest will be gathered tonight at Mortimer and Woodbine?”
“You can assume whatever you want, I’ve never been able to stop you, but if you think you and your little Nancy Drew detective kit are going to be anywhere near there, think
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