Chapter 8
Brussels is a city on the rise. In the last twenty years, its population has exploded, with the accompanying success and growing pains.
That’s exactly the type of energy and chaos that Diavola is drawn to.
We know, because Inge has maps upon maps, tracking the deaths we can connect to Diavola.
The better a city is doing, the more life and vitality it has, the more likely she’ll be drawn to it.
Like a moth to a flame. Though in this case, Diavola is the destructive force.
Inge has predicted the cities Diavola’s most likely to hunt in, and we’ve seeded their detective and police forces with introductions and information about when to contact us.
Inge is brilliant, and invaluable, and still not allowed at actual crime scenes.
She’s only eighteen, and we all feel protective, much to her chagrin.
I think of her, waiting at the house she’s rented for us, while Dávid, Maher, and I take in yet another horrific, premature death. But the scene we’re met with puzzles me, and not for the usual reasons.
I wander the room, carefully examining it.
The space is tidy, compact, well-maintained, and joyfully decorated.
Though the apartment itself is plain with whitewashed walls, great care has been taken to bring in art, colorful textiles, even fresh flowers.
It’s a space suffused with feminine energy.
One I could happily spend the day in, were it not for the dead body.
I pause next to a cork-centered ashtray and run my finger along its edge.
It probably appears that I’m delaying getting close to our victim, but Dávid and Maher understand my process.
Dávid does his own circuit of the room, while Maher waits by the door, camera ready to document everything once we’ve had our look.
Two nervous officers stand next to him. One has sweat breaking out beneath his cap, and the other keeps shifting from foot to foot.
“See,” the shifty one says, pointing. “The tripod.”
I nod. I can very clearly see the tripod, leaning against the violet satin sofa.
Slumped behind the sofa, suspended on a coat hook by a metal garrote around her neck, is the body of a woman in her early twenties.
I’ll need whoever Joren’s Brussels equivalent is to confirm—Joren prefers not to travel, so most of his aid is delivered via correspondence or introductions to men who are nearly as capable—but it’s obvious how she died.
“Diavola’s never left anything behind before,” Maher muses. I hold up a single finger behind my back.
Maher says nothing else. Dávid is crouched to get a better look at the victim’s fingers. He glances up at me and I nod. I’ve seen it, too. We’re actually going to solve a murder today.
“Who was it that contacted us?” I keep my tone easy and conversational.
It’s been hard work getting police and investigators across Europe to let us in, but thanks to the combined effort of Joren’s impeccable reputation, de Haas’s gruff recommendations, Dávid’s limitless charm, Maher’s network of photographers, Inge’s predictive target cities, and, most surprisingly of all, my mother’s relentless letters to all my father’s old contacts, nearly every major city has at least one high-ranking officer who contacts us when a bafflingly brutal suicide or murder-suicide comes up.
“My commanding officer, madame,” says the shifty officer. The other one remains ramrod straight, sweating in the summer heat.
I can’t explain yet how I know, and, thanks to Dávid and Maher’s belief in me, I no longer have to try.
They trust my intuition, which makes it even easier for me to trust myself.
Though the last three years have been a grinding cycle of gruesome discoveries, it hasn’t all been terrible.
I have my friends, who keep me going through their support, brilliance, and camaraderie.
And I have Diavola’s words, which keep me going in an entirely different way.
“But you two recognized the importance of the tripod when you came upon this scene.” I keep my gaze on the shifty officer.
“It was Luke,” he says, jerking his head toward the other officer. “I wouldn’t even have noticed the tripod. I was too upset seeing such a pretty young woman dead by her own hand.”
I smile sympathetically and turn to the other officer. “How did you know her, Luke?”
His twitch is all the confirmation I need.
“I don’t know what you mean, madame.”
“Her fingers bled from tearing at the garrote, trying to free herself. And, see here? The bruising on her neck doesn’t match up with the angle she’s hanging from.
She lost control of her bowels upon death, but there’s no mess on the floor beneath her.
Which means you strangled her from behind elsewhere, and then hanged her on the wall to imply suicide.
You knew that disguising her murder as a suicide would let it blend into the other mysterious suicides investigated by foreigners, who would be so focused on the detail of the camera evidence that they wouldn’t bother to look into her connections and figure out how you knew her and why you wanted her dead.
Who wouldn’t have seen the way your fingers trembled as you smoked your pipe outside waiting for us, or noticed the ashtray with a cork in the middle—made for tapping out a pipe barrel without breaking it—in the apartment of a young woman who has no other pipe smoking material, making it clear she regularly entertained someone who needed such a thing. ”
To his credit, Luke has merely increased sweating. He’s not running or swearing or attacking us, like the other case we’ve come across where someone tried to hide their own crime in the middle of so many others.
Maher points the pistol he surreptitiously drew from his bag upon my signal a few moments ago. “I would very much like you to attempt to escape.” He still takes every death personally, which is part of why I hold him so dear.
Dávid has already crossed the room to stand at Maher’s side and protect him should things get violent. Luke’s mouth is a firm, sealed line. He says nothing, which suits me fine. I don’t care why he did it. I only care that he’s going to pay for it.
Maher gestures for Luke to move. The very confused fellow officer takes Luke by the elbow and escorts him out of the room.
“I’ll go with them to make certain everyone understands the evidence,” Dávid says. Maher passes him the gun and then gets to work photographing the scene.
Dávid’s concern for Maher’s safety that night nearly three years ago in Budapest mended the hurt between them.
Which is good, because our ability to function as a seamless team is invaluable.
And because I’ve come to depend on Maher and his eye as much as I depend on Dávid’s, and I’m glad they can work together.
“I talked to their police photographer,” Maher says. “He wanted to show me their rogues’ gallery and talk Bertillon’s theories.”
I give him a wry grin. “Did he measure your middle finger?” Bertillon’s elaborate system of body measurements was a step in the right direction, but it’s too prone to human error.
I keep sending all my contacts updates on fingerprinting.
I’ve yet to see a police department in Europe adopt them, but I know it’s the future.
“No,” Maher says, “but he was quite keen to also tell me all about how certain facial features can predict criminal behavior.” His stormy expression makes it clear what kind of facial features were taken as indicators of malevolence.
I have no doubt that Luke, with his ruddy complexion and blue eyes, would not have been on that list.
Maher finishes his work, capturing several clear images of the angle of the garrote so that the bruising mismatch is undeniable.
Luke is a police officer; we have to be careful that he doesn’t get away with it because of prejudice in his favor, just like we have to be careful that innocent people aren’t condemned because of prejudice against them.
I lean against the wall next to the door.
It’s hot in here, and the smell is nearly unbearable.
Death, combined with the flash from Maher’s photographs, with no icy undercurrent cutting through whatsoever.
I don’t want to admit that’s the real reason I immediately knew this wasn’t one of hers.
The others never notice her scent. Why is it so clear to me?
Maher laughs as I tug irritably on my collar and yank my tie looser.
I long to take off my outer jacket with its voluminous sleeves, remove the tie entirely, undo some buttons.
But we’ve found the more acceptably fashionable I am, the more likely men are to at least pretend to listen to me.
Maher, on the other hand, has already removed his hat and jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
“Inge’s right,” he says, taking one last photo.
“She nearly always is. But what is she right about this time?”
“You’re always disappointed when we solve one.”
I close my eyes. I’m glad this young woman’s death won’t go unpunished, I truly am. But knowing who did it means it wasn’t Diavola. She’s not still here, somewhere. There won’t be a letter waiting for me at the police station or the guest house.
I can’t in good conscience say this was a waste of our time, but it doesn’t get me any closer to Diavola. With every passing month, I despair a little more that I’ve never gotten closer to her. She’s forever just out of reach.
“Go on,” Maher says. “You look dreadful.”
“You should never tell a lady she looks dreadful.”
“Then it’s good that I know you well enough to know you’re not a lady. Will you come out with us tonight?”