by Kathy Reichs
“Was she American?”
“I don’t know.”
Beyond Ryan, I noticed Eisenberg’s face pop up, heavy brows angled down below the bridge of her glasses.
A beat, then Ryan circled a hand and asked, “What goes on here?”
Murray launched into what sounded like a well-practiced pitch. “InovoVax focuses on the development and manufacture of vaccines for infectious diseases. We’re at the cutting edge of research, one of very few labs exploring an mRNA mechanism. Are you knowledgeable concerning vaccine manufacture?”
“Knowledgeable enough.”
“I’m certain you are.” Tone suggesting the opposite. “Some of our products include Influvax, Penivax-B, Inov-3607, VGGX-2812—”
“What’s your background, doc?”
“I hold a doctorate in molecular biology.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have you been with InovoVax?”
“Twenty-one years.”
“So you started the same time as Ms. Chalamet?”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“I assume you weren’t director back then.”
“I was a researcher.”
“Was Ms. Chalamet one of your techs?”
“She and I worked in separate divisions.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“I’ve already answered that.” Condescending smile. “It’s a big facility, and she was far below my pay grade.”
Eisenberg’s frown deepened.
“You formed no impression at all?”
“Based on the very few conversations that we had, I’d have to say she was a bitter and unhappy woman.”
“Why?”
Murray shrugged. “It’s my understanding, and I may be completely wrong, Ms. Chalamet was to begin an MA program and had to drop out due to pregnancy. I believe she resented those of us who completed our studies and, as a consequence, were enjoying more responsibility and more generous compensation.”
“Why did she quit?”
“She didn’t quit. She was fired.”
“Why?”
“The usual. A young woman, too many distractions—”
“What distractions?” Cool. Ryan wasn’t digging Murray’s arrogance.
“It’s been a very long time, detective.”
“Dig deep.”
“I’m certain she was terminated for failure to carry out her duties.”
“What does that mean?” Ryan pressed.
“She was incompetent. Is that what you want to hear?”
“You the one who canned her?” Low and hard.
Murray drew back in his chair, playing the role of insulted innocent. “I didn’t agree to this meeting in order to be badgered.”
“Why did you? Surely an underling could have handled something this mundane.”
“What division did you say you’re with, detective?”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m afraid I must request ID.” Stiff.
“Damn. Tendered my badge last year.”
“You’re no longer officially employed by law enforcement?” A flush crept up Murray’s neck. Embarrassment? Anger?
Ryan smiled, oh so unperturbed.
Murray stood, every vertebra aligning perfectly. “We’re done here.”
“One last question, doc.” As Ryan and I rose. “You being a good corporate citizen and all.”
Murray glared but didn’t walk away.
“When Ms. Chalamet stopped working here, where did she go?”
“I’ve no earthly clue.”
Eisenberg’s chin came up again, and her eyes sought mine.
Her head wagged slowly.
* * *
Crossing to the parking lot, I described Eisenberg’s odd reaction, not an easy task, given my wind-numbed lips and cheeks.
Ryan was silent behind his muffler.
“I slipped her my card.” Frosty vapor puffing from my mouth.
“Think she’ll call?”
I shrugged. “Who knows?”
Once in the Jeep, Ryan asked, “Want to give her a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
“What did you think of Murray?”
“Pompous prick.”
“Nice alliteration.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything else?” Ryan ventured.
“He and Chalamet worked in different divisions back in the day, yet he seemed to know quite a bit about her. The reason she dropped out of grad school, for instance.”
“My reaction, too.”
“Otherwise, the guy was spectacularly unhelpful.”
“Exactly. But why?”
“It has been almost twenty years. And InovoVax is huge. Maybe he genuinely doesn’t remember much about Chalamet.” The engine was running, the heater doing its best, but still it was frigid. “What did you think?”
“I’ve heard a lot of end runs, but Murray’s was exceptional. What I don’t get is why the need to be so evasive over minor matters.”
“I could sense you didn’t like the guy.”
“Not at all.”
“Why?”
“My gut tells me something’s off.”
I looked at Ryan. His cheeks were red from the cold, his eyes laser-blue. It was a good combination.
“I don’t know where Murray fits in, if at all.” I flexed my fingers to encourage circulation—or maybe just to redirect nervous energy. “But I’m convinced Mélanie and Ella Chalamet are the Montreal container vics.”
Ryan was about to respond when a text pinged in on my phone.
“Eisenberg?” he asked
“Yes.”
I read her message aloud, then my replies as I keyed them in.
DE: I have something to tell you but I can’t talk here.
TB: Shall we meet?
DE: Yes.
TB: When? Where?
DE: Tim Hortons. Boulevard Chomedy. Noon.
I glanced at Ryan.
He was already shifting gears.
TB: We’ll be there.
* * *
Tim Hortons coffee shops are like dental offices. Predictable, reliable, and unimaginative. This one was situated on a corner, at one end of an uninspired strip mall.
A red awning topped by Tim’s familiar signature overhung the entrance. Inside, a lighted wall menu behind a long vinyl counter listed selections. Below the counter, a glass case offered an array of sandwiches and pastries.
Tables filled the floor. Three were occupied. A mother with a chocolate-smeared toddler in a stroller. A trio of workers wearing boots, parkas, and earflap hats. Two women in scrubs, both looking exhausted and probably fresh off a graveyard shift.
While Ryan got coffee and doughnuts, I chose a spot as far from the other patrons as possible. Eisenberg had seemed nervous. I didn’t want her spooked.
Ryan arrived with three lidded red cups and a bag. He was placing the coffee on the table when Eisenberg pushed through the door dressed like a trapper returning from the Klondike. Mercifully, the hat, gloves, and ankle-length coat were all imitation. Not a single animal had been killed in their making.
A birdlike scan of her surroundings, then Eisenberg scurried toward us, boot heels clicking like corn in a popper.
“Thank you so much for meeting with us.” Ryan and I had agreed that I’d steer the conversation.
“It’s not right.” Eisenberg was clearly agitated.
“I hope you drink coffee, Dora.” I gestured at the cups. “May we call you Dora?”
“I can’t stay long.”
Eisenberg lowered herself into one of the empty chairs. As she shrugged from the acres of fake fur, a tsunami of odor wafted my way. Doing my best not to react, I opened the bag and offered the doughnuts. She chose an apple fritter and a honey cruller.
Ryan and I waited while Eisenberg pried off the lid and added sugar to her coffee. Stirred. Tested. Added more. Replaced the lid. Ate the cruller.
Finally, I asked, “You work in human resources at InovoVax?”
Eisenberg nodded. Took a bite of the fritter. A big one.
“Have you been with the company long?”
“Twenty-five years.” Through a mouthful of sugar and dough. “Since before the move to Laval.”
“Did you know Mélanie Chalamet?”
“He’s not really a policeman?” Eyes flicking to Ryan. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you.”
“Detective Ryan is a licensed investigator,” I said, taking some liberty with the title.
“What about you?”
“I’m also an investigator.” Not wanting to alarm her by mentioning the lab or the coroner.
“Did something happen to Mélanie? Are you doing some kind of cold-case investigation? I’ve seen shows about that on TV.”
“Mm. What can you tell us about Mélanie?”
“I can tell you that Dr. Murray was lying just now. He knew Mélanie, knew her well. Toward the end, he made her life miserable.”
“Oh?”
“And Mélanie wasn’t fired.” Head again wagging, which caused the hide hat to shift. “Uh-uh. No way. I’ll swear to that on a stack of Bibles.”
Sudden thought. “You have access to the company’s personnel files, don’t you, Dora?”
Eisenberg licked a finger and began picking sugar particles from the tabletop.
“You retrieved Mélanie’s file?” I guessed.
Eisenberg’s finger froze. A moment of indecision, then she lowered her voice to ensure that her words were for our ears only.
“It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” I was lost.
“Mélanie’s file has been deleted from the system.”
28
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 15
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Do you know who deleted it?”
“No.”
“Who has access to the system?”
“A lot of people.”
“Is it routine practice to remove files? Say, after a certain period of time?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. I’ve never noticed that.”
As Eisenberg finished the fritter, Ryan and I exchanged glances. I sensed that he felt as psyched as I did.
“What can you tell us about Mélanie?” I asked, after a brief pause.
“She was a really nice person.”
“Not unhappy and bitter as Dr. Murray described her?”
A slight hesitation, then, “Mélanie didn’t like that we were paid so little.”
“Did she resent people with higher degrees?”
Eisenberg gave a slow, noncommittal shrug of one shoulder.
“Were you friends?”
“Yes. Well, mostly work friends. But not totally. Our lives were kind of similar.”
“How so?”
“I was unmarried. Still am.” As before, her cheeks blossomed red. “Mélanie was a single mom. We were both young and poor.”
“How did you meet?”
“Neither of us could afford the cafeteria, so we’d bring bag lunches from home and eat in the first-floor break room. I still do that. Now it’s because of colitis, not money. I have to watch my diet.”
“How old was Mélanie when she left InovoVax?”
“Thirty-two. Same as me.”
“How old were her kids?”
“Ella was nine or ten. An absolutely precious little girl. The baby was just a toddler.”
“The baby’s name?”
“Oh, my. I only met the little ones a couple of times. But Mélanie talked about them a lot, so I should remember.”
I was actually holding my breath.
“I’m sorry. I just—”
“It’s OK. Do you know who the father was?”
“Mélanie never said. But I think he was American.”
“Why?”
“Because Mélanie was American. And Dr. Murray knows that.” The last added with a vehement finger jab to the table.
“Is that why you say he lied?”
“That’s part of it.” Eisenberg seemed to draw inward, perhaps returning to another time in her mind.
“Go on,” I urged gently.
“Oh, dear. I hope this won’t get back. I just can’t lose my job. Most companies want young people with lots of tech skills these days.”
“We won’t let that happen.” An impossible promise?
“Dr. Murray really rode Mélanie hard. Not at first but later.”
“How?”
“He was always harassing her. Not sexually. Don’t take me wrong.” Again, the pale cheeks flamed. “Just saying mean things, criticizing her. Being finicky, you know.”
“More so than with the other techs?”
“Seemed that way to us.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe because she spoke French and he couldn’t. She studied it in college, you know. Maybe because Dr. Murray is a maniac when it comes to work.”
I floated a brow.
“I’ve never been in the building when he wasn’t there. Well, practically never. And talk about micromanaging. He’s everywhere. The R-and-D labs. The manufacturing line. The business office. The shipping dock. And I’m talking all hours of the day and night.”
“He works long hours?”
“When the company first moved to Laval, I had to put in a lot of overtime migrating data from the old system to the new one. I frequently stayed very late. Dr. Murray was often there. After Mélanie left, he was always there.”
“Do you think Mélanie was fired for not working enthusiastically enough? Maybe refusing to put in overtime?”
“Mélanie was a really hard worker. And she wasn’t fired. Well, I suppose technically she was. Eventually.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She just stopped showing up.”
“When?”
“The summer of 2002. Late July, maybe early August. It made absolutely no sense.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mélanie would have told me if she was planning to leave. We confided in each other. Besides—” A long, hesitant pause. “Her options were even more limited than mine.”
“How so?”
“I don’t want to make trouble for her.”
“You won’t.” A promise easily kept.
Eisenberg leaned forward and whispered, “Mélanie was in Canada illegally.”
“How did she manage to work without a visa?” Matching Eisenberg, sotto voce.
“I don’t know all the details. I wouldn’t say she was living off the grid, but she was definitely lying low, using a false name.”
“What was her real name?” Calm, though my heart was thumping.
The thick lenses swiveled left, then right. “Melanie Chalmers.”
“How was she lying low?”
“She had an aunt who owned a building here in Laval, or a great-aunt or something. Family, anyway. She was renting from her.”
“Do you recall the aunt’s name?”
“No. Sorry.”
Crap!
Eisenberg looked truly glum. Then, “But I remember the house. It was on rue Voltaire, brick with green shutters, right across from the entrance to a small park.”
“Do you know who got Mélanie the job at InovoVax?”
“She made it clear that topic was off-limits. Super hush-hush.” Eisenberg leaned back and began wriggling into the malodorous outerwear. “I’ve probably said too much.”
“Just a couple of more questions, please?”
Eisenberg went still.
“Back then, why did you think Mélanie quit?”
“I assumed she couldn’t take Dr. Murray’s badgering any longer.”
“Where did you think she’d gone?”
Eisenberg looked down at the gloves clutched in her sausage fingers. Sighed. When her eyes came up, they were moist with emotion.
“Mélanie loved her kids above all else in t
his world. She would never have done anything to put them at risk. I assumed she took them back to the States.”
“Why leave so abruptly?”
“I had no idea.”
* * *
Eisenberg’s description took us to a two-story four-flat near the intersection of rue Vallières and rue Voltaire. The brick box was one of an armada of boxes, each featureless save for some slap-dash patches of siding, shutters, or paired balconies jutting from first- and second-floor windows.
Ryan pulled to the curb. We scoped out the scene.
“Grim,” Ryan said.
“It’s not so bad,” I said.
“All the appeal of an outlet mall in Ipswich.”
“Have you ever been to an outlet mall in Ipswich?”
“I just like to say Ipswich.”
“The trees are nice.”
“Right out of Architectural Digest.”
But I had to admit Ryan’s point was valid. The block had none of the charm of older Montreal quartiers. No gabled roofs. No weathered brownstone facades. No iron staircases whimsically sweeping front elevations. Here the leitmotif was function over fashion.
We got out and hurried up a walkway bisecting a swatch of concrete that should have been lawn. Not far off, vehicles droned steadily, probably traffic on Autoroute 440.
The door was unpainted steel and unlocked. Ryan and I passed through into a tiny lobby, flavorless in keeping with the building’s exterior. The left-hand wall hosted four mailboxes, three with names displayed behind yellowed rectangles of plastic.
“T. Sadoul. F. Sorg. T. Y. Chou,” I read aloud.
“My money’s on Sorg,” Ryan said.
“Here’s hoping Auntie hasn’t moved on up,” as I pressed the button.
I expected a voice warbling through a speaker. Instead, a buzzer sounded, and the lock behind us clicked. Ryan pulled the door wide, and we climbed a set of metal stairs.
There were two units per floor. Number 2B was on the right, bright plastic flowers affixed to the door.
Ryan knocked. We heard movement, but no one answered.
Ryan knocked again.
Still nothing.
The garish bouquet made my eyeballs want to bleed. Purple asters. Orange marigolds. Black and yellow sunflowers.
Between the stems and leaves, a bright blue iris in a sea of venous pink.
Hiding my surprise, I said, “Madame Sorg?”
The eyeball drew closer to the peephole.
