by Kathy Reichs
“Do you know his reason for doing that?”
“My father is extremely conscientious about security.”
“Why is that?”
“He was born Jewish in Ukraine in 1927.”
“Of course.”
I was grasping at straws. What to ask?
“Did you know the tenants that preceded or followed you?”
“No.”
“You were in that location for almost six years. Did anything in particular trigger your move?”
“That neighborhood became”—Cohen hesitated—“unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant?”
“We are Chabad-Lubavitch, Dr. Brennan. Ultra-Orthodox Jews. Even in Montreal we are not always understood.”
I thanked Cohen and disconnected.
A small spruce is rooted in a stone planter at courtyard central. Each December our caretaker strings the scraggly thing with lights. No tasteful Presbyterian-in-Connecticut-Christmas-white for Winston. It’s rainbow natty, or nothing at all.
My cat is especially appreciative. Birdie puts in hours curled by the fireplace, eyes shifting from the flames to Winston’s miracle in the snow.
Anne and I idled away Sunday afternoon following Birdie’s lead. We spent long stretches by the fire, heads pillowed, ankles crossed on the hearth. Over endless cups of coffee and tea, I whined about Claudel and Ryan. Anne whined about Tom. We laughed at our neediness. We were somber over our neediness.
Through the hours of talk and tide of words I came to understand the true depth of Anne’s unhappiness. The shopping and banter had been “game face.” Slap on the greasepaint and raise the curtain. The show must go on. Win one for the team. Do it for the kids. Do it for Tempe.
Anne had always been unflappable. I found her intense sadness deeply disturbing. I prayed it wasn’t a permanent sadness.
As we talked, I tried to think of encouraging things to say. Or comforting. Or at least distracting. But everything I came up with sounded clichéd and worn. In the end, I simply tried to show my support. But I feared for my friend.
Mostly, Anne and I shared memories. The night we swam naked at the lake. The party where Anne did a bunny-hop pratfall. The beach trip on which we misplaced two-year-old Stuart. The day I showed up drunk at Katy’s recital.
The year I showed up drunk at everything.
Between chats, we’d check our messages.
Many from Tom.
None from Ryan.
Though I dialed every few hours, Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent persisted in not answering. She was equally unswerving in not phoning again.
Now and then conversation veered to Claudel’s buttons. Monique Mousseau had ventured no opinion as to the age or meaning of the forgery. Anne and I cooked up countless scenarios. None made sense. Birdie offered little input.
Sunday evening I finally persuaded Anne to accept a call from Tom. Later she drank a great deal of wine. Quietly.
17
ANNE WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN I LEFT FOR THE lab Monday morning. I jotted a note asking her to phone when she woke. I didn’t expect a call before noon.
Exiting the garage, I was almost blinded. The sky was immaculate, the sun brilliant off the weekend’s snow.
Once again the city’s armada of plows had prevailed. All roads were clear in Centre-ville. Farther east, most side streets were passable, though bordered by vehicles buried to their roofs. The cars looked like hippos frozen in rivers of milk.
Here and there I passed frustrated commuters, shovels pumping, breath mimicking the exhaust from their half-hidden vehicles.
The lesser streets surrounding the lab were impossible, so I parked in Wilfrid-Derome’s pay lot. Crossing to the building’s back entrance, I wove between snowbanks and circled a small sidewalk plow, its amber light pulsing in the crystalline air.
My footfalls sounded sharp and crunchy. In the distance, tow trucks jolted residents awake with their brain-piercing two-toned whrrps. Out of bed! Move your ass! Move your car!
The day’s first surprise ambled in as I was reaching to check my voice mail.
Michel Charbonneau is a large man whose size isn’t diminishing any with age. His bull neck, beefy face, and spiky hair give him the look of an electrified football tackle.
Unlike Claudel, who favors designer silks and wools, Charbonneau has taste that runs to polyesters and markdowns. Today he wore a burnt-orange shirt, black pants, and a tie that looked like a street fight at the south end of a color wheel. His jacket was an unfortunate brown and tan plaid.
Dropping into a chair, Charbonneau draped his overcoat across his lap. I noticed an abrasion on his left cheek.
Charbonneau noticed me noticing.
“You should see the other guy.”
He grinned.
I didn’t.
“Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Claudel and I were last-minute loan-overs to narco, and the bust came down on Friday. I suppose you read about it?”
“No. I haven’t gotten to the news.” Anne and I had dispensed with all forms of journalism over the weekend, opting for videos and oldies on the Movie Channel.
“Task force had been backgrounding the thing for months.”
I let him go on.
“Couple of pharmaceutical pinstripes were pipelining pseudoephedrine under the counter. Stuff’s used in the production of methamphetamines. Product was warehoused in Quebec and Ontario, then trucked all over Canada and the lower forty-eight.”
Charbonneau hunched forward, rested elbows on thighs, and let his hands dangle.
“These bozos were supplying cookers from Halifax to Houston. Dragged forty-three to the bag on Friday, eleven more on Saturday. A lot of lawyers will be banking retainers.”
“Was Andrew Ryan involved in the sting?”
Charbonneau smiled and wagged his head.
“Even if he is SQ, that guy’s the stuff of legend.”
To say some rivalry exists between the SQ and the CUM would be like saying the Palestinians have some issues with the Israelis.
“Why is that?” I picked up a pen and began drawing squares inside squares.
“Saturday morning Ryan almost gets his lights blown out, right? That night I see him cool as an ice slick, squiring a number half his age.” Charbonneau leaned back and curved a figure eight in the air with his hands. “Very little spandex, acres of skin. Ryan’s what, forty-five? Forty-seven? Chick’s barely out of braces.”
I subdivided a square. Disinterested.
“The señorita’s hanging in, so I guess the guy’s still got what it takes.”
Ryan and I had been discreet. Beyond discreet. Charbonneau had no way of knowing we’d been lovers.
“Hanging in?” Casual.
Charbonneau shrugged. “I’ve seen them together before.”
“Really.”
“Let’s see, when was that?” Charbonneau sailed on, unaware of the reaction his words were having. “August? Yeah. August. It was hotter than a friggin’ banana boat.”
A meaty finger pointed in my direction.
“I came by here to ask about a case. You were down South. I had to testify, and the preliminary took place in early August. I spotted Ryan and the prom queen as I was leaving the courthouse. Yep. It was the first week of August.”
The first week of August. Ryan in Charlotte. An urgent phone call. Trouble with his niece. An unscheduled return to Canada.
I tossed the pen and buckled down my face.
“Monsieur Charbonneau, I called Friday because I’ve found information relevant to the pizza basement skeletons.”
Charbonneau slumped back and thrust out both feet. “I’m listening.”
“I got a second opinion on the buttons found by Said Matoub.”
Charbonneau looked blank.
“The owner of the pizza parlor.”
“The guy who found the skeletons.”
“Actually that was the plumber, but close enough. Matoub admitted to having pocketed three silver buttons while collecti
ng the bones.”
“Right.”
“Your partner took the buttons to the McCord for evaluation.”
“Lady there said they were old.”
“Antoinette Legault. She was only partially correct.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“According to Monique Mousseau at Pointe-à-Callière, only two of the buttons are nineteenth century in age. The third is a forgery.”
“Meaning what?”
“She didn’t know.”
“How old is the fake?”
“She couldn’t assign an age, but doubted it was of much antiquity.”
“OK. So maybe the buttons don’t go with the bones. That ain’t exactly a smoking gun.”
“Have you heard of a man named Nicolò Cataneo?”
“Nick the Knife? Who hasn’t?”
“The building housing Matoub’s pizzeria currently belongs to Richard Cyr. Cyr purchased the property from Nicolò Cataneo.”
“Yeah? When?”
“In 1980.”
Charbonneau retracted his feet and sat up.
“How long did Cataneo own the place?”
“Ten years.”
Charbonneau frowned.
“Does that mean something, Detective?”
“Might.”
“I know Cataneo was connected.”
Charbonneau began picking at the cuticle on his right thumb.
“What is it you’re not telling me?”
Charbonneau looked undecided a moment, then slumped back.
“Things exploded here in the late seventies. The Calabrian and Sicilian factions went at each other big-time. Power struggle ended with the assassination of a boss named Paolo Violi.”
“And?”
“A new boss took over.”
Down the hall I heard one phone ring, then another, and another. LaManche was gathering his troops for the morning meeting.
“And?”
“New boss broke with the Bonannos in New York and established ties between the Montreal family and the Caruana/Cuntrera family.”
“Your point?” I made a show of checking my watch.
“It was a wild ride.” Charbonneau shrugged. “Bunch of guys got killed.”
“And maybe some girls?”
Charbonneau shrugged again. “You didn’t say anything about trauma to those bones.”
“I didn’t find any. You’ll speak to your partner?”
Charbonneau tugged an earlobe, rolled his eyes sideways, then back to me. He hesitated a moment, then seemed to arrive at some private decision.
“Luc’s spoken to Cyr.”
“I know.”
“Guess he didn’t tell you.”
“No.”
“We probably should have.”
“That would have been nice.”
“The old geezer never mentioned Cataneo.”
“Perhaps that has to do with your partner’s social skills.”
“You learn anything else?”
I told him about Cyr’s list of tenants, and about the phone calls I’d made.
“So who do you like? The drag queen or the guy in the side curls and hat?”
“Chabad-Lubavitch men don’t wear the payot or the streimel.”
“Just having some fun with you, Doc. You think either could be a player?”
“You’re asking my opinion?”
Charbonneau nodded.
“Not likely.” I rose.
Charbonneau lumbered to his feet, flipped his coat over one arm, and dug a paper from a pocket. “I’m supposed to give you this.”
The note contained the telephone number left by Mrs. Ballant/Gallant/Talent, the name Alban Fisher, and an address in Candiac.
“That a phone trace?”
I nodded.
“Someone giving you a hard time?”
“Besides the freak that broke into my condo?”
“Oh, yeah?” Charbonneau’s face tensed.
Mistake.
“It’s nothing. Anyway, Ryan’s got stepped-up surveillance on my place.”
I glanced at the paper Charbonneau had handed me.
“This woman called claiming to know something about the pizza parlor bones.”
“What?”
“Beats me. She said she knew what had gone on in Cyr’s building.”
“You let me know what this lady says as soon as you talk to her. If you don’t reach her today I’ll take a spin out there. And you let me know if anyone hassles you, Doc. I mean it.”
Again, Charbonneau hesitated, longer this time.
“Don’t let Luc get under your skin. He’ll come around. And, Doc, he won’t stand for you being hassled either. You can believe that.”
I wondered.
Having survived the minefield of Charbonneau’s conversation, I should have been prepared for my next surprise. I wasn’t.
When I arrived in the conference room, the five pathologists were deep in discussion.
I mumbled an apology for my late arrival. LaManche slid a photocopy across the table.
Three autopsies had already been assigned. Pelletier got two crack addicts found in the Lionel-Groulx metro. Morin drew a cyclist crushed by a fire truck.
I flipped a page and glanced quickly through the last two cases.
A man had been discovered facedown below the staircase at the Mont Royal end of Drummond.
Nom du décédé: Inconnu. Unknown.
A woman had been found dead in her bed.
Nom du décédé: Louise Parent
Date de naissance: 1943/6/18
Info.: Mort suspecte
My eyes dropped to the next line.
My heart dropped like a rock.
18
LAMANCHE’S VOICE GREW DISTANT. THE ROOM receded around me.
Jamming one hand into the pocket of my lab coat, I yanked out Charbonneau’s note.
Sweet Jesus!
The address on the phone trace matched the address on the case file.
As I stared at the name, LaManche spoke it.
“Louise Parent.”
Ballant. Gallant. Talent. Parent.
Bands of tension squeezed my chest.
“Who discovered her?”
Everyone turned, surprised at my vehemence.
Wordlessly, LaManche pulled out the police report.
“Claudia Bastillo. The victim’s niece.”
“What happened?”
LaManche read silently for several seconds.
“Madame Bastillo was in the habit of talking regularly with her mother. The mother, Rose Fisher, and the victim, Louise Parent, were sisters, sharing a residence in Candiac.”
LaManche filtered the pertinent facts.
“Over the weekend, Bastillo’s calls went unanswered. Early this morning she went to check and found her aunt dead in bed.”
Dear God! I’d been trying to reach Parent during the same period as her niece!
“Rose Fisher is all right?”
LaManche finished skimming.
“The report says nothing concerning the whereabouts of Madame Fisher. I assume the lady is among the living since she is not on her way here.”
“Cause of death?” I knew it was stupid as soon as I asked it.
LaManche looked up over his glasses.
“That is why Madame Parent is coming to us.”
Questions swirled and tilted.
Foul play or ghastly coincidence? Had Parent been killed, or had she died of natural causes? Was her death related to the calls made to me?
Had the calls been placed by Louise Parent?
Say something? Hold off?
I glanced at the box indicating police jurisdiction.
SQ.
I decided to wait until I’d spoken to the investigating officers. Until LaManche had completed his autopsy.
“Dr. Santangelo, please take the staircase gentleman,” LaManche continued.
Santangelo marked her list.
“I will take Madame Parent when she arriv
es,” LaManche said.
LaManche jotted “La” next to Louise Parent’s name. Business concluded, everyone rose and filed out.
Back in my office I wasted no time dialing Ryan’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Who’ll be working the Louise Parent case?”
“Yes, it is nice to hear your voice. Yes, it is a bit warmer today. Yes, it was a bitch of a weekend,” Ryan said.
“How was your weekend?”
“A bitch.”
“The big sting?”
“All wrapped up.”
“They’ve cut you loose?”
“Yes.”
I waited. He did not elaborate.
“Who’ll be working the Louise Parent case?”
Squad room noises indicated Ryan was a few floors below me.
“Candiac?” I prodded. “Sixty-year-old woman found dead in her bed this morning. Who’ll catch the case?”
“You’re looking at him, kid.”
“They didn’t give you much downtime.”
“Seems I was missed here.”
“Find anyone who’ll pal around with you yet?”
Several years earlier Ryan’s partner had died in a plane crash while escorting a prisoner from Georgia to Montreal. Since then Ryan had been working alone, shifting from one special assignment to another.
“The charisma is simply too overpowering.”
“Could be the aftershave.”
“I like flying solo.”
“Why did Parent come in as a mort suspecte?”
“My guess would be the death looked suspicious.”
“You’re a laugh riot, Ryan.”
“Vic was in good health, not that old. No malfunctioning space heater. No leaking gas or carbon monoxide. No history of depression. No suicide note. Vic’s sixty-four-year-old sister’s in the wind. Disappeared. Candiac cops thought it called for a look-see by the big boys.”
“LaManche is doing the autopsy this morning.”
I pictured Ryan shoulder-cradling the phone, ankles crossed on his desk.
I pictured Ryan lying in my bed.
I pictured Ryan strutting with a prom queen.
“Vic’s niece found the body. Claims it’s out of character for her mother to take off without telling her.”
“Rose Fisher.”
I heard paper rustle.
“Bingo.”
“You’re trying to locate her?”
