Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

He was right, of course. Hippo’s informants were legion. He could have kept track of us, and perhaps learned who else was doing so.

“Who’s the blonde?”

“My sister.” So he had gotten feedback. Probably after my call. “We talked to Obéline. That’s all. We didn’t do any prowling around.”

Hippo did the hanky thing on his brow and neck.

“Do you want to know what we learned?”

“Is the skeleton this kid you knew?”

“I’m holding out for the pizza.”

Hippo circled his row of cabinets. His shirt was so damp it was almost transparent. It was not a good look.

“Anything you don’t eat?”

“Knock yourself out.”

When he’d gone, I remembered. Ryan hates goat cheese.

Little chance, however, that Hippo would think outside the traditional sausage and cheese box. If he did, tough.

I got through another shelf before Hippo returned. I was right. Toute garnie . All dressed. Sausage. Pepperoni. Green pepper. Mushroom. Onions.

As we ate, I described my visit to Tracadie, repeating the encounter with the two thugs outside the brasserie. Hippo asked if I’d caught any names. I shook my head in the negative.

“Bastarache’s henchmen?” Ryan asked.

“Most of those guys are too stupid to hench.” Hippo tossed his crust into the box and scooped another slice. “That don’t mean Bastarache can’t jam you up.”

“All I did was visit his wife.”

“The wife he beat up and set on fire.”

I was determined to ignore Hippo’s bad temper. “I’ll send the DNA samples off tomorrow.”

“Coroner likely to cough up the dough?”

“If not, I’ll pay it myself.”

“You put skeletal age at thirteen or fourteen,” Ryan said.

“This kid was sick. If illness slowed her development, I could be low on my estimate.”

“But Obéline said her sister was healthy.”

“Yes,” I said. “She did.”

At five-fifteen, I heaved the last stack of files from the back of the bottom drawer of my eighth file cabinet.

The first was a glamour shot. Claire Welsh. Pouty lips. Pouffy hair. Pushy-up cleavage.

The second was a toddler. Christophe Routier. On a tricycle. In a rocker. Hugging a stuffed Eeyore.

The third was a couple. Alain Tourniquette and Pamela Rayner. Holding hands. Holding hands. Holding hands. The contact sheet was dated July 24, 1984.

Where was I the summer of ’84? Chicago. Married to Pete. Mothering Katy. Finishing a doctorate at Northwestern. The next year Pete switched law firms and we moved to Charlotte. Home. I joined the faculty at UNCC.

My eyes drifted to the double row of gray metal cabinets. I felt overwhelmed. Not merely by the thought of plowing through that immense repository of human stories, but by everything. The dead and missing girls. The skeleton I was calling Hippo’s girl. Évangéline and Obéline. Pete and Summer. Ryan and Lutetia.

Mostly Ryan and Lutetia.

Suck it up, Brennan. You were colleagues before you were lovers. You are colleagues still. He needs your expertise. If someone intentionally harmed these kids, it’s your job to help nail the bastard. Nobody cares about your personal life.

I opened the next file.

20

SCRAWLED ON THE TAB WAS THE NAME KITTY STANLEY.

Kitty Stanley stared into the lens, blue eyes rimmed with impossibly long lashes, amber curls sprouting from a black cloche hat pulled low to her brows.

In some shots, she sat with her arms circling a chair back, head resting on them. In others, she lay on her stomach, chin propped on interlaced fingers, feet raised, ankles crossed. Several frames showed tight facial close-ups.

The intensity. The heavy, straight brows.

Adrenaline flowing, I opened an evidence packet, chose a print, and held it beside Cormier’s contact sheet. The strips of images were so small it was hard to evaluate.

Dumping everything from my lap, I found a hand lens on a cabinet top and compared the faces under magnification.

Kelly Sicard. Ryan’s MP number one. The girl had lived with her parents in Rosemère, disappeared in ’97 after a night drinking with friends.

Kitty Stanley.

Kelly Sicard.

Both had blue eyes, amber hair, and Brooke Shields brows.

Kelly Sicard was eighteen when she disappeared. Kitty Stanley looked maybe sixteen.

I flipped the contact sheet. No date.

Kelly Sicard.

Kitty Stanley.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

After studying the images for a very long time, I was convinced. Though lighting and focal distances varied, the girls shared the same high cheekbones, narrow interorbital distance, long upper lip, broad jawline, and tapered chin. I didn’t need calipers and a computer program. Kitty Stanley and Kelly Sicard were one and the same.

Sicard looked so young. I wanted to launch my voice through the celluloid and speak to her. Ask why she’d come to this terrible place to pose for this man. Ask what had happened to her after that day. Had she gone to New York to pursue a dream? Had she been murdered?

And why the alias? Had Sicard hired Cormier without telling her parents? Lied about her name? Her age?

“I have Sicard.” It came out dead calm.

Hippo shot to his feet and reached me in three strides. I handed him the lens, the photos, and the contact sheet.

Hippo squinted at the images. He really needed a shower.

“Crétaque! ” Over his shoulder. “Ryan! Get your ass in here.”

Ryan appeared instantly. Hippo passed him the lens and photos.

Ryan studied the images. He was also in need of soap and water.

“Sicard kid?” To me.

I nodded.

“You certain?”

“I am.”

Ryan dialed his cell. I heard a faraway voice. Ryan asked for a woman I knew to be a crown prosecutor. There was a pause, then another voice came on the line.

Ryan identified himself, got straight to the point.

“Cormier photographed Kelly Sicard.”

The voice said something.

“No date. Looks like a year, maybe two before she went missing.”

The voice said something else.

Ryan’s eyes rolled to me.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure.”

By seven, we’d searched half of Cormier’s files. The three of us looked like Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion, and the Scarecrow, sweaty, dirty, and discouraged.

We were all cranky as hell.

Ryan drove me home. Except for a few exchanges concerning Cormier and my visit to Tracadie, we rode in silence. No mention of Charlie or Korn or Lutetia.

In the past, Ryan and I enjoyed challenging each other with obscure quotes in an ongoing game of “Who said that?” Goofy, I know. But we’re both competitive.

A one-liner rapped at my forebrain. “Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.”

Aldous Huxley.

Good one, Brennan.

I settled for congratulating myself.

We were pulling to the curb when Ryan got the call. A warrant had been issued for Cormier’s home.

Did I want to be included?

Sure. But I had to go to the lab first. I would drive myself.

Ryan gave me the address.

Entering my front door, I was slammed by the odor of cooking. Cumin, onions, and chilies. Harry was whipping up her specialty. It was not what I needed after a day in a furnace.

I called out a greeting. Harry confirmed that dinner would be San Antonio chili.

Inwardly groaning, I beelined to the shower.

In a way, Harry’s chili was therapeutic. What toxins I hadn’t sweated out at Cormier’s studio, I definitely offloaded at dinner.

Harry was jazzed about the poetry book. In all fairness, I had to admit I was impressed with her progress.

“You were right. O’Connor House was a press for frustrated writers wanting to self-publish. It was a family business, owned and operated by a husband-and-wife team named O’Connor.”