Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“Doesn’t look like Bastarache spent much time living in this place.”

“That jives. Céline said she hardly ever saw him. So where’s he living?”

“The shrewdness never ends.” Ryan smiled.

It slayed me. Ryan’s smile always does.

I began to wander, opening closets, cupboards, and drawers already dusted for prints. Ryan was right. In addition to frozen shrimp and a carton of badly crystallized Ben & Jerry’s, the refrigerator contained olives, clamato juice, a half-eaten jar of pickled herring, a dried-out lemon, and some fuzzy green chunks that were probably cheese. Save for aspirin, Gillette Foamy, and a Bic, the medicine cabinet was bare.

We’d been in the flat twenty minutes when Hippo bounded up the stairs.

“Got Sicard. Married name’s Karine Pitre. Hubby’s still hawking lilies and tulips in Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré.”

“Sonovabitch,” Ryan said.

“She’ll be at a café on Route 138 at eleven.”

Ryan and I must have looked surprised.

“Lady’s got kids. Prefers to discuss her good times in show biz away from the fam.”

Le Café Sainte-Anne was a typical Quebec truck stop. Counter. Vinyl booths. Sun-faded curtains. Tired waitress. At that time of night the place was pretty much empty.

Though she was older, and the amber hair was short, Kelly was recognizable from her pictures. Same blue eyes and Brooke Shields brows. She was in a back booth, a half cup of hot chocolate on the table before her. She wasn’t smiling.

Ryan flashed his badge. Kelly nodded without bothering to look.

Ryan and I sat. He began in French.

“A lot of people have been looking for you, Kelly.”

“It’s Karine now. Karine Pitre.” She answered in English, barely above a whisper.

“We’re not interested in jamming you up.”

“Yeah? My past makes the papers, it won’t be real easy setting up play dates.”

“You know what they say about reaping and sowing.”

“I was young and stupid. I’ve been out of that life for almost eight years. My daughters know nothing about it.” As she spoke her eyes scanned the café. I could tell she was jumpy and on edge.

A waitress appeared at our table. Her name was Johanne. Ryan and I asked for coffee. Karine ordered another hot chocolate.

“I’ll do my best to keep this discreet,” Ryan said when Johanne had gone. “Our interest isn’t in you.”

Karine relaxed a little. “Then what?”

“David Bastarache.”

“What about him?”

Ryan drilled her with the butane blues. “You tell us.”

“Bastarache owns bars.” Again, Karine’s eyes ran the room. “I danced in one of them. Le Chat Rouge in Moncton. That’s where I met my husband.”

“When’s the last time you saw Bastarache?”

“Sometime before I quit. It was cool. Mr. Bastarache didn’t have any beef with me.”

“That it, Karine? Just dirty dancing?”

Johanne returned and distributed mugs and spoons. Karine waited her out.

“I know what you’re getting at. But turning tricks wasn’t my thing. All I did was strip.”

“Never flashed a little tit on film?”

Karine lifted her mug, set it down without drinking. I noticed a tremor in her hand.

“Tell us about Stanislas Cormier,” Ryan said.

Karine’s eyes crawled to me. “Who’s she?”

“My partner. Stanislas Cormier?”

“You guys are thorough.”

“Not as thorough as we could be.”

“I was fifteen. I wanted to be a Spice Girl.” She swirled her hot chocolate. “Wanted to live in Hollywood and appear in People magazine.”

“Go on.”

“I went to Cormier to have a composite made. You know, glamour-shot stuff. I’d read an article saying that was the way to break into acting and modeling. What did I know? During the shoot we got to talking. Cormier offered to hook me up with an agent.”

“If you agreed to some questionable poses.”

“It seemed harmless.”

“Was it?”

She shook her head.

“Go on.”

“It’s hard to talk about.”

“Try.”

Karine’s eyes stayed on her mug. “A man called about a week after my sitting, said he had a small part for me in a film called Wamp Um . I was so excited I nearly wet my drawers. Thought I’d found a ticket to freedom from my Nazi mother and father.”

Karine shook her head sadly. Mourning what? I wondered. Her lost parents? Lost youth? Lost dreams of stardom?

“The man took me to a rat bag motel. I wore moccasins while a guy in a loincloth fucked me. I got fifty bucks.”

“Bastarache.”

Karine looked up, surprised. “No. Pierre.”

“Last name?”

“He never said and I never asked.” She swallowed. “Pierre said I had talent. Said if I gave him an exclusive he’d kick-start my acting career.”

“You believed this Pierre would make you a star?” I tried to keep the incredulity from my voice.

“Cormier insisted Pierre was a high-powered agent. What did I know? He spoke the lingo. Claimed to know all the right people. I trusted him.”

Behind us, Johanne clattered china.

“Go on,” Ryan said.

“After a few weeks, Pierre said I had to move out of my house. One night I told my parents I was going to study with friends. I went to a bar instead. When I left, Pierre picked me up and we drove to this big old house in the boonies. The place was a little run down, but better than what I was used to in Rosemère. A couple other girls were living there so it seemed OK. Pierre helped me cut and dye my hair. Said it made me look older. Image, you know.”

I kept my hands and eyes very still.

“Took me six, maybe seven months to realize I’d been duped. When I tried to quit, the dickhead threatened me. Said if I talked to anyone or attempted to leave he’d see that I was seriously hurt and my face disfigured.”

“How’d you finally break away?”

“Pierre’s films all had goofy themes. Nasty Nunnery. Sorority Slut-house. Wiki Up. He thought having a narrative gave his stuff class. That’s what he called it, a narrative. His flicks were shit.

“We were in Moncton making a piece of crap called Inside Acadians . This other girl and I started hanging out in a bar on Highway 106 after the shoots. Le Chat Rouge. Mr. Bastarache was the owner, and he’d chat us up now and then. One night I had a lot to drink, started whining how unhappy I was. Next morning, Pierre tells me I’m off his payroll and working for Bastarache. Surprised the hell out of me.”

“You didn’t ask why you’d been fired?” Ryan.

“That was Pierre’s style. One day a girl was his darling, the next she was gone. I didn’t care. I was glad to be out of the porn.”

“Did you know the police were searching for you in Montreal?”

“Not at first. By the time I found out, I thought it was too late. Pierre convinced me I’d be fined, then jailed when I couldn’t pay. Pretty soon the media moved on to something else. I didn’t see any point in putting myself out there.”

“Here’s the point.”

Ryan curled his fingers in my direction. I gave him the envelope. He laid down photographs of Claudine Cloquet and the girl from the Dorval shoreline.

Karine glanced at the faces. “I don’t know them.”

Phoebe Jane Quincy joined the lineup.

“Dear God, she’s only a few years older than my daughter.”

Ryan added the facial reconstruction of the girl from the Rivière des Mille Îles.

Karine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no. No.”

I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move a muscle.

“It’s Claire Brideau.”

“You knew her?”

“Claire was one of the kids living in Pierre’s house. She was the one I hung with at Le Chat Rouge.” Karine’s nose had gone red and her chin was trembling. “She was with me that last night before I got sacked.”