Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“Claire knew Bastarache?”

“It was usually Claire that he hit on. For some reason, that night he was talking to me.” Her voice faltered. “Is she dead?”

“She was found floating facedown in 1999.”

“Suffering Jesus!” Karine’s chest heaved as she fought back tears. “Why the funny sketch? Was she messed up?”

I found the question odd. If Ryan shared my reaction, he didn’t let on.

“She’d been floating awhile.”

Karine’s hands fumbled the latch on her purse.

“Where was Claire from?” Ryan asked.

“She never said.” Pulling out a tissue, she dabbed her eyes.

“Claire made skin flicks for Pierre?”

Karine nodded, bunching the tissue in a fist below her nose.

“Do you know where Pierre is now?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since 1999.”

“Could you find his house if you had to?”

She shook her head. “It was too long ago. And I never drove. Never paid attention.”

Dropping her forehead to the fist, she drew a long, ragged breath. I laid my hand gently on hers. Her shoulders trembled as tears slid down her cheeks.

Ryan caught my eye and tipped his head toward the door. I nodded. We’d gotten all we were going to get for now, and we knew where Karine Pitre could be found.

Ryan got up and crossed to the register.

“I never meant to make trouble.” Gulped, as a sob rose up her throat. “I just wanted out. I believed no one would miss me.”

“Your parents?” I asked.

Raising her head, she dabbed the wadded tissue from eye to eye. “We never got along.”

“Perhaps they would like the chance to get along with their grandchildren.” I made a move to slide from the booth.

Karine reached out and grabbed my wrist. “My husband doesn’t know about the skin flicks.”

I looked at her, unable to imagine what her life had been. What it was now.

“Maybe you should tell him,” I said quietly.

Light flashed in her eyes. Fear? Defiance. Her grip tightened.

“Do you know who killed Claire?” she asked.

“You think someone killed her?”

Karine nodded, fingers clenched so tightly the tissue was a tiny white ball.

35

“WHAT NOW?”

We were in Hippo’s car, slipstreaming toward Le Passage Noir. It was past midnight; I was running on less than five hours sleep, but I was pumped.

“I track Claire Brideau,” Ryan said. “And a sleaze named Pierre.”

“Cormier pimped Sicard to Pierre for his smut films. Pierre turned her over to Bastarache to strip in his bar. That ought to be enough to charge Bastarache.”

“Sicard wasn’t a minor when she worked for Bastarache.”

“She went from Cormier to Bastarache via this Pierre. Phoebe Quincy phoned Cormier. He’s probably the one who took the Marilyn photo of her. That links Bastarache to Quincy, at least indirectly.”

“Guilt by association.” Ryan’s terse answers were suggesting a marked disinterest in conversation.

Silence filled the small space around us. To occupy my mind I replayed the interview with Bastarache. What was it he’d said that bothered me?

Then it clicked.

“Ryan, do you remember Bastarache’s comment when you showed him the picture of the girl on the bench?”

“He said he was barely out of high school when that kid was playing Indian princess.”

“What’s wrong about that?”

“It shows Bastarache for the coldhearted bastard he is.”

“I printed that frame off the video. Today. Modern printer, modern paper. There isn’t a single thing in that shot to indicate time frame.”

Ryan glanced at me. “So what made Bastarache think the thing was decades old?”

“He knows what’s going on. He knows who that girl is.”

I noticed Ryan’s knuckles tighten on the wheel.

“If charges aren’t filed, Bastarache walks tomorrow.”

“It takes evidence to file charges.”

I slumped into my seat back, frustrated, knowing Ryan was right. The investigation had produced very little linking Bastarache to any of the missing or dead girls. Sure, Kelly Sicard had danced for him. And Claire Brideau had visited his bar years earlier. But a crown prosecutor would demand physical or much stronger circumstantial evidence. Nevertheless, Ryan’s seeming depression surprised me.

“You should feel good, Ryan. Sicard’s alive and we found her.”

“Yeah. She’s a peach.”

“You plan to call her parents?”

“Not now.”

“I have a feeling Kelly will make contact herself.”

“Karine.”

“Kelly. Kitty. Karine. You think she told us everything she knows?”

Ryan made a noise I couldn’t interpret in the dark.

“My take is she opened up when asked, but volunteered little.”

Ryan said nothing.

“She made an interesting comment as you were paying the bill.”

“Thanks for the cocoa?”

“She thinks Brideau was murdered.”

“By?”

“She didn’t say.”

“My money’s on Plucky Pierre.”

“He threatened her. But Bastarache used to hit on her.”

I looked at Ryan, a silhouette, then a face slowly illuminated by oncoming lights. The face was steel-jawed.

“You’ve cleared two cases, Ryan. Cases that were stone-pony cold. Anne Girardin and Kelly Sicard. If Sicard is right, the Rivière des Mille Îles body will be ID’d as Claire Brideau. You’re making progress.”

“One alive, four dead, two still missing. Break out the sparklers.”

A truck whooshed by. Trapped in its wash, the Impala rocked, settled.

Turning from Ryan, I pulled out my mobile and checked for messages.

Still nothing from Harry.

Rob Potter had called at 10:42. He’d analyzed the poetry and come to a conclusion. Though curious, I decided it was too late to phone him.

Leaning into the headrest, I closed my eyes. Thoughts ping-ponged in my brain as we barreled through the night.

Why didn’t Harry phone? Sudden jolting images. The goon in Cormier’s studio. The Death e-mail and the anonymous call. The pair snooping at my condo.

Cheech and Chong. Mulally and Babin.

What if Harry hadn’t taken off on her own?

Don’t go there, Brennan. Not yet. If Harry doesn’t check in by tomorrow, ask Hippo or Ryan to get a bead on Mulally and Babin.

Was Obéline alive and in regular contact with Bastarache? Why? The man had broken her arm and set her on fire. If so, why the faked suicide?

What conclusion had Rob reached? Had all of the poetry been written by the same person? Was the author Évangéline? If so, had Obéline paid to have the collection published by O’Connor House? Why anonymously? Had Bastarache bullied her so relentlessly she’d felt the need for secrecy in all things?

Had Obéline actually witnessed Évangéline’s murder? If so, who’d killed her? Bastarache was a young man at the time. Was he involved? How?

What had happened to Évangéline’s body? Had she ended up in an unmarked grave like Hippo’s girl, the skeleton from Sheldrake Island? Who was Hippo’s girl? Would we ever know?

Had Bastarache killed Cormier? Had Pierre? Had one of them killed Claire Brideau? If so, why? Had one of them killed Claudine Cloquet? Phoebe Quincy? The girl who washed up on the Dorval shoreline? The girl found floating in Lac des Deux Montagnes?

Had those girls been murdered? Were Cloquet and Quincy dead? If not, where were they?

Too many if’s and why’s.

And where the hell was Harry?

Hippo was smoking a Player’s on the sidewalk when we pulled up at Le Passage Noir. Ryan bummed a match and lit up as I relayed our conversation with Kelly Sicard/Karine Pitre.

Hippo listened, chin rising and falling like a bobble-head doll.