Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

“Is that located here?”

“Palais de Justice. Second floor. Room 2.175.”

I jotted the address of the pizza parlor building and handed it across the counter.

“Shouldn’t be long.”

It wasn’t. In ten minutes the woman returned with the numbers. I thanked her, and Anne and I set off.

Montreal’s three courthouses lie just west of its City Hall. As we scurried along rue Notre-Dame, Anne’s eyes probed gallery, café, and boutique windows. She hung back to pat a horse, gushed over the beauty of the Château Ramezay, laughed at cars snowbanked in by plows.

Architecturally, City Hall and the modern courthouse have little in common aside from the fact that each is a building. Anne did not comment on the charm of the latter.

Before entering, I pulled out my cellular and tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.

Nope.

As on the day of my testimony, the courthouse was busy with lawyers, judges, journalists, security guards, and worried-looking people. The lobby was controlled confusion, each face looking like it would rather be elsewhere.

Anne and I rode an elevator to the second floor and went directly to room 2.175. When my turn came, I explained my mission, this time to a short, bald clerk shaped like a cookie jar.

“There’s a fee,” Cookie Jar said.

“How much?”

He told me.

I forked over the money. Cookie Jar handed me a receipt.

“That allows you to research all day.”

I presented my lot and cadastral numbers.

Cookie Jar studied the paper. Then he looked up, a pudgy finger jabbing black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“These numbers go pretty far back. Anything prior to 1974 can’t be researched online. Depending on how often the property changed hands, this could take time.”

“But I can find out who owned the building?”

Cookie Jar nodded. “Every deed transfer is recorded with the provincial government.” He held up the paper. “What’s at this location now?”

“The building has residential units upstairs, small businesses below. The address that interests me is a pizza-by-the-slice joint.”

Cookie Jar shook his head. “If the property is commercial, you won’t learn what businesses have occupied it unless the owner has included such information.”

“How could I find that out?”

“Tax records maybe. Or business permits.”

“But I can determine who the owners have been?”

Cookie Jar nodded. In some irrational way, looking at him made me think of Don Ho and tiny bubbles.

“That’s a start,” I said.

Cookie Jar pointed to the one unoccupied computer in the room. “If you need something prior to 1974, I’ll explain how to use the books.”

I crossed to the terminal, took off my jacket, and hung it on the chair back. Anne followed.

Slinging my purse strap over the jacket, I turned to her.

“There’s no reason for you to sit and watch me punch a keyboard and dig through old books.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Right. The diversions for which you flew twelve hundred miles are not found in this registry.”

“Beats cooking and freezing casseroles for surgeries and funerals.”

“Wouldn’t you rather shop?”

“Fuck shopping.”

Anne was in the Mariana Trench of doldrums. Sitting here watching me was not going to cheer her.

“Go to the basilica. Scout out a place to eat. When I’ve finished, I’ll phone your cell.”

“You won’t get frustrated and throw another hissy?”

I put a hand on her shoulder.

“Go forth and shop with the mighty. Your work here is done.”

Three hours later, I was still at it.

The online research had taken forty minutes, thirty-seven figuring out what I was doing, three printing out information on the building’s current owner.

Digging backward through the tomes of bound deeds had taken somewhere in the vicinity of an eon.

Cookie Jar had been polite and helpful, patiently taking my money and photocopying the record of each transaction as I found it.

In the course of my research, I discovered several things.

Claudel was correct about the building’s age. Prior to construction, the land had been part of the CNN train yards. Since then, the property had changed hands several times.

I was studying my collection of photocopies when one name leaped out.

I knew that name.

Why?

A local politician? A singer?

I stared at the name, willing a synapse.

A television personality? A case I’d worked? Someone I knew?

The date of transfer was before my time in Montreal. So why the subliminal ring-a-ding?

Then, recognition.

“Sweet mother of Mary!”

Jamming the printouts and photocopies into my purse, I grabbed my jacket, and bolted.

13

OUTSIDE, SNOW WAS POWDERING THE STAIRS AND HANDRAILS, and adding to mounds lining the sidewalks and streets. I didn’t care. As soon as I cleared the doors I phoned Claudel.

The CUM operator told me Claudel was out. I asked for Charbonneau. Out.

“This is Dr. Brennan from medicolegal. Do you know when either will be back?”

“No.” Distracted. “Tried their beepers?”

“Numbers, please?”

She gave them to me. I dialed and left my cellular as a numeric page for each detective. But I had little hope of an immediate response. Claudel, in particular, was not likely to be diverted from a major operation to call me back on a case in which he had almost no interest.

Next I tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent.

No answer.

Working hard to calm myself, I phoned Anne. She was buying ornaments at a Christmas shop.

Anne suggested Le Jardin Nelson for lunch, and started to give directions.

“I know where it is,” I cut her off.

A metered silence, then, “Did we have a bad search?”

“I think I’ve found something. See you in ten.”

Hunching against the snow, I hurried toward place Jacques-Cartier, a pedestrian playground stretching from rue Notre-Dame riverward to rue de la Commune. Lined with restaurants, cafés, and kitschy T-shirt and souvenir shops, le place teems with life during mild weather. Today I shared the square with a handful of tourists, one street artist, and a scraggy yellow terrier pissing on a lamppost.

Flakes were obliterating the cobblestones, the street signs, the pillar memorializing Admiral Nelson, the Englishman who spanked the French at the battle of Trafalgar. Never a favorite with the separatists. Beyond the square, I could see the gauzy blur of the silver-domed Bonsecours Market, City Hall until mothballed by the mansarded Parisian at my back.

Quebec. The Twin Solitudes. One French and Catholic, the other English and Calvinist. The two languages and cultures have butted heads in the province since the Brits seized Montreal in 1760. Place Jacques-Cartier is a microcosm in stone of the linguistic tribalism.

Le Jardin Nelson is located halfway down the west side of the square. The restaurant is squat and solid, with plaza-side terraces under bright blue awnings. A parasoled courtyard with infrared heaters keeps the eatery Montréal chic many months of the year.

This was not one of them. When I entered, Anne looked up over her menu and tracked me across the room.

“It’s really coming down,” I said, removing my parka, then shaking flakes.

“Will it stick?”

“Snow always sticks in Montreal.”

“Excellent.”

“Hm.” I placed my cellular on the tabletop.

A young woman filled water glasses. Anne ordered Crêpes Forestiers and a glass of chardonnay. I went for Crêpes Argenteuil and a Diet Coke.

“Find any treasures?” I asked when the waitress had gone.

Even in a state of apathy, Anne is a commando shopper. She showed me her purchases.