Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

Were there still stepped-up patrols past my place? Might a passing squad car have seen Anne’s departure?

Unlikely, but worth a shot.

Bundling up, I headed out.

It was another immaculate day. The radio had predicted a high of minus thirty Celsius. At seven fifty-five, we weren’t even close.

Within ten minutes a squad car rolled up the block. I walked to the curb and waved them over.

Yes, they were still passing frequently. Yes, this team had been working days all week. No, they hadn’t seen a towering blonde with a lot of luggage. They promised to ask the guys on the other shifts.

Back to the lobby, where it was at least warm enough for blood to circulate.

Ryan pulled up at eight-ten. I got in. The car smelled of cigarette smoke.

“Bonjour.”

“Bonjour.”

Ryan handed me the faxed photo from Menard’s senior yearbook. The shot was small and dark, with all color and some contrast lost in transmission. But the face was reasonably clear.

“Looks like Menard,” I said.

“And a thousand other guys with red hair, glasses, and freckles.”

I had to agree.

“Any word from your friend?”

“No.”

I shifted my feet. Unzipped my parka. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. My legs. My arms. I felt awkward and uncomfortable with Ryan. I wasn’t sure I could manage conversation with him.

“Rough night?” Ryan asked.

“Why the sudden interest in my sleep patterns?”

“You look tired.”

I looked at Ryan. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper, his whole face more clenched.

What the hell’s going on with you? I wanted to ask.

“I’ve got a number of things on my plate,” I said.

Ryan put a finger to the tip of my nose. “Don’t we all.”

Twenty minutes later we were on Cyr’s porch.

Ryan had phoned ahead, and Cyr answered on the first ring. This time the old coot was fully clothed.

In the living room, Cyr took the same recliner he’d occupied during my visit with Anne.

Ole Hopalong.

Put it away, Brennan.

I introduced Ryan and let him do the talking.

“Monsieur Cyr, nous avon —”

“Speak English for the little lady.” Cyr grinned at me. “Where’s that good-looking friend of yours?”

“Anne’s gone home.”

Cyr cocked his head. “She’s a pistol, that one.”

“This will just take a moment.” Ryan pulled the fax from his pocket and handed it to Cyr. “Is that Stephen Menard?”

“Who?”

“Stéphane Ménard. The man who ran the pawnshop in your building.”

Cyr glanced at the fax.

“ Tabernouche! I may look like Bogie, but I’m eighty-two years old.”

Cyr pushed to his feet, shuffled across the room, and turned on the TV. Picking up a large, boxy lens attached by a cord to the back of the set, he flipped a button and scanned the fax.

Menard’s face filled the screen.

“That’s terrific,” I said.

“Videolupe. Great little gadget. Magnifies so I can read just about everything.”

Cyr moved the lens casually over the photo, then focused on Menard’s ear. The image zoomed until the upper edge of the helix almost filled the screen.

“Nope.” Cyr straightened. “That’s not your boy.”

“How do you know?” I was astonished at his certainty.

Cyr lay down the lens, shuffled back, and crooked a finger at me.

I stood.

“See that?” Cyr fingered a small bump of cartilage on the upper part of his ear’s outer rim.

“A Darwin’s tubercle,” I said.

Cyr straightened. “Smart lady.”

Ryan was watching us, a look of confusion on his face.

“Never knew anybody had bumps like mine, so one time I showed them to my doctor. He told me it was a recessive trait, gave me some articles.” Cyr flicked his ear. “Know how these little buggers got their name?”

“They were once thought to be a vestige of pointed ears on quadrupeds.”

Cyr bounced on his toes, delighted.

“What does this have to do with Menard?” Ryan asked.

“Menard had the biggest bastards I’ve ever seen. I teased him about it. Told him one day I’d find him grazing on trees or eating small furry things in the basement. He wasn’t amused.”

Ryan rose. “And the man in the photo?”

Cyr held out the fax. “No bumps.”

At the door, Ryan paused.

“One last question, sir. Did you and Menard part on good terms?”

“Hell no. I threw his ass out.”

“Why was that?”

“Got tired of complaints from other tenants.”

“Complaints about what?”

“Unsavory clientele, mostly. Some about noise late at night.”

“What kind of noise?”

“Damned if I know. But I’d heard enough carping. Is that a word? Carping?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like a fish.”

Ryan dropped me at home, apologized, said he’d be on duty all weekend. He promised to phone if he heard anything on Menard or the other set of prints. Or anything on Anne.

I didn’t ask if his work schedule extended into Saturday night.

Screw it. Who cares?

My answering machine held no messages.

Katy wanted me in Charlotte by the twenty-second, so I tried busying myself with tasks that had to be done before my departure.

Bed linen. Plants. Gift wrapping of packages for the caretaker, the techs at the lab.

Ryan?

I set that one aside.

I also busied myself with tasks that just had to be done.

Laundry. Cat litter. Mail.

I blasted Christmas music, hoping jingling bells or heralding angels might kick-start me into a holiday mood.

No go. All I could think about were the bones on my lab tables, the printouts on my blotter, and where the hell was Anne.

At three, I gave in and headed to Wilfrid-Derome.

Typical Saturday afternoon. The lab was empty and still as a tomb.

One Demande d’expertise form lay on my desk.

Four months earlier an elevator worker had disappeared from an inspection job at a building in Côte St-Luc. Thursday his decomposed body was found in Parc Angrignon in LaSalle. X-rays showed multiple fractures. Pelletier wanted me to analyze the trauma when the bones were cleaned.

Setting the form aside, I again took up Claudel’s list.

Overhead, the fluorescents hummed. Outside, gusts whined around the window casings. Now and then some frozen windborne particle ticked a pane.

Simone Badeau. Too old.

Isabelle Lemieux. Dental work.

Marie-Lucille d’Aquin. Black.

Micheline Thibault. Too young.

Tawny McGee. Way too young.

Céline Dallaire. Broken collarbone at age fourteen.

The names went on and on.

After an hour I switched to Charbonneau’s list.

Jennifer Kay. Esther Anne Pigeon. Elaine Masse. Amy Fish. Theresa Perez.

Now and then I crossed to the lab to recheck a bone, hoping to find some detail I’d overlooked. Each time I returned disappointed.

When I’d finished with the names, I went back through the lists by age. Then height. Date of disappearance.

I knew I was grasping at straws, but it was like a compulsion. I couldn’t stop myself.

Down the corridor, I heard the security doors swoosh.

Place of disappearance.

Terrebonne. Anjou. Gatineau. Beaconsfield.

Butte County. Tehama County. San Mateo County.

At six I sat back, thoroughly discouraged. Two and a half hours, and I’d accomplished nothing.

Footsteps sounded hollow in the empty hall. Probably LaManche. Besides me, the chief would be the only one punching in on a Saturday night.

Congratulations, Brennan. You have the same social life as a sexagenarian with seven grandchildren.

Back to the lists.