Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

I still had the persistent feeling I was missing some connection.

What?

The cut marks?

All three skulls bore evidence of sharp instrument trauma. With the girl in the leather shroud, the cuts appeared to have been made postmortem. With the others, the cuts appeared to have been made to fresh bone. With all three, the cuts were limited to the ear region.

Death sequence?

Carbon 14 dating suggested the girl in the leather shroud died in the eighties, the other two in the nineties.

Place of origin?

Strontium isotope analysis suggested the girl in the leather shroud might have been born or lived her early childhood in north-central California, then moved to Vermont or Quebec. The others might have lived their whole lives in Quebec.

Might have.

Maybe I was hanging too much on the strontium. Maybe the California angle was a dead end.

Another swoosh, then the sound of voices.

But Menard attended grad school in Chico. Chico is in north-central California. Menard was a renter where the dead girls were found. The period of his tenancy coincided with the timing of at least two of the deaths. Louise Parent saw him with young girls on two occasions. One running. One unconscious.

Was the California link mere coincidence?

My hindbrain thought sat up, settled back.

What?

Try as I might, I couldn’t lure the thought from its lair.

Back to Menard.

Menard took possession of his grandparents’ home in Montreal in 1988.

But the guy living there now isn’t Menard, though he’s using Menard’s name.

I threw my pen on the blotter.

“So who the hell is he?”

“I don’t know.”

I jumped at the voice.

Looking up, I saw Ryan standing in my doorway.

“But we got a hit on his girlfriend.”

29

“ANIQUE POMERLEAU.”

I curled my fingers in a give-it-to-me gesture.

“Went missing in 1990.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

That fit. The woman at Menard’s house appeared to be in her mid to late twenties.

“From where?”

“Mascouche.”

“What happened?”

“Kid told her parents she was spending the weekend with a friend. Turned out the girls had cooked up a story so Pomerleau could bunk in with her new squeeze. When she didn’t turn up on Sunday, the parents started checking. On Monday they filed the MP report. At that point Anique had been gone for almost sixty hours.”

“She never made it to the boyfriend’s place?”

“She made it all right. The two hit a couple of bars Friday night, got into a fight, Anique stormed out. Lover boy got lucky, spent the weekend with bachelorette number two.”

“Cops believed his story?”

“The bartender and the lucky lady backed him up. Pomerleau was a troubled kid with a history of runaways. The parents insisted she’d been abducted, but the cops figured she’d taken off.”

“Did they pursue the case?”

“Until the leads went cold.”

“That was it?”

“Not quite. Three years later the Pomerleaus got a call from little Anique. Said she was fine, wouldn’t divulge her whereabouts.”

“That must have been a shock.”

“Couple years go by, the phone rings again. Same deal. Anique tells them she’s OK, but not a word about where she’s living. Last call came in ninety-seven. Father’s dead by then. Mother’s living in a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.”

“Pomerleau’s prints were on file here in Quebec?”

Ryan nodded. “She’s got a jacket full of petty stuff. Vandalism. Shoplifting. One incident involving a stolen auto. Probably joyriding. Last entry was four months before her disappearance.”

I felt agitation bubbling to the surface. Here was another twist that didn’t fit. “What on God’s earth is Anique Pomerleau doing with Stephen Menard?”

“He’s not Menard.”

“Don’t patronize me, Ryan.” I picked up my pen, tossed it back on the blotter. “Mister X. Monsieur X. How’d she end up with the guy?”

I snatched up the pen and pointed it at Ryan.

“And why can’t we find out who this toad is? And where’s the real Stephen Menard? And when did the identity switch take place?”

“Would you like some dinner?”

“What?”

“Dinner.”

“Why?”

“I have some things I want to tell you.”

“Right. You and Claudel keep a hotline to my phone for all breaking news. Where the hell is Claudel, anyway?”

Ryan started to speak. I cut him off.

“I’m sick to death of Claudel and his fuck-you-if-you-don’t-like-it attitude. Charbonneau’s the only one who treats me with any respect.”

“Claudel’s got his own way of doing things.”

“So do echinoderms.”

“You’re judging Claudel harshly. What are echinoderms?”

That tripped the switch.

“ I’m judging him harshly? From the outset I’ve had to fight that narcissistic little prig to get him to take me seriously. To get anyone to take me seriously.”

I considered crushing the pen.

“The bones are too old. Carbon 14 is too expensive. The girls were hookers. Louise Parent died in her sleep. Old ladies do that. They’re known for doing it.”

“I was referring to drooling.”

“See!” I jabbed the pen at Ryan. “Your flip attitude doesn’t help.”

“Tempe—” Ryan reached out to touch me. I drew back.

“Of course. I forgot. You love me. But you love a lot of things. Goat cheese. Parakeets. The Weeki-Wachee Mermaids.”

Ryan’s mouth opened to say something. I cut him off.

“Right. You love me. You just can’t find time to be with me.”

I stormed on, all the pent-up frustration rolling in one powerful surge.

“Now, suddenly you’re free for dinner! On Saturday night! What a lucky girl I am!”

The words spewed like water through a sluice gate.

“What about duty? What about your”—I hooked my index fingers to bracket the word—“niece?”

The pen ricocheted off the blotter and winged toward Ryan. Throwing up a hand, he deflected it.

I shot to my feet.

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”

Dropping into my chair, I put my face in my palms. My cheeks felt warm and damp.

“Christ. What’s wrong with me?”

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Palming away wetness, I did an ear-tuck with my hair and raised my head.

Ryan was gazing down at me, the travel-poster eyes filled with concern.

Or pity?

Or what?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure where all that came from.”

“Everyone’s under pressure.”

“Everyone’s not turning into Il Duce.”

I was aware of LaManche before actually seeing him. Movement in my peripheral vision. The smell of pipe tobacco and drugstore cologne.

Throat clearing.

Ryan and I turned. LaManche was in my doorway.

“I thought you both might like to know. The coroner has officially ruled Louise Parent’s death a homicide.”

“She was smothered?” I asked.

“I believe so.”

“Have you gotten the tox results?” Ryan asked.

“Traces of sleeping medication, Ambien, were detected in the blood and urine. Levels were consistent with the ingestion of ten milligrams several hours before death.”

“What about timing?” Ryan asked.

“Did you establish whether Parent ate that soup for lunch or for dinner?”

“Phone records indicate calls were made from the Fisher home at three fifty-five, four-fourteen, and five-nineteen P.M. that Friday. The first was to Parent’s priest, the second to a pharmacy two blocks away. The third was to a cell phone. We’re working on that.”

I shot Ryan a look. No one had told me that.