Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

I heard her choke back a sob. “I know, I know, and I apologize for bothering you, Dr. Brennan.” Her words came out between sharply inhaled breaths, like hiccups. “I know you are busy, I know that, but my sister is hysterical and I just don’t know what to tell her. She lost her husband two years ago and now she feels that Anna is all she has. Virginie is calling me every half-hour, insisting I help her find her daughter. I know this is not your job, and I would never call you unless I was desperate. I’ve prayed, but, oh . . .”

I was startled to hear her burst into tears. They engulfed her speech, obliterating her words. I waited, my mind in a muddle. What should I say?

Then the sobs receded and I heard the sound of tissues pulled from a box, then a nose being blown.

“I . . . I . . . Please forgive me.” Her voice was trembling.

Counseling has never been my strong point. Even with those close to me, I feel awkward and inadequate in the face of emotion. I focus on the practical.

“Has Anna taken off before?” Solve the problem.

“I don’t think so. But my sister and I don’t always . . . communicate well.” She had calmed somewhat and was back to word sifting.

“Has she been having problems at school?”

“I don’t think so.”

“With friends? A boyfriend, perhaps?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you noticed any changes in her behavior lately?”

“What do you mean?”

“Has she changed her eating habits? Is she sleeping more or less than usual? Has she become less communicative?”

“I . . . I’m sorry. Since she’s been in university I haven’t seen as much of Anna as I used to.”

“Is she attending her classes?”

“I’m not sure.” Her voice faded on the last word. She sounded completely drained.

“Does Anna get along with her mother?”

There was a very long pause.

“There is the usual tension, but I know Anna loves her mother.”

Bingo.

“Sister, your niece might have needed some time to herself. I’m sure if you wait a day or two she’ll either show up or call.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, but I feel so helpless for Virginie. She is totally distraught. I can’t reason with her, and I thought if I could tell her the police were checking, she might be . . . reassured.”

I heard another tissue pull and feared a second round of tears.

“Let me make a call. I’m not sure it will do any good, but I’ll give it a try.”

She thanked me and we hung up. For a moment I sat there, running through my options. I thought of Ryan, but McGill is located on the island of Montreal. Communauté Urbaine de Montréal Police. CUM. I took a deep breath and dialed. When the receptionist answered, I made my request.

“Monsieur Charbonneau, s’il vous plaît .”

“ Un instant, s’il vous plaît .”

She came back shortly and said Charbonneau was out for the afternoon.

“Do you want Monsieur Claudel?”

“Yes.” Like I wanted anthrax. Damn.

“Claudel,” said the next voice.

“Monsieur Claudel. It’s Tempe Brennan.”

As I listened to empty air, I pictured Claudel’s beak nose and parrot face, usually set with disapproval of me. I enjoyed talking to this detective as much as I enjoyed boils. But since I didn’t deal with juvenile runaways, I wasn’t sure whom else to ask. Claudel and I had worked CUM cases before, and he had come to tolerate me, so I hoped he would at least tell me where to turn.

“ Oui? ”

“Monsieur Claudel, I have a rather odd request. I realize this isn’t exactly you—”

“What is it, Dr. Brennan?” Abrupt. Claudel was one of the few who could make the French language sound cold. Just the facts, ma’am.

“I’ve just had a call from a woman who is concerned about her niece. The girl is a student at McGill and she didn’t return home last night. I was wond—”

“They should fill out a missing person report.”

“The mother was told that nothing could be done for forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

“Age?”

“Nineteen.”

“Name.”

“Anna Goyette.”

“Does she live on campus?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t sound like it. I think she lives with the mother.”

“Did she attend her classes yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where was she last seen?”

“I don’t know.”

Another pause. Then,

“There is a great deal you do not know, it appears. This may not be a CUM case, and, at this point, it is definitely not a homicide matter.” I could picture him tapping something against something, his face pinched with impatience.

“Yes. I would simply like to know who I could contact,” I spat. He was making me feel unprepared, which was making me irritable. And screwing up my grammar. As usual, Claudel did not bring out the best in me, particularly when his criticism of my methodology was in part legitimate.

“Try missing persons.”

I listened to a dial tone.

I was still fuming when the phone rang again.

“Dr. Brennan,” I barked.

“Is this a bad time?” The soft, Southern English was a sharp contrast to Claudel’s clipped, nasal French.

“Dr. Jeannotte?”

“Yes. Please call me Daisy.”

“Please excuse me, Daisy. I—it’s been a rough couple of days. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have found some interesting Nicolet materials for you. I hate to send them by courier, since some items are quite old and probably valuable. Would you like to drop by and pick them up?”

I looked at my watch. It was after eleven. Hell, why not. Maybe while on campus I might ask about Anna. At least I’d have something to tell Sister Julienne.

“I could come by about noon. Would that be convenient?”

“That would be just fine.”

Again, I arrived early. Again, the door was open and the office empty except for a young woman shelving journals. I wondered if it was the same stack Jeannotte’s assistant had been clearing on Wednesday.

“Hi. I’m looking for Dr. Jeannotte.”

The woman turned and her large loop earrings swung and caught the light. She was tall, perhaps six feet, with dark hair shaved close to her head.

“She’s gone downstairs for a minute. Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m a bit early. No problem.”

The office was just as warm and just as cluttered as on my first visit. I took off my jacket and stuffed my mittens into the pocket. The woman indicated a wooden hall tree, and I hung the jacket there. She watched me wordlessly.

“She does have a lot of journals,” I said, indicating the stack on the desk.

“I think I spend my life sorting these things.” She reached up and slid a journal onto a shelf above her head.

“Helps to be tall, I guess.”

“Helps with some things.”

“I met Dr. Jeannotte’s TA on Wednesday. She was reshelving, too.”

“Um-hum.” The young woman picked up another journal and examined its spine.

“I’m Dr. Brennan,” I offered.

She slipped the journal into a row at eye level.

“And you are . . . ?” I coaxed.

“Sandy O’Reilly,” she said without turning. I wondered if my height remark had offended her.

“Nice to meet you, Sandy. After I left on Wednesday I realized I’d never asked the other assistant her name.”

She shrugged. “I’m sure Anna didn’t care.”

The name hit me like a spitball. I couldn’t be that lucky.

“Anna?” I asked. “Anna Goyette?”

“Yeah.” Finally she turned to face me. “Know her?”

“No, not really. A student by that name is related to an acquaintance of mine, and I wondered if it might be the same person. Is she here today?”