We knew we’d be on our own. The Service de police de la Ville de Montréal detectives who’d worked the case, Luc Claudel and Michel Charbonneau, were both unavailable. Claudel was in France, Charbonneau was on leave following knee surgery. Perhaps just as well. Given the jurisdictional rivalries between the provincial and city cops, we doubted much help would come from the latter on a ten-year-old file.
Angela Robinson was fourteen when she disappeared in Corning, California, in 1985. Hers had been one of the three skeletons unearthed in the pizza parlor basement in 2004. Stalled at every turn, Slidell had agreed to phone the Tehama County Sheriff’s Department to try to churn the waters out there. With little optimism. Almost thirty years had passed since Robinson’s abduction.
The other skeletons belonged to Manon Violette and Marie-Jo?lle Bastien. The former was fifteen, the latter sixteen, when they vanished in 1994.
Ryan’s phone queries concerning Bastien had turned up zilch. She was from Bouctouche, New Brunswick, and in the two decades since her disappearance, her nuclear family had dispersed, leaving only a few cousins in the area. No one recalled anything about Marie-Jo?lle except that she’d been murdered. And that her remains were buried in the cimetière Saint-Jean-Baptiste.
Ryan had fared better with Violette. Manon’s parents still lived at the same address on boulevard édouard-Montpetit in Montreal. Though reluctant, they’d agreed to see us the next day.
In the morning, after reexamining our respective files, we would interview Mère and Père Violette. Then we’d work on locating Tawny McGee, the sole survivor of the Pomerleau-Catts reign of terror. We held little optimism that the visits would yield fruit. But what the hell. Nothing else was working.
Another aviation miracle. The flight landed early. The bookend punctuality made me mildly uneasy.
Exiting the airport, I was hit by a wind corkscrewing straight off the tundra. I admit it—I gasped. No matter how often it happens, I’m never prepared for that first frigid slap.
Ryan and I shared a taxi from Dorval. At his insistence, I was dropped first. I suppose it made sense. My condo is in Centreville. His is across the St. Lawrence in a concrete LEGO curiosity called Habitat 67.
Ryan offered to collect me in the morning. Happy to avoid the Métro, and frostbite, I accepted.
Digging for keys, I was aware of the taxi lingering at the curb, exhaust billowing like a small white cumulus in the red glow of the taillights. I was touched. Though I knew we had no future together, it meant something that he still cared about my safety.
My condo was cold and dark. Before removing my inadequate autumn-in-Dixie jacket, I thumbed the lever on the thermostat left. Way left. The hum of the furnace sounded loud in the stillness.
After a slapdash facial and dental effort, I threw on sweats and dropped into bed.
I dreamed about snow.
I awoke to bright sunlight leaking around the edges of the shade. Knew the day would be colder than crap.
The cupboard was bare, not even coffee. Rather than hike to the corner dépanneur, I skipped breakfast.
Ryan phoned at 7:55 as he was making the turn onto my street. I dug out my Kanuk jacket, mittens, and a scarf. Pulled on boots and set forth.
I was right. The air was so crisp, it felt like tiny crystals sliding in and out of my nose. The sun was a tight white ball hanging low in an immaculate blue sky.
I scurried to Ryan’s Jeep and climbed in.
Ryan never tired of teasing about my inadequacy in dealing with polar climes. Today he said nothing. His skin looked gray, and a dark half-moon sculpted each lower lid.
Congealed blood marked a spot on Ryan’s chin that he’d nicked while shaving. I wondered if he’d slept. If so, I guessed he’d dreamed about the Lily-shaped void now forever in his life.
I also wondered if he’d called ahead to his squad, or if he’d opted to appear unannounced. Either way, I suspected he was dreading the upcoming encounter.
You’ve got it. I asked about neither.
Traffic was surprisingly light across Centreville and through the Ville-Marie Tunnel. By eight-fifteen we were parked at the édifice Wilfrid-Derome, a T-shaped high-rise in a working-class neighborhood just east of the city center.