I’d never met Marguerite Violette. Back in ’04, André had been my sole point of contact. It was André who’d delivered antemortem records. André to whom I’d reported the ID.
I recalled his odd reaction. He hadn’t cried, hadn’t questioned, hadn’t lashed out. He’d pulled a Mr. Goodbar from his pocket, eaten half the chocolate, risen, and walked from my office.
Seeing the Violettes together, I understood the dynamic.
“Would anyone like—?” Marguerite began.
“This ain’t a social visit.” To Ryan, “So, what? You finally caught this freak?”
“I’m sorry I can’t report that. Yet. But there are new leads.”
André shook his head. Marguerite slumped visibly.
“We have reason to believe that the woman involved in your daughter’s abduction—”
“My daughter’s murder.” André’s foot began winging on his knee.
“Yes, sir. We believe your daughter’s abductor is now in the U.S.”
“Anique Pomerleau.” Marguerite’s whisper was barely audible.
Ryan nodded. “Recently discovered evidence places Pomerleau in Vermont in ’07, and in North Carolina this year.”
“What evidence?” André asked.
“DNA.”
Marguerite’s eyes went wide. The irises were blue and flecked with caramel-colored points. “Has she hurt another child?”
“I’m sorry,” Ryan said softly. “I can’t discuss details of the investigation.”
“So arrest the bitch,” André snapped. “It’s good she’s in America. They can put her down.”
“We are using every resource at our disposal to find her.”
“That’s it? Ten years and you tell us our kid’s killer maybe left her spit in one place or another? Whoop-de-fucking-do.” The last was delivered in English. “You guys are worthless. Next you’ll say it’s bonhomme Sept-Heures done it.”
“You’ve had a lot of time to think,” I said gently. “Perhaps one of you has remembered a detail that hadn’t occurred to you back when Manon went missing. Or hadn’t seemed important. Any bit of information could prove useful.”
“Remember? Yeah, I remember. Every day.” His face hardened, and venom infiltrated his voice. “I remember how my baby kicked off the covers and slept sideways on her bed. How she loved rainbow sherbet. How I patched up her knee when she fell off her bike. How her hair smelled like oranges after she washed it. How she got on the fucking Métro and never came home.”
André’s jaw clamped suddenly. His cheeks were aflame with ragged patches of red.
Ryan caught my eye. I got the message and didn’t reply.
But neither Violette seemed compelled to fill the awkward silence that followed the outburst. André remained mute. Marguerite’s breathing went faster and shallower as a thousand emotions clearly vied for control of her face.
I studied André’s eyes, his body language. Saw a man hiding pain behind macho bluster.
A full minute passed. Ryan spoke first. “Those are precisely the types of recollections that might prove useful.”
“I got a recollection. I recall my knitting club meets today.” André’s foot was again dancing on his knee. “We’re done.”
“Mr. Violette—”
“I got a right to remain silent, yeah?”
“You are not a suspect, sir.”
“I’m gonna do that anyway.”
“Thank you for your time.” Ryan rose. I followed. “And again, we are so sorry for your loss.”
André remained seated, his thoughts obviously fixed on things other than needles and yarn.
Marguerite led us down the hall. At the door, she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t judge my husband harshly. He’s a good man.”
The sadness in the caramel-blue eyes seemed bottomless.
CHAPTER 17
“WHAT’S BONHOMME SEPT-HEURES?” I asked Ryan when we were back in the Jeep.
“Excuse-moi?”
“André used the phrase.”
“Right. Bonhomme Sept-Heures is a Quebecois bogeyman who kidnaps kids up after seven P.M.”
“What’s his MO?”
Ryan snorted, sending vapor coning from each nostril. “He wears a mask, carries a bag, and hides under the balcony until the clock strikes seven.”