“That’s fantastic.”
“Or a big waste of time.”
“I have a feeling something is there. Otherwise why would somebody want the child’s Internet history destroyed?”
“Eeyuh.”
I told Slidell what Ryan and I were doing.
“The media’s screaming for blood down here. So far it’s staying local.”
“How’s it going with Tinker?”
“You gotta go ask that and wreck my day?”
“Keep me in the loop,” I said.
I joined Ryan on the sidewalk. He’d finished his call and was surveying our surroundings. The block was a quiet one shaded by large trees, now bare, and lined with what appeared to be single-family homes. Each home was fronted by a well-kept lawn, now brown, and burlap-wrapped bushes and shrubs. Several had the portable plastic garages that les Montrealais call abris tempos.
I looked at the conjoined structure at our backs, then at Ryan.
“The place was converted into a nursing home back in the eighties,” he said.
“The PC term is ‘assisted living.’ ”
“More like assisted dying.”
Nothing like witty repartee to buoy one’s soul.
Steps rose from a short walk to a wooden door at the left end of a porch spanning the width of the building. On the porch were six Adirondack chairs, each painted a different color, probably at the time of the home’s conversion. A second-floor balcony provided overhead shelter from rain or snow. The upper balcony held four more weathered chairs. In one, bundled like an Inuit hunter, was an elderly man with his face tipped to the sun.
Ryan and I climbed up and let ourselves in.
The house’s interior was cloyingly warm and smelled of disinfectant and urine and years of institutional food. To the right was a small waiting room, once a parlor, to the left a staircase. Ahead were a dining room and a hall leading straight back to what looked like a sunroom. Doors opened off both sides of the hall, all closed.
A signal must have sounded when Ryan opened the door. As he closed it, a woman was already coming toward us. Her skin was chocolate, her hair thick and silver and braided on top of her head. She wore a generic white uniform, size large. A small brass rectangle above her right breast said M. Simone, LPN.
“Puis-je t’aider?” May I help you? A broad smile revealed teeth way too white to be real.
“We’re here to see Sabine Pomerleau,” Ryan responded in French.
“Are you family?” Undoubtedly knowing we weren’t.
Ryan held up his badge. Simone eyed it. Then, “I’m afraid Madame Pomerleau is asleep at the moment.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wake her.” No attempt at the old Ryan charm.
“Disruptions are unhealthy.”
“She set the alarm for an early shift at the plant?”
I detected a flash of annoyance beneath Simone’s sunny demeanor. A flash of something. But the smile held. “Does this have to do with her daughter?”
Ryan just looked at her.
“I will warn you. Conversations with Madame Pomerleau can be problematic. She has Alzheimer’s, and a recent stroke has compromised her speech.”
“Noted.”
“Wait here, please.”
Simone returned in less than five minutes and led us to a tiny second-floor room holding two beds, two dressers, and two straight-back chairs. Faded green floral wallpaper made the cramped space feel as claustrophobic as possible.
The room’s sole occupant sat propped in bed, a ratty stuffed cat cradled in one arm. As she stroked the doll, the bones visible below the sleeves and at the collar of her pink flannel gown looked as fragile and weightless as those of a bird.
“You have visitors.” Simone had the volume on high.
Sabine’s face was wrinkled, her cheeks flecked with tiny red and blue capillaries. The watery green eyes registered nothing.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Simone spoke to Ryan.
“We’ll be careful not to upset her,” I said.
“You won’t.” With that odd comment, Simone hurried off.
Ryan and I maneuvered both chairs to the bed and sat.