Bones to Ashes

“That was Pierre’s style. One day a girl was his darling, the next she was gone. I didn’t care. I was glad to be out of the porn.”

“Did you know the police were searching for you in Montreal?”

“Not at first. By the time I found out, I thought it was too late. Pierre convinced me I’d be fined, then jailed when I couldn’t pay. Pretty soon the media moved on to something else. I didn’t see any point in putting myself out there.”

“Here’s the point.”

Ryan curled his fingers in my direction. I gave him the envelope. He laid down photographs of Claudine Cloquet and the girl from the Dorval shoreline.

Karine glanced at the faces. “I don’t know them.”

Phoebe Jane Quincy joined the lineup.

“Dear God, she’s only a few years older than my daughter.”

Ryan added the facial reconstruction of the girl from the Rivière des Mille Îles.

Karine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no. No.”

I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move a muscle.

“It’s Claire Brideau.”

“You knew her?”

“Claire was one of the kids living in Pierre’s house. She was the one I hung with at Le Chat Rouge.” Karine’s nose had gone red and her chin was trembling. “She was with me that last night before I got sacked.”

“Claire knew Bastarache?”

“It was usually Claire that he hit on. For some reason, that night he was talking to me.” Her voice faltered. “Is she dead?”

“She was found floating facedown in 1999.”

“Suffering Jesus!” Karine’s chest heaved as she fought back tears. “Why the funny sketch? Was she messed up?”

I found the question odd. If Ryan shared my reaction, he didn’t let on.

“She’d been floating awhile.”

Karine’s hands fumbled the latch on her purse.

“Where was Claire from?” Ryan asked.

“She never said.” Pulling out a tissue, she dabbed her eyes.

“Claire made skin flicks for Pierre?”

Karine nodded, bunching the tissue in a fist below her nose.

“Do you know where Pierre is now?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since 1999.”

“Could you find his house if you had to?”

She shook her head. “It was too long ago. And I never drove. Never paid attention.”

Dropping her forehead to the fist, she drew a long, ragged breath. I laid my hand gently on hers. Her shoulders trembled as tears slid down her cheeks.

Ryan caught my eye and tipped his head toward the door. I nodded. We’d gotten all we were going to get for now, and we knew where Karine Pitre could be found.

Ryan got up and crossed to the register.

“I never meant to make trouble.” Gulped, as a sob rose up her throat. “I just wanted out. I believed no one would miss me.”

“Your parents?” I asked.

Raising her head, she dabbed the wadded tissue from eye to eye. “We never got along.”

“Perhaps they would like the chance to get along with their grandchildren.” I made a move to slide from the booth.

Karine reached out and grabbed my wrist. “My husband doesn’t know about the skin flicks.”

I looked at her, unable to imagine what her life had been. What it was now.

“Maybe you should tell him,” I said quietly.

Light flashed in her eyes. Fear? Defiance. Her grip tightened.

“Do you know who killed Claire?” she asked.

“You think someone killed her?”

Karine nodded, fingers clenched so tightly the tissue was a tiny white ball.

35

“W HAT NOW?”

We were in Hippo’s car, slipstreaming toward Le Passage Noir. It was past midnight; I was running on less than five hours sleep, but I was pumped.

“I track Claire Brideau,” Ryan said. “And a sleaze named Pierre.”

“Cormier pimped Sicard to Pierre for his smut films. Pierre turned her over to Bastarache to strip in his bar. That ought to be enough to charge Bastarache.”

“Sicard wasn’t a minor when she worked for Bastarache.”

“She went from Cormier to Bastarache via this Pierre. Phoebe Quincy phoned Cormier. He’s probably the one who took the Marilyn photo of her. That links Bastarache to Quincy, at least indirectly.”

“Guilt by association.” Ryan’s terse answers were suggesting a marked disinterest in conversation.

Silence filled the small space around us. To occupy my mind I replayed the interview with Bastarache. What was it he’d said that bothered me?

Then it clicked.

“Ryan, do you remember Bastarache’s comment when you showed him the picture of the girl on the bench?”

“He said he was barely out of high school when that kid was playing Indian princess.”

“What’s wrong about that?”

“It shows Bastarache for the coldhearted bastard he is.”

“I printed that frame off the video. Today. Modern printer, modern paper. There isn’t a single thing in that shot to indicate time frame.”

Ryan glanced at me. “So what made Bastarache think the thing was decades old?”

“He knows what’s going on. He knows who that girl is.”

I noticed Ryan’s knuckles tighten on the wheel.

“If charges aren’t filed, Bastarache walks tomorrow.”

“It takes evidence to file charges.”