Bones to Ashes

I slumped into my seat back, frustrated, knowing Ryan was right. The investigation had produced very little linking Bastarache to any of the missing or dead girls. Sure, Kelly Sicard had danced for him. And Claire Brideau had visited his bar years earlier. But a crown prosecutor would demand physical or much stronger circumstantial evidence. Nevertheless, Ryan’s seeming depression surprised me.

“You should feel good, Ryan. Sicard’s alive and we found her.”

“Yeah. She’s a peach.”

“You plan to call her parents?”

“Not now.”

“I have a feeling Kelly will make contact herself.”

“Karine.”

“Kelly. Kitty. Karine. You think she told us everything she knows?”

Ryan made a noise I couldn’t interpret in the dark.

“My take is she opened up when asked, but volunteered little.”

Ryan said nothing.

“She made an interesting comment as you were paying the bill.”

“Thanks for the cocoa?”

“She thinks Brideau was murdered.”

“By?”

“She didn’t say.”

“My money’s on Plucky Pierre.”

“He threatened her. But Bastarache used to hit on her.”

I looked at Ryan, a silhouette, then a face slowly illuminated by oncoming lights. The face was steel-jawed.

“You’ve cleared two cases, Ryan. Cases that were stone-pony cold. Anne Girardin and Kelly Sicard. If Sicard is right, the Rivière des Mille Îles body will be ID’d as Claire Brideau. You’re making progress.”

“One alive, four dead, two still missing. Break out the sparklers.”

A truck whooshed by. Trapped in its wash, the Impala rocked, settled.

Turning from Ryan, I pulled out my mobile and checked for messages.

Still nothing from Harry.

Rob Potter had called at 10:42. He’d analyzed the poetry and come to a conclusion. Though curious, I decided it was too late to phone him.

Leaning into the headrest, I closed my eyes. Thoughts ping-ponged in my brain as we barreled through the night.

Why didn’t Harry phone? Sudden jolting images. The goon in Cormier’s studio. The Death e-mail and the anonymous call. The pair snooping at my condo.

Cheech and Chong. Mulally and Babin.

What if Harry hadn’t taken off on her own?

Don’t go there, Brennan. Not yet. If Harry doesn’t check in by tomorrow, ask Hippo or Ryan to get a bead on Mulally and Babin.

Was Obéline alive and in regular contact with Bastarache? Why? The man had broken her arm and set her on fire. If so, why the faked suicide?

What conclusion had Rob reached? Had all of the poetry been written by the same person? Was the author Évangéline? If so, had Obéline paid to have the collection published by O’Connor House? Why anonymously? Had Bastarache bullied her so relentlessly she’d felt the need for secrecy in all things?

Had Obéline actually witnessed Évangéline’s murder? If so, who’d killed her? Bastarache was a young man at the time. Was he involved? How?

What had happened to Évangéline’s body? Had she ended up in an unmarked grave like Hippo’s girl, the skeleton from Sheldrake Island? Who was Hippo’s girl? Would we ever know?

Had Bastarache killed Cormier? Had Pierre? Had one of them killed Claire Brideau? If so, why? Had one of them killed Claudine Cloquet? Phoebe Quincy? The girl who washed up on the Dorval shoreline? The girl found floating in Lac des Deux Montagnes?

Had those girls been murdered? Were Cloquet and Quincy dead? If not, where were they?

Too many if’s and why’s.

And where the hell was Harry?

Hippo was smoking a Player’s on the sidewalk when we pulled up at Le Passage Noir. Ryan bummed a match and lit up as I relayed our conversation with Kelly Sicard/Karine Pitre.

Hippo listened, chin rising and falling like a bobble-head doll.

“Went another round with the staff,” Hippo said when I’d finished. “Cut ’em loose about an hour ago. Told ’em not to be planning any trips.”

“Orsainville call?” Ryan asked.

Hippo nodded. “Bastarache’s lawyer’s been screaming bloody hell. Unless we find something that lets us charge this prick, they kick him at dawn.”

Ryan dropped and heel-crushed his cigarette. “Then let’s find something.” Yanking the door, he strode into the bar.

While Ryan and Hippo plowed through Bastarache’s files, I went to the Impala, got my laptop, and booted. The dial-up connection was excruciatingly slow. Launching my browser, I crawled through “porn producers,” “porn makers,” “porn companies,” “sex film industry,” etc., etc.

I discovered the Religious Alliance Against Pornography. Read articles about city attorneys and federal prosecutors pursuing court cases. Saw virtual lap dances, overdone orgasms, and boatloads of silicone. Learned the names of producers, performers, Web sites, and production companies.

I found no one calling himself Pierre.

By four-thirty I felt like I needed a shower. And antibiotics.

Closing the PC, I moved to the lounger, thinking I’d rest my eyes for five minutes. Across the room, I could hear Ryan and Hippo banging drawers, shuffling receipts and invoices.

Then I was arguing with Harry. She was insisting I put on moccasins. I was objecting.

“We’ll be Pocahantas,” she said.

“Dressing up is for kids,” I said.

“We have to do it before we get sick.”