Monday Mourning

Seeing my terror, Ryan reengaged the safety and holstered his gun, then wrapped his arms around me.

“Someone cut the glass in the French door.”

“But the alarm?” My voice sounded stretched and quavery, like an overused cassette.

“Wasn’t breached. Do you have a motion detector?”

“Disabled.”

I felt Ryan’s chin tap the crown of my head.

“Birdie kept triggering the damn thing,” I said defensively.

“What the hell?”

Ryan and I turned. Anne was standing in the doorway, Mace aloft, eyes wide.

“Bienvenue à Montréal,” said Ryan.

Anne’s brows shot skyward.

“He’s a cop,” I said.

“Serve and protect,” Ryan said.

Anne lowered brows and Mace. “My kind of community policing.”

Ryan released me and I made introductions.

Hearing voices, Birdie fired from the bedroom and raced a figure eight around my ankles, fur erect with agitation.

“Detective Ryan would be the ‘sort of’ referred to at dinner?” Anne floated one brow in query.

“Someone’s been in here,” I said, shooting her a “not now” look.

“Holy shit,” Anne said, crunching into the foyer.

As Ryan phoned burglary, Anne and I assessed the damage.

While the French door pane had been cleanly cut, without damage to the security-system trip wires, glass had been shattered in the foyer, dining room, and bathroom mirrors, and in every picture frame in the place. Fragments glittered from furniture, sinks, countertops, and floors.

A few books and papers had been tossed here and there, but otherwise, the main living areas were unharmed.

In contrast, the bedrooms were chaos. Bed pillows were shredded, drawers pulled out and upended, closets ransacked.

A hasty inventory turned up two losses. Anne’s digital camera. Anne’s laptop. Otherwise, nothing seemed to be missing.

“Thank God,” said Anne, drawing out the deity’s name.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, gesturing lamely at her belongings.

Tossing the jewelry pouch onto the dresser, Anne shot out a hip and placed a hand on it. “Guess the little pricks didn’t care for Tom Turnip’s taste in gems.”

It took an hour to do the paperwork. The officers promised that crime scene would check for prints, shoe impressions, and tool marks in the morning.

Anne and I thanked them. No one had much enthusiasm. We all knew that her belongings had disappeared into the black hole of petty theft.

Ryan stayed. Perhaps to inspire diligence on the part of the CUM. Perhaps to buoy my flagging spirits.

When the cops had gone, Ryan offered his place as refuge. I looked at Anne. She shook her head no. Her eyes told me the adrenaline was yielding to the alcohol.

Anne and I did some rough cleanup while Ryan went in search of duct tape, cardboard, and plastic. When he returned, we watched him construct a temporary patch on the French door. Then Anne excused herself and disappeared into the bathroom.

Watching Ryan drop the extra tape into a paper bag, I realized I hadn’t a clue why he’d come.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I began.

“No thanks required.”

“I’ve been so caught up in this”—I waved an arm at the mess behind me—“circus, I haven’t even asked why you stopped by.”

Ryan laid the bag on the coffee table, straightened, and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his face softened, he brushed hair from my cheek, and his hand went back to my shoulder.

When I thought I could bear his silence no longer, he spoke.

“I’m going to be scarce for a while.”

Stomach clutch. Here it comes. The end of the end.

“I can’t go into details, but it’s big—CUM, SQ, RCMP, even the Americans are involved. Op’s been under way for several months.”

A moment went by before I got it.

“You’re talking about a police sting?”

“Claudel’s in, so’s Charbonneau. I’m not compromising anything by telling you that.”

My mind was just not forming the links.

“Why are you telling me that?”

“Claudel’s lack of interest in your pizza bones. I know it’s been grinding at you.”

“You’ll be away?”

“It’s not what I want.” The hint of a smile. “Comes with the glamour and the big bucks.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I hate to leave you alone with this.”

“I didn’t call for backup, Ryan. You dropped in.”

“I don’t like the look of this, Tempe.” Ryan’s voice was gentle.

“It’s not a big deal.”

I could feel cobalt eyes roving my features.

“I’m requesting stepped-up surveillance.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Ryan raised my chin with one finger.

“I’m not sure what went down here, but I intend to find out.”

“It’s a pissant B and E.”

The finger went to my lips.

“Think about it. What was taken? What was left behind? Why the slick entry, then all the smashed glass?”

Ryan squeezed my hands in his, a gesture intended to calm. Instead, it increased my agitation.

“I really would like to stay, Tempe.”

I searched his face, hoping for words that would comfort. Instead Ryan released me and slipped into his jacket. Grabbing the tape, he reached out, touched my cheek, and was gone.

I stood a moment, pondering his comment.

Stay what, Andrew Ryan? The course? The night? Cool? Free?

Not a sound from the bathroom. Not a sound from the study. Anne’s light was off.