Monday Mourning

“You ever meet Nicolò Cataneo?” The old man’s voice could have sharpened a razor.

I shook my head no.

“Watch yourself.”

15

THE STORM HAD ITS SLEEVES ROLLED UP, ITS COLLAR UNBUTTONED, and its tie hanging loose. Going for a two-footer.

Anne didn’t say a word as we picked our way to the car. She watched impassively as I dialed into my voice mail.

No messages.

I tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.

No answer.

I checked to see if her call to the lab on Wednesday had been traced, or if the number she’d left Thursday had been tied to a name or address.

Working on it.

“Damn!” Why didn’t they at least give me the name on the listing for the number I’d given them? They could compare the earlier call when they finished their trace. Were they just putting me behind any and all requests from detectives?

Ramming the cellular into my purse, I dug a scraper from the backseat, got out, cleared the windows, slid back behind the wheel, and slammed the door.

After starting the engine, I rocked the Mazda by shifting between forward and reverse. At the first hint of traction, I accelerated, and we fishtailed from the curb. White-knuckling, I turtled forward, squinting to see through the blanket of white.

We’d gone two blocks when Anne broke the silence.

“We could try old newspapers, pull up stories on missing girls.”

“English or French?”

“Wouldn’t disappearances be reported in both?”

“Not necessarily.” My attention was focused on holding to the tracks created by previous traffic. “And Montreal has several French papers today, has had godzillions in both languages over the years.”

The car’s rear winged left. I steered into the spin and straightened.

“We could start with the English papers.”

“What years? The building went up at the turn of the century.”

The snow was winning out over the wipers. I maxed the defroster.

“The UV fluorescence tells me the bones are probably not older than the building. Beyond that, I can’t narrow it.”

“OK. We won’t search newspaper archives.”

“Without knowing language and time frame, we’d be at it all winter. Also, the girls were found here, but may not have gone missing here.”

We crept another block.

“What about that button?” Anne asked.

“What about that button?” I snapped, again coaxing the rear wheels back behind the front.

Loosening her scarf, Anne leaned back in an attitude that suggested I was now to be ignored.

“Sorry.” I was playing Claudel to Anne’s Tempe.

The silence lengthened. Clearly, it was going to be up to me to end it.

“I apologize. Driving in blizzards makes me tense. What was your button idea?”

After a few more moments of “you’re being an asshole” muteness, Anne rephrased her suggestion.

“Maybe you could talk to another expert. Try to develop more information.”

Gently pumping the brakes, I brought the car to a stop. Across Sherbrooke, an old woman walked an old dog. Both wore boots. Both had their eyes crimped against the snow.

I looked at Anne.

Maybe I could.

Depressing the gas pedal slowly, I crawled into the intersection and turned left.

Jesus, of course I could. I’d been ignoring the buttons, accepting Claudel’s opinion concerning their age. Maybe his McCord source was less than a quiz kid.

Suddenly, I was in a froth to get another opinion.

“Annie, you’re a rock star.”

“I shimmer.”

“You up for a couple more stops before dinner?”

“Mush on.”

Anne waited in the car while I dashed up to the lab, made a quick call, and grabbed the buttons. When I rejoined her, she was listening to Zachary Richard on a local French station.

“What’s he singing about?”

“Someone named Marjolaine.”

“I think he misses her.”

“So he says.”

“Local talent?”

“Louisiana Cajun. Your part of the world.”

Anne leaned back and closed her eyes. “That boy can sing about me any ole day.”

It took twice the normal drive time to return to the old quarter. Though it was just past five, night was in full command. Streetlights were on, shops were closing, pedestrians were hurrying, heads bent, purses and packages pressed to their chests.

Leaving boulevard René-Lévesque, I followed rue Berri to its southern end, then turned west and crept along rue de la Commune. To our right, the narrow lanes of Vieux-Montréal crisscrossed the hill. To our left lay le Marché Bonsecours, le Pavillon Jacques-Cartier, les Centre de Sciences de Montréal, beyond them the St. Lawrence, its water a black sheen like ebony ice.

“It’s beautiful,” Anne said. “In an arctic tundra sort of way.”

“Cue the caribou.”

In the ice-free months ships belly up to quays jutting from the river’s edge, and cyclists, skateboarders, picnickers, and tourists throng the adjacent parklands and promenades. This evening the riverfront was still and dark.

At the head of place d’Youville, I turned onto a small side street, and parked opposite the old customs house. Anne followed as I trudged downhill, threading her way drunkenly in my tracks.