Monday Mourning

“Whatever happened to those assholes?” Claudel’s voice dripped with disgust.

“Lake was collared for shoplifting and offed himself with a couple of cyanide capsules. Ng was nailed in Calgary, then fought extradition to the U.S. for about a decade, right, Doc?”

“It took six years of legal wrangling, but Ng was finally returned to California for trial. In 1998, a jury found him guilty of murdering three women, seven men, and two babies.”

“Enough.” The chill had gone from Claudel’s voice. “You believe Menard brought his freak show to Montreal?”

“According to Rose Fisher, Louise Parent phoned to tell me she’d seen Menard twice with young girls. We found three buried in a basement under space he rented.”

“You think Menard transported Angie Robinson from Corning, California, to Montreal?”

“Angie or her body.”

“And that he abducted and subjugated Anique Pomerleau?”

“I do.”

Claudel voiced my fear.

“And, if threatened, Menard might kill Pomerleau.”

“Yes.”

Claudel’s eyes pinched. He looked at his partner, then rose.

“A judge should consider this probable cause.”

“You’ll get a warrant?”

“When his ass hits the bench.”

“I want to go with you to Pointe-St-Charles.”

“Out of the question.”

“Why?”

“If all this is true, Menard will be dangerous.”

“I’m a big girl.”

Claudel looked at me so long I thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then he hitched a shoulder at Ryan.

“Ride shotgun for the cowboy. No one else will.”

I was stunned. The humorously challenged had attempted a joke.

The rest of that Sunday was agony. Puttering through tasks, I felt sadness mixed with deep disappointment in myself. Why hadn’t I realized earlier that the bones might have been those of girls held captive? Why hadn’t I understood why my profiles failed to fit the descriptions on the MP lists? Again and again, I wondered: Would it have made a difference?

Disturbing images kept welling in my head. Anique Pomerleau, with her pale white face and long dark braid. Angie Robinson in a leather shroud in a cellar grave.

Riding with Ryan.

Anne. Where the hell was Anne? Should I be doing more to find her? What?

I tried Christmas carols. They cheered me as effectively as a Salvation Army Santa.

I went to the gym, pounded out three miles with CDs of old favorites cranked in my earphones.

The Lovin’ Spoonful. Donovan. The Mamas and the Papas. The Supremes.

Tossing and turning in bed that night, one refrain kept looping through my brain.

Monday, Monday…

Two Mondays back I’d excavated the bones of three young girls.

One Monday back I’d tweezed feathers from Louise Parent’s mouth.

Tomorrow I might be exploring the house of horrors.

Can’t trust that day…

I shuddered over what the next Monday would bring.

31

CLAUDEL HAD A WARRANT BY NINE. RYAN WAS AT MY PLACE AT quarter past.

When I got into his Jeep, Ryan handed me coffee. Caffeine was not what I needed. I was wired enough to recaulk the Pentagon.

Thanking him, I pulled off my mittens, wrapped my fingers around the Styrofoam, and worked on slowing my heartbeat even as I sipped.

Five minutes out, Ryan cracked his window and lit up a Player’s. Normally he would have asked if I minded. Today, he didn’t. I assumed he was feeling as jittery as I was.

The streets were clogged with the remnants of Monday morning rush hour. A decade and twenty minutes later we entered the Point.

Turning onto de Sébastopol, I could see two cruisers and an unmarked Impala positioned at intervals along the block. Exhaust floated from all three tailpipes.

Ryan slid behind the nearest cruiser. Killing the engine, he turned to me.

“If Menard so much as frowns in your direction, you’re out of there. Do you understand?”

“We’re going to search the place, not assault it.”

“Things could turn ugly.”

“There are seven cops here, Ryan. If Menard’s uncooperative, cuff him.”

“Any threatening move, you hit the deck.”

I saluted smartly.

Ryan’s voice hardened. “I’m serious, damn it. If I say split, you’re gone.”

I rolled my eyes.

“That’s it.” Ryan’s hand moved to restart the engine.

“All right,” I said, pulling on my mittens. “I’ll obey orders. Sir.”

“No nonsense. This is dangerous work.”

Ryan and I got out and quietly closed our doors.

Overnight the weather had changed. The air felt moist and icy, and heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky.

Seeing us, the stable dog started in. Otherwise, there wasn’t a sign of life on de Sébastopol. No kids sticking pucks. No housewives hauling groceries. No pensioners gossiping on balconies or stoops.

Typical Montreal winter day. Stay indoors, stay in the metro, stay underground. Hunker in and remain sane until spring. The barking sounded all the louder in the overall stillness.

Ryan and I angled across the street. As we approached the Impala, the dynamic duo got out.

Claudel was wearing a tan cashmere overcoat. Charbonneau was in a big shaggy jacket, the composition of which I couldn’t have guessed.

We exchanged nods.

“What’s the plan?” Ryan asked in English.

Claudel spread his feet. Charbonneau leaned his fanny on the Impala.