Bones to Ashes Part 23

"You gotta admit, those guys aren't auditioning for the cover of GQ GQ."

Harry was right. The men were in total-body denim, boots, and black tees. Personal hygiene didn't appear to be a priority. Though the day was overcast, both wore shades.

"Pretty buff, though."

"Let me handle this." I didn't need Harry riling or seducing the indigenous folk.

"Bonjour." I smiled and waggled the car keys. I smiled and waggled the car keys.

Cheech and Chong remained b.u.t.t-leaning on the Escalade.

"Sorry, but we need to motor." Light, friendly.

"Nice wheels."

"Thanks." As I moved toward the driver's side, Chong extended an arm, catching me at chest level.

"No fly zone, buddy." Harry's tone was a million light-years from friendly.

Stepping back, I frowned at Chong, then repeated what I'd said, this time in French. Still, the men didn't budge.

"What the h.e.l.l's wrong with you boys?" Harry was glaring from Cheech to Chong, hands on her hips.

Chong smiled from behind his dark lenses. "Eh, mon chouchou. Big truck for little girls." Chiac Chiac-accented English.

Neither Harry or I answered.

"You pals with Obeline Landry?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business." Harry was in war mode.

"We were childhood friends," I said, trying to defuse the situation.

"Shame what happened to her." Chong's shades were now pointing at me.

I didn't reply.

"You two are going to hoist your bony a.r.s.es from that vehicle right now so my sister and I can be on our way."

I crimped my eyes in a "cool it" warning. Shooting a hip, Harry pursed her lips and folded her arms.

"Mrs. Landry in good health?"

"Yes." Chilly.

"She claiming Bastarache is one sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

I didn't reply.

Cheech pushed from the hood. Chong followed.

"You ladies have a good trip back to Montreal." Unlike his partner, Cheech was Anglophone.

Harry opened her mouth. I hushed her with a hand.

Stepping onto the curb, Cheech made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and aimed it in our direction. "And be careful with those fine wheels."

Driving off, I glanced into the rearview mirror. The men were still standing on the sidewalk, watching our departure.

On the plane, Harry and I again discussed Obeline, and speculated about our encounter with Cheech and Chong.

"Testosterone weenies trying to impress."

"I'm not so sure," I said.

"Probably amuse themselves making fart noises under their armpits."

I wasn't convinced that it was that casual.

The men knew we'd visited Obeline. Knew we'd come from Montreal. How? Had they been following us? Was Cheech's parting comment a threat or merely a macho adieu? Not wishing to alarm, I kept these concerns to myself.

Back at the condo, Birdie remained hidden, cheesed off at having been left alone. I was dumping my overnighter on my bed when Harry called out.

"Your bird's a Korn fan?"

"What did he say?"

"You don't want to know."

Though Charlie's quips weren't always approved for all audiences, I couldn't help but admire the breadth of his material. I was transporting him to the dining room when my cell phone chirped.

Depositing the cage, I checked the screen. No caller ID.

I clicked on.

"How's it going?" Ryan sounded tired.

"Good." Neutral.

"Got a minute?"

"Hang on."

"Do you have everything you need?" I asked Harry.

She mouthed "Ryan?"

I nodded.

She arm-pumped "Yes!"

Shaking my head, I walked to my bedroom and closed the door.

"Do you listen to Korn?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Black Eyed Peas?"

"No. Why?"

"Never mind."

"Someone there at your place?"

Ryan was good. Two queries in one casual question. Am I home? Am I alone?

"Harry's here."

"Unplanned trip?" Query three.

"She's split with her husband."

I heard a deep inhalation followed by a slow exhalation. Ryan was smoking. That meant he was anxious. Or angry. I braced for a rant about my trip to Tracadie. It didn't come.

"I need your help."

I waited.

"Warrant came through, so we tossed Cormier's studio. Took all friggin' day to get through maybe an eighth of the file cabinets. Guy's got c.r.a.p going back decades."

"He doesn't store his images digitally?"

"d.i.c.khead thinks he's Ansel Adams. Claims digital can't capture the same ethereal quality as film. Uses a Ha.s.selblad that went out of production sometime in the eighties. The guy's probably too thick to keep up with technology."

"There are other photographers who agree with him."

"Cormier does mostly portraits. Couples. Pets. Lots of women. Glamour shots. You know, heavy makeup, big hair."

"Uh-huh."

"You should try that. Maybe with a boa."

"Is that what you called to tell me?"

"Cormier also did kids. Hundreds of them."

"Phoebe Jane Quincy?"

"Nothing yet."

"Kelly Sicard?"

"No."

I didn't ask about Claudine Cloquet or Anne Girardin.

Ryan dragged smoke into his lungs, released it. I waited for him to get to the point.

"I want you to browse through the kiddie shots. See if you spot any of my MP's. Or the kid recovered from the Dorval riverbank."

"Her photo was circulated in 2001 when the body was found."

"It was an autopsy pic. People tune out."

Ryan was right. And I'd seen it go both ways. Next of kin giving a positive on a body that wasn't a relative, or failing to recognize one that was.

"You know bones." Ryan was still talking. "Facial architecture. You see someone resembling one of my MP's or DOA's, maybe at a younger age, maybe all vamped up, you could do that thing you do with surveillance tapes."

Ryan was referring to a technique in which images are compared metrically, one of a known suspect, another of a perpetrator caught on camera. Measurements are taken between anatomical landmarks, ratios are calculated, and statistical probabilities are computed as to whether the suspect under arrest and the perp caught on tape are the same individual.

"Anthropometric comparison."

"Yeah."

"I suppose it's worth a shot. I could also dig out the facial approximation we did on the girl recovered from the Riviere des Mille iles."

"I'll pick you up at eight."

"You really think Cormier is dirty?"

"The guy's a sleaze."

"What about his home?"

"Judge says get something from that studio linked to one of these kids. Then he'll cut paper."

I opened my bedroom door. Coincidentally, Harry just happened to be pa.s.sing by.

"Your evidence." She held up her purse. Quickly.

"Lame."

"Are you suggesting I was eavesdropping?"