Monday Mourning Part 22

"Oh my Gawd! Like The Exorcist. The Exorcist. No, no. What was that movie with the little girl? The one where they built the house over the cemetery? Yes! No, no. What was that movie with the little girl? The one where they built the house over the cemetery? Yes! Poltergeist. Poltergeist."

"Mr. Fabian-"

"I'm not surprised about that bas.e.m.e.nt. Patrick and I took one look at that wretched, stinking, filthy cesspool and never set foot in it again. Made my skin crawl every time I thought about all that creeping and breeding going on below my feet." Fabian gave "creeping" and "breeding" at least four e's each. "That bas.e.m.e.nt was alive with vermin." Four i's to "alive." "And now you're telling me there were corpses down there?"

"Did you ever use the cellar for storage?"

"G.o.d forbid." In my mind I saw a theatrical shudder.

Bit squeamish for a tour operator, I thought.

"Did your agency specialize in any particular world area, Mr. Fabian?"

"Patrick and I arranged gay travel packages to sacred places." Sniff. "The era was a bear market for spiritual journeys. We folded in eighteen months."

"Patrick Ockleman?"

"Yes."

"Where is Mr. Ockleman now?"

"Dead."

I waited for Fabian to elaborate. He didn't.

"May I ask how and when your partner died?"

"He was run over by a bus, of all things. A tour bus." Whiny. "In Stowe, Vermont, four years ago. Wheels squashed his head like an overripe-"

"Thank you, Mr. Fabian. If follow-up is needed we'll be back in touch."

I disconnected. Fabian and Ockleman seemed unlikely candidates for serial killers, but I underlined the number and made a few notes.

The next name listed was S. Menard. Beside it Cyr had written "p.a.w.nshop" and the dates 1989 to 1998.

I found four pages of Menards in the Montreal phone book, seventy-eight listed with the initial S.

After forty-two calls I decided Menard was a job for a detective.

Next.

Phan Loc Truong's nail salon had occupied Cyr's property from 1998 until 1999.

Not as discouraging as Menard, but the White Pages alone listed 227 Truongs. No Phan Loc. Two P's.

Neither of the P's listed was a Phan Loc. Neither knew a Phan Loc who had operated a nail salon.

I started working my way through the rest of the Truongs. Many spoke little English or French. Many had affiliations to nail salons, but none knew anything about the shop once located in Richard Cyr's building.

I was dialing my twenty-ninth Truong when a voice interrupted me.

"Find anything?"

Anne was standing in the doorway. The room had gone dark without my noticing.

"A lot of ladies willing to do my nails."

Discouraged, I turned off the computer.

Together Anne and I cooked steaks, potatoes, and asparagus. As we ate, I told her about my fruitless afternoon.

After dinner we watched two Inspector Clouseau movies while Birdie dozed between us. None of us laughed much. We all turned in early.

Around noon on Sunday I tried the Boucherie Lehaim again.

No go.

At two P.M. P.M. my call was answered. my call was answered.

"Shalom." Voice like a baritone oboe.

I introduced myself.

The man said his name was Harry Cohen.

"Is this the same Boucherie Lehaim that was located on Ste-Catherine during the eighties?"

"It is. The shop belonged to my father then."

"Abraham?"

"Yes. We moved in eighty-seven."

"May I ask why?"

"We cater to a strictly kosher crowd. This neighborhood seemed a better fit."

"I know this may sound like an odd question, Mr. Cohen, but can you remember anything about the bas.e.m.e.nt of that building?"

"The cellar was accessed through our shop. We kept nothing there, and I don't remember anyone ever entering or leaving it."

"Might other tenants have used the bas.e.m.e.nt for storage?"

"We would not have permitted that kind of use of our s.p.a.ce, and the only way down was through a trapdoor in our bathroom. My father kept that door padlocked at all times."

"Do you know his reason for doing that?"

"My father is extremely conscientious about security."

"Why is that?"

"He was born Jewish in Ukraine in 1927."

"Of course."

I was grasping at straws. What to ask?

"Did you know the tenants that preceded or followed you?"

'No."

"You were in that location for almost six years. Did anything in particular trigger your move?"

"That neighborhood became"-Cohen hesitated-"unpleasant."

"Unpleasant?"

"We are Chabad-Lubavitch, Dr. Brennan. Ultra-Orthodox Jews. Even in Montreal we are not always understood."

I thanked Cohen and disconnected.

A small spruce is rooted in a stone planter at courtyard central. Each December our caretaker strings the scraggly thing with lights. No tasteful Presbyterian-in-Connecticut-Christmas-white for Winston. It's rainbow natty, or nothing at all.

My cat is especially appreciative. Birdie puts in hours curled by the fireplace, eyes shifting from the flames to Winston's miracle in the snow.

Anne and I idled away Sunday afternoon following Birdie's lead. We spent long stretches by the fire, heads pillowed, ankles crossed on the hearth. Over endless cups of coffee and tea, I whined about Claudel and Ryan. Anne whined about Tom. We laughed at our neediness. We were somber over our neediness.

Through the hours of talk and tide of words I came to understand the true depth of Anne's unhappiness. The shopping and banter had been "game face." Slap on the greasepaint and raise the curtain. The show must go on. Win one for the team. Do it for the kids. Do it for Tempe.

Anne had always been unflappable. I found her intense sadness deeply disturbing. I prayed it wasn't a permanent sadness.

As we talked, I tried to think of encouraging things to say. Or comforting. Or at least distracting. But everything I came up with sounded cliched and worn. In the end, I simply tried to show my support. But I feared for my friend.

Mostly, Anne and I shared memories. The night we swam naked at the lake. The party where Anne did a bunny-hop pratfall. The beach trip on which we misplaced two-year-old Stuart. The day I showed up drunk at Katy's recital.

The year I showed up drunk at everything.

Between chats, we'd check our messages.

Many from Tom.

None from Ryan.

Though I dialed every few hours, Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent persisted in not answering. She was equally unswerving in not phoning again.

Now and then conversation veered to Claudel's b.u.t.tons. Monique Mousseau had ventured no opinion as to the age or meaning of the forgery. Anne and I cooked up countless scenarios. None made sense. Birdie offered little input.

Sunday evening I finally persuaded Anne to accept a call from Tom. Later she drank a great deal of wine. Quietly.

17.

ANNE WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN I I LEFT FOR THE LAB LEFT FOR THE LAB M MONDAY morning. I jotted a note asking her to phone when she woke. I didn't expect a call before noon. morning. I jotted a note asking her to phone when she woke. I didn't expect a call before noon.

Exiting the garage, I was almost blinded. The sky was immaculate, the sun brilliant off the weekend's snow.

Once again the city's armada of plows had prevailed. All roads were clear in Centre-ville. Farther east, most side streets were pa.s.sable, though bordered by vehicles buried to their roofs. The cars looked like hippos frozen in rivers of milk.

Here and there I pa.s.sed frustrated commuters, shovels pumping, breath mimicking the exhaust from their half-hidden vehicles.

The lesser streets surrounding the lab were impossible, so I parked in Wilfrid-Derome's pay lot. Crossing to the building's back entrance, I wove between s...o...b..nks and circled a small sidewalk plow, its amber light pulsing in the crystalline air.

My footfalls sounded sharp and crunchy. In the distance, tow trucks jolted residents awake with their brain-piercing two-toned whrrp whrrps. Out of bed! Move your a.s.s! Move your car!

The day's first surprise ambled in as I was reaching to check my voice mail.

Michel Charbonneau is a large man whose size isn't diminishing any with age. His bull neck, beefy face, and spiky hair give him the look of an electrified football tackle.

Unlike Claudel, who favors designer silks and wools, Charbonneau has taste that runs to polyesters and markdowns. Today he wore a burnt-orange shirt, black pants, and a tie that looked like a street fight at the south end of a color wheel. His jacket was an unfortunate brown and tan plaid.

Dropping into a chair, Charbonneau draped his overcoat across his lap. I noticed an abrasion on his left cheek.

Charbonneau noticed me noticing.

"You should see the other guy."

He grinned.

I didn't.

"Sorry I didn't get back to you. Claudel and I were last-minute loan-overs to narco, and the bust came down on Friday. I suppose you read about it?"

"No. I haven't gotten to the news." Anne and I had dispensed with all forms of journalism over the weekend, opting for videos and oldies on the Movie Channel.

"Task force had been backgrounding the thing for months."

I let him go on.

"Couple of pharmaceutical pinstripes were pipelining pseudo-ephedrine under the counter. Stuff's used in the production of methamphetamines. Product was warehoused in Quebec and Ontario, then trucked all over Canada and the lower forty-eight."