Monday Mourning Part 41

AFIS is the Automated Fingerprint Information System.

"If the guy's not Menard, who is he?"

"An exceptionally perceptive question, Dr. Brennan."

This was not making sense. "Maybe there's a screwup on the prints."

"It happens."

"Charbonneau's got a college yearbook photo of Menard. Let's roll it by Cyr and see what he says."

"Can't hurt," Ryan agreed.

I waited, half hoping Ryan would reiterate his offer to come over. He didn't.

"I'll get the photo from Char-" Ryan started.

I heard what could have been a female voice in the background, then the m.u.f.fled sound of a covered mouthpiece.

"Sorry." Ryan's voice was pitched lower. "I'll get the photo from Charbonneau and pick you up at eight."

I held it together through a Friday night macaroni and cheese dinner for one. Through a long, hot bath. Through the eleven o'clock news.

In bed, in the dark, unbidden images bombarded my mind.

A dingy bas.e.m.e.nt. Bones in a crate. Bones in trenches.

A woman in bed, gray hair trailing across her face. A stained mattress. A lifeless body on stainless steel.

Shattered mirrors. A shard in a painting.

Anne with her luggage. Anne peering over her floral frames.

I felt a scream in my belly, streams of hot wetness on my face.

The last time I'd felt this overwhelmed I'd been with Ryan. I remembered how he'd wrapped his arms around me and stroked my head. How I'd felt his heart beating. How he'd made me feel so strong, so beautiful, so everything-would-be-all-right.

My chest heaved and a sob muscled up my throat.

Sucking air deep into my lungs, I drew my knees to my chest, and let go.

A good cry is more therapeutic than a one-hour b.u.mp with a shrink.

I awoke purged of all the grief and pent-up frustration.

Rejuvenated.

In control.

Until I made a jacka.s.s of myself twelve hours later.

Tom called at seven to ask if I'd heard from Anne. I hadn't.

He'd established that his wife had made no reservations for a flight from Montreal to Charlotte for any day that week. I told him I'd talked to an SQ officer.

Tom suggested Anne had probably gone off by herself to think and we would hear from her soon. I agreed. We both needed to believe it.

Hanging up, my eye once again fell on the mirror. Nine days since the break-in and the cops had found zip.

Flash recall.

Anne's hunk in 3C.

Mother of G.o.d! Had she gone off with some stranger she'd met on an airplane? Could that stranger be the same person who had vandalized my home?

Another flash.

Ryan's surveillance order.

Were there still stepped-up patrols past my place? Might a pa.s.sing squad car have seen Anne's departure?

Unlikely, but worth a shot.

Bundling up, I headed out.

It was another immaculate day. The radio had predicted a high of minus thirty Celsius. At seven fifty-five, we weren't even close.

Within ten minutes a squad car rolled up the block. I walked to the curb and waved them over.

Yes, they were still pa.s.sing frequently. Yes, this team had been working days all week. No, they hadn't seen a towering blonde with a lot of luggage. They promised to ask the guys on the other shifts.

Back to the lobby, where it was at least warm enough for blood to circulate.

Ryan pulled up at eight-ten. I got in. The car smelled of cigarette smoke.

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour."

Ryan handed me the faxed photo from Menard's senior yearbook. The shot was small and dark, with all color and some contrast lost in transmission. But the face was reasonably clear.

"Looks like Menard," I said.

"And a thousand other guys with red hair, gla.s.ses, and freckles."

I had to agree.

"Any word from your friend?"

"No."

I shifted my feet. Unzipped my parka. I didn't know what to do with my eyes. My legs. My arms. I felt awkward and uncomfortable with Ryan. I wasn't sure I could manage conversation with him.

"Rough night?" Ryan asked.

"Why the sudden interest in my sleep patterns?"

"You look tired."

I looked at Ryan. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper, his whole face more clenched.

What the h.e.l.l's going on with you? I wanted to ask.

"I've got a number of things on my plate," I said.

Ryan put a finger to the tip of my nose. "Don't we all."

Twenty minutes later we were on Cyr's porch.

Ryan had phoned ahead, and Cyr answered on the first ring. This time the old coot was fully clothed.

In the living room, Cyr took the same recliner he'd occupied during my visit with Anne.

Ole Hopalong.

Put it away, Brennan.

I introduced Ryan and let him do the talking.

"Monsieur Cyr, nous avon-"

"Speak English for the little lady." Cyr grinned at me. "Where's that good-looking friend of yours?"

"Anne's gone home."

Cyr c.o.c.ked his head. "She's a pistol, that one."

"This will just take a moment." Ryan pulled the fax from his pocket and handed it to Cyr. "Is that Stephen Menard?"

"Who?"

"Stephane Menard. The man who ran the p.a.w.nshop in your building."

Cyr glanced at the fax.

"Tabernouche! I may look like Bogie, but I'm eighty-two years old." I may look like Bogie, but I'm eighty-two years old."

Cyr pushed to his feet, shuffled across the room, and turned on the TV. Picking up a large, boxy lens attached by a cord to the back of the set, he flipped a b.u.t.ton and scanned the fax.

Menard's face filled the screen.

"That's terrific," I said.

"Videolupe. Great little gadget. Magnifies so I can read just about everything."

Cyr moved the lens casually over the photo, then focused on Menard's ear. The image zoomed until the upper edge of the helix almost filled the screen.

"Nope." Cyr straightened. "That's not your boy."

"How do you know?" I was astonished at his certainty.

Cyr lay down the lens, shuffled back, and crooked a finger at me.

I stood.

"See that?" Cyr fingered a small b.u.mp of cartilage on the upper part of his ear's outer rim.

"A Darwin's tubercle," I said.

Cyr straightened. "Smart lady."

Ryan was watching us, a look of confusion on his face.

"Never knew anybody had b.u.mps like mine, so one time I showed them to my doctor. He told me it was a recessive trait, gave me some articles." Cyr flicked his ear. "Know how these little b.u.g.g.e.rs got their name?"

"They were once thought to be a vestige of pointed ears on quadrupeds."

Cyr bounced on his toes, delighted.

"What does this have to do with Menard?" Ryan asked.

"Menard had the biggest b.a.s.t.a.r.ds I've ever seen. I teased him about it. Told him one day I'd find him grazing on trees or eating small furry things in the bas.e.m.e.nt. He wasn't amused."

Ryan rose. "And the man in the photo?"

Cyr held out the fax. "No b.u.mps."

At the door, Ryan paused.

"One last question, sir. Did you and Menard part on good terms?"

"h.e.l.l no. I threw his a.s.s out."

"Why was that?"