“When did you get back?” Pete lowered and tipped the bottle so Boyd could drink.
“Today. How did things go in Indiana?”
“The local arson investigators were about as sophisticated as the Bobbsey twins. But the real problem was the liability insurance adjuster representing the roofer. His client was working on a roof patch with an acetylene torch in the exact area where the fire started.”
He wiped the mouth of the bottle with his hand and drank.
“This asshole knew the cause and origin. We knew the cause and origin. He knew we knew it. We knew he knew we knew, but his official position was that they needed additional investigation.”
“Will it go to court?”
“Depends on what they offer.” He lowered the root beer again, and Boyd slurped. “But it was good to have a break from chow breath, here.”
“You love that dog.”
“Not as much as I love you.” He gave me his “Goofy Pete” grin.
“Hmm.”
“Any progress on your DMORT problems?”
“Maybe.”
Pete looked at his watch.
“I want to hear all about it, but right now I'm bushed.”
He drained the bottle and stood. Boyd shot to his feet.
“I think I will mosey with my dog.”
I watched them leave, Boyd dancing around Pete's legs. When I turned, Birdie was peering in from the hall doorway, feet positioned for a quick retreat.
“Good riddance” is what I said. Miffed is what I felt. The damn dog hadn't looked back once.
Birdie and I were watching The Big Sleep when the second knock sounded. I was in a T-shirt, panties, and my old flannel robe. He was in my lap.
Ryan stood on the doorstep, face ashen in the porch light. I avoided repeating my usual opener. He'd tell me soon enough why he was in Charlotte.
“How did you know I'd be here?”
He ignored my question.
“Spending the evening by yourself?”
I tipped my head. “Bacall and Bogart are in the study.”
I opened the door, as I had for Pete, and he brushed past me into the kitchen. I smelled cigarette smoke and perspiration, and assumed he'd driven straight from Swain County.
“Will they mind if I make it a foursome?” Though his words were light, his face told me his heart was not.
“They're flexible.”
He followed me to the den, and we settled at opposite ends of the couch. I clicked off the TV.
“Bertrand's been ID'ed.”
I waited.
“Mostly dental. And some other”—his Adam's apple rose and fell—“fragments.”
“Petricelli?”
He shook his head, a short, tight gesture.
“They were seated at ground zero, so Petricelli may be vapor. What they found of Bertrand was two valleys over from the main site.” His voice was tight and shaky. “Embedded in a tree.”
“Has Tyrell released the body?”
“This morning. I'm escorting it to Montreal on Sunday.”
I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, to press my cheek to his chest and stroke his hair. I didn't move.
“The family wants a civil ceremony, so the SQ's organizing a funeral for Wednesday.”
I didn't hesitate.
“I'm going with you.”
“That's not necessary.” He kept opening and closing one hand around the other. His knuckles looked hard and white as a row of pebbles.
“Jean was my friend, too.”
“It's a long trip.”
His eyes glistened. He blinked, leaned back, and ran both hands up and down his face.
“Would you like me to go?”
“What about this pissing match with Tyrell?”
I told him about the tooth fragment, held back the rest.
“How long will the profiling take?”
“Four or five days. So there's no reason I have to stay here. Would you like me to go?”
He looked at me, and a wrinkle formed at the corner of his mouth.
“I have a feeling you will, anyway.”
Knowing he would spend the next two days arranging transport for Bertrand's casket and meeting with McMahon at FBI headquarters, Ryan had booked a room at the Adams Mark Hotel near uptown. Or perhaps he had other reasons. I didn't ask.
The next day I researched names on the H&F list, and learned only one thing. Once outside my own lab my investigative skills are limited.
Encouraged by my success in Bryson City, I spent a library morning with back issues of the Charlotte Observer. Though a mediocre public official, State Senator Pat Veckhoff had been a model citizen. Otherwise, I discovered zilch.
The Internet produced a few references to the poetry of Kendall Rollins, the poet Mrs. Veckhoff had mentioned. That was it. Davis. Payne. Birkby. Warren. They were common names, leading into labyrinths of useless information. The Charlotte White Pages listed dozens of each.
That evening, I took Ryan to dinner at the Selwyn Pub. He seemed withdrawn and preoccupied. I didn't push.
Sunday afternoon Birdie went to Pete, and Ryan and I flew to Montreal. What remained of Jean Bertrand traveled below in a glossy metal casket.
We were met at Dorval Airport by a funeral director, two hearse attendants, and four uniformed officers of the Sûreté du Québec. Together we escorted the body into town.
October can be glorious in Montreal, with church spires and skyscrapers piercing a crisp, blue sky, the mountain burning brightly in the background. Or it can be gray and cheerless, with rain, sleet, or even snow.
This Sunday the temperature flirted with freezing, and dark, heavy clouds hung over the city. Trees looked stark and black, lawns and parkways frosted white. Burlap-wrapped shrubs stood guard outside homes and businesses, floral mummies bundled against the cold.
It was past seven by the time we delivered Bertrand to an Urgel Bourgie in St-Lambert. Ryan and I parted ways, he being taken to his condo at Habitat, I to mine in Centre-ville.
Arriving, I threw my overnighter on the bed, turned on the heat, checked my answering machine, and then the refrigerator. The former was full, flashing like a blue light at a Kmart special. The latter was empty, stark white walls and smeared glass shelves.
LaManche. Isabelle. Four telemarketers. A McGill graduate student. LaManche.
Digging a jacket and gloves from the hall closet, I walked to Le Faubourg for provisions.
By the time I returned, the condo had warmed. I built a fire anyway, needing its comfort more than its heat. I was feeling as down as I had at Sharon Hall, haunted by the specter of Ryan's mysterious Danielle, saddened by the prospect of Bertrand's funeral.
As I stir-fried scallops and green beans, sleet began ticking against the windows. I ate at the hearth, thinking of the man I'd come to bury.
The detective and I had worked together over the years, when murder victims caused our paths to cross, and I'd come to understand certain things about him. Incapable of deviousness, he'd seen the world in black and white, with cops on one side of a moral line, criminals on the other. He'd had faith in the system, never doubting it would sort the good guys from the bad.
Bertrand had visited me here the previous spring, devastated by an incomprehensible break with Ryan. I pictured him sitting on my couch that night, wretched with anger and disbelief, not knowing what to say or do, the same feelings now overpowering Andrew Ryan.
After dinner, I loaded the dishwasher, stoked the fire, then took the handset to the sofa. Mentally switching to French, I dialed LaManche's home number.
My boss said he was glad I'd come to Montreal, even though the circumstances were so sad. There were two anthropology cases at the lab.
“Last week a woman was found, nude and decomposed, wrapped in a blanket in Parc Nicholas-Veil.”
“Where is that?”
“The far northern edge of the city.”
“CUM?”
The Communauté Urbaine de Montréal Police, or Montreal Urban Community Police, have jurisdiction over everything on the island of Montreal.