Thus Coop’s freedom to hold morally admirable but woefully underpaid aid jobs.
Whatever. Shaggy musician out. Humanitarian in. Worked for me.
“You and Coop dated following his return from Haiti?”
“When we could. He was in New York a lot.”
I paused, allowing Katy to get to the reason for her call. Turned out there was none.
“Well, Mommy-o. Have a good day.”
Mommy-o?
Who was this strange woman posing as my daughter?
Ryan delivered Charlie around noon. Eager to be off to Lily, he stayed only briefly. The door had barely closed when the bird fired off two of his bawdier quips.
“Fill your glass, park your ass!”
“Charlie.”
“Cool your tool!”
Clearly, the cockatiel training CD had seen no play time in my absence.
Point of information: confiscated during a brothel raid several years back, Charlie became Ryan’s Christmas gift to me. My little avian friend’s repertoire is, shall we say, colorful.
Jean-Claude Hubert, the chief coroner, phoned at one o’clock. Hubert had located John Lowery’s father, Plato Lowery, and informed him of the fingerprint ID on the body in Hemmingford. At first Plato was confused. Then shocked. Then skeptical.
The United States Army had also been brought into the loop.
“Now what?” I asked Hubert.
“Now we wait to see what Uncle Sam has to say.”
At one thirty I headed to Marche Atwater, near the Lachine Canal in the Saint-Henri neighborhood. A ten- minute drive from my condo, the market there dates to 1933.
Inside the two-story art deco pavilion, shops and stalls offer cheese, wine, bread, meat, and fish. Outside, vendors hawk maple syrup, herbs, and produce. At Christmas, freshly cut trees fill the air with the scent of pine. In spring and summer, flowers turn the pavement into a riot of color.
When I first started shopping at Atwater, the neighborhood was blue-collar and definitely down-at-the-heels. Not so today. Since the reopening of the canal in 2002, upscale condos have replaced low- and modest-cost housing and the area has become a real estate hot spot.
Not sure I’m a fan of such gentrification. But parking is easier now.
Inside, I purchased meat and cheese. Outside, I bought produce, then flats of marigolds and petunias. Made of sterner stuff, I figured their sort might survive my regime of horticultural neglect.
Back home, I planted the flowers around my postage stamp patio and in my little backyard. Rain was still falling. Hot damn. No need to water.
I was cleaning dirt from my nails when my cell phone sounded. 808 area code. Hawaii.
Toweling off, I clicked on.
“Dr. Tandler. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Though a Sunday call
“What? I have to have a reason?”
“Yes.”
Danny let out a long breath. “This Lowery thing is causing some concern on our end.”
Sensing an edge of anxiety in Danny’s voice, I waited.
“Yesterday Merkel got a call from Notter while driving home from the airport. You can imagine how getting tagged that soon after landing brightened his day.”
JPAC employs more than four hundred people, both military and civilian. In addition to the CIL, situated at Hickam Air Force Base, there are three permanent overseas detachments: in Bangkok, Thailand; Hanoi, Vietnam; and Vientiane, Laos; and another U.S. detachment at Camp Smith, in Hawaii. Each is commanded by a lieutenant colonel. The whole JPAC enchilada is under the command of an army major general. For now.
Danny referred to Brent Notter, deputy to the commander for public relations and legislative affairs, and Roger Merkel, scientific director and deputy to the commander for CIL operations. Merkel was Danny’s direct superior.
“After hearing from the Quebec coroner yesterday, Plato Lowery contacted his congressman,” Danny went on.
“Oh, boy,” I said. “What’s Lowery’s juice?”
“Juice?”
“Danny, we both know phone inquiries aren’t handled that fast. It’s been only twenty-four hours since Plato Lowery was informed of the situation. He must have connections.”
“According to Congressman O’Hare, John Lowery came from a family with a tradition of sending its boys into the military.”
