“And a little surfing, my coconut princess?”
“I don’t surf.”
“How about I hang ten over to your place and we—”
“I rarely had time to set foot on a beach.”
“Uh-huh.”
“When was Lowery ID’ed?” I asked.
“Bandau didn’t say.”
“If it was back in the sixties, things were totally different.”
Ryan turned off rue Sainte-Catherine, drove half a block, and slid to the curb in front of a gray stone complex with elaborate bay windows fronting the sidewalk. Sadly, my unit is in back and derives no benefit from this architectural whimsy.
“You plan to do plastic man first thing tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Since there’s a five-hour time difference, I’ll phone the CIL tonight, see what I can learn about Lowery.”
I felt Ryan’s eyes on my back as I walked toward the door.
Quebec springs usually send a lot of work my way. Rivers and lakes thaw. The snow melts. Corpses emerge. Citizens abandon their sofas for the great outdoors. Some discover the corpses. Some join their ranks.
Because my May rotation to Montreal is usually a long one, Birdie accompanies me as a carry-on under the seat. Except during the flight, the little furball is pretty good company.
The cat was waiting inside the front door.
“Hey, Bird.” I squatted to pet him.
Birdie sniffed my jeans, neck forward, chin up, nose sucking in quick little gulps.
“Good day today?”
Birdie moved off and sat with paws primly together.
“
Bird raised and licked a paw.
My condo is small. L-shaped living-dining room and shotgun kitchen in front, two bedrooms and two baths in back. It’s located at ground level, in one wing of a four-story U-shaped building. French doors give onto a tiny fenced yard from the living room. Opposite, through the dining room, another set opens onto a central courtyard.
Direct access to the lawn on one side and the garden on the other are what hooked me originally. More than a decade down the road, I’m still in the place.
Appetite intact despite the olfactory affront, Birdie padded behind me to the kitchen.
The condo’s interior features earth tones and recycled furniture that I antiqued. Natural wood trim. Stone fireplace. Framed poster of a Jean Dubuffet. Vase full of shells to remind me of the Carolina shore.
My answering machine was blinking like a tripped-out turn signal.
I checked the messages.
My sister, Harry, in Houston, unhappy with her current dating arrangement.
My daughter, Katy, in Charlotte, hating her job, her social life, and the universe in general.
The
Harry.
My neighbor Sparky complaining about Birdie. Again.
Harry.
Charlie Hunt. “Thinking of you.”
Harry.
Deleting all, I headed for the shower.
Supper was linguini tossed with olive oil, spinach, mushrooms, and feta. Birdie licked the cheese from his pasta, then finished the crunchy brown pellets in his bowl.
After clearing the dishes, I dialed the CIL.
Five thousand miles from the tundra a phone was answered on the first ring. After identifying myself, I asked for Roger Merkel, the lab’s scientific director.
Merkel was in Washington, D.C.
“Dr. Tandler?”
“Hold, please.”
Daniel Tandler is assistant director of the CIL. Being the same age, he and I rose through the forensic ranks together, though always at different institutions. We met as undergrads, via the student association of the
