Ryan’s point was a good one. And I did want background on the Villejoin investigation.
I glanced at the disarticulated skeleton. Of the two hundred and six bones, only the hand phalanges remained unincorporated.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Barring a major disaster, the table would not be needed. The room was a secure area. I’d left remains overnight before.
And I was tired.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten,” I said.
It was a decision I’d come to regret.
14
RYAN GOT HIS WAY BECAUSE I WAS TOO WEARY TO ARGUE. AND TOO hungry. That realization dawned as I was changing into the sweats I keep at the lab.
When asked my preference, I replied with the first foodstuff that popped to mind. Fish.
Ryan suggested Molivos. I agreed. It was a short walk to my condo from there.
Fifteen minutes after disconnecting we were slip-sliding along Avenue de Lorimier toward the Ville Marie Tunnel. The wipers were metronoming the windshield. Not a blizzard, but heavy enough snow.
While Ryan focused on driving, I checked e-mail on my BlackBerry.
Amazon wanted to sell me books. Abe’s of Maine wanted to sell me appliances. Boston Proper wanted to sell me clothes. Delete. Delete. Delete.
The Humane Society wanted me to donate more money. Fair enough. Save.
A colleague wanted me to speak at a conference in Turkey. Save for polite refusal.
Katy reported that Pete and Summer had left for a week in the Turks and Caicos. She asked when I’d return to Charlotte. I replied that I’d definitely be there in time for our trip to Belize on the twenty-first.
I’d also received two offers of products guaranteed to please my genitalia, and three proposals to make millions through African banks.
As I slid the device into its holder, Ryan exited the tunnel onto Atwater. At rue Sainte-Catherine he turned right, then left onto Guy. The few pedestrians hurried with shoulders hunched, heads bowed. Sidewalks, sills, and steps were already blanketed, and car roofs and street signs wore fuzzy white caps.
Ryan parked in a stretch legal only on alternate Wednesdays from April through August between the hours of two fourteen and four twenty-seven a.m. For firemen and Freemasons. Or something like that.
Ryan and I jaywalked across Guy, then hurried downhill. Inside the restaurant, a man with pockmarked skin and a wandering eye ushered us to a table for two.
“Two days, two tavernas.” Ryan grinned. “Do I see a pattern?”
It was true. Same wooden furnishings. Same fishing nets. Same murals showing ruins or toga-clad deities. Here the tablecloths were blue-and-white checked.
“This place is fish,” I said. “Chicago was lamb.”
“I had the seafood combo.”
“You failed to exercise good judgment.”
“We should go to Greece.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mykonos has some primo nude beaches.” Exaggerated wink.
“In your dreams, Ryan.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Wandering Eye brought menus and inquired about beverages. Ryan asked for a Moosehead. I went with Perrier and lime. When the drinks came I ordered Mediterranean bass. Ryan chose snapper.
“Tell me about the Villejoin investigation,” I said, wanting to avoid the perilous terrain of personal issues. Or shared nudity.
Ryan’s smile morphed to a frown. He took a pull of beer and set down his mug.
“Anne-Isabelle was eighty-six. Christelle was eighty-three. Both were spinsters.”
“Unmarried,” I corrected.
“Right. They had lived with their parents in Pointe-Calumet. Serge Villejoin died in ’sixty-nine, Corine in ’seventy-seven. At that time the property went to the sisters.”
I couldn’t imagine an entire life played out in one house. Did I find such stability depressing or reassuring? I was too exhausted to gauge.
“Both worked as nurses’ assistants. Anne-Isabelle retired in ’ninety-three, Christelle in ’ninety-six. After that the ladies pretty much stayed home, puttering in their garden, raising cats, crocheting gewgaws for church bazaars.”
“What church?”
“Sainte-Marie du Lac in Pointe-Calumet.”
Our fish arrived. We squeezed lemon, helped ourselves to beans and veggies, then ate in silence. Ryan broke it.
“A bazaar took place on May four, 2008. That was a Saturday. Normally the sisters would have walked the two blocks to the church, but they had a box of items for donation, so a neighbor offered to pick them up.” Reaching back, Ryan pulled a small spiral notebook from his jacket and checked a name. “Yves Renaud. Forty-seven. A nurse at the Jewish General.”
I waited while Ryan took several forkfuls of fish.
“According to Renaud’s statement, he arrived at the Villejoin house around noon. He found it odd that two cats were wandering loose in the yard, since the animals were strictly indoor pets. He called out, got no answer, knocked, peeked through a window, yadda, yadda. Finally he tried the front door and found it unlocked.”
“Were the women security conscious?”
“Renaud didn’t know.”
“Did they have an alarm system?”
“No. Renaud entered the foyer, called out again, heard nothing. He was about to leave when a third cat strolled by with blood on its nose. Suspicious, he looked around. The vic was on the kitchen floor with a pulverized face.”
I noticed the subtle shift. Anne-Isabelle was now the vic. It was a distancing technique employed by cops. No names. I could tell the case disturbed Ryan greatly.
