I jotted names. Wondered with each. Did this person hint at professional dissatisfaction? At personal offense?
When finished I was as frustrated as when I’d begun. No answer had emerged. No theory as to motive had formed in my head.
Call the chief?
No way. I wouldn’t interrupt LaManche’s convalescence by drawing him back into the world of death.
I talked to Ayers, then Morin, then Santangelo.
Each laughed, said the allegation of wrongdoing on my part was ridiculous. Forget it, they counseled. The Jurmain case is closed. The old man is dead.
True.
Still.
I knew myself. Until I learned the identity of my accuser, the thing would keep eating at me. I’d never feel settled. Never be able to fully shut the door. And have no assurance that something similar wouldn’t arise again.
Without mentioning specifics, I floated questions in the Service de l’identite judiciaire. In the morgue. In admin. In the secretarial office. No one had overheard or received complaints about me. No ruffled feathers. No bruised egos. No gripes.
Out of ideas and out of sorts, I went home.
The next morning, I flew to Charlotte.
On December 26, while Katy and I were diving off Ambergris Caye, Ryan sent a text message to my BlackBerry.
That evening, as Katy showered, I went out to the terrace and phoned. Ryan told me the following:
On Christmas Eve, a homeless man found a purse in a Dumpster behind a Pharmaprix drugstore on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. The contents included a comb, a hanky, and a nail file with the logo of a Hollywood, Florida, hotel.
Since the purse was found in Montreal, the SPVM caught the call. Hearing about it, and hoping for a Keiser connection, Claudel, the lead investigator on the case, went right to work. And scored.
At nine o’clock Christmas morning, Myron Pinsker identified the purse as belonging to his stepmother, Marilyn Keiser. Pinsker claimed to have given Keiser the file along with shampoos and lotions he’d bagged while vacationing at the Hotel Ocean Sunset in Florida the previous summer.
“Claudel says that after IDing the handbag Pinsker blanched and started shaking like he had the DTs. Claudel got him a glass of water, did the head-below-the-knees thing. As he’s rebagging the evidence, Pinsker keels, the glass shatters, and blood flies everywhere.”
“I assume Claudel did a deck dive, too.”
“I see sun and sand have mellowed your take on humanity.”
“Come on, Ryan. You know Claudel freaks at the sight of blood.”
“I have to admit, Charbonneau’s account was hilarious.”
Michel Charbonneau is Luc Claudel’s longtime partner.
“Picture this. Claudel’s struggling not to toss his cookies, dialing for a medic, but his fingers are jumping all over the keys. Pinsker’s on the floor with a shard up his ass. Or wherever. Claudel starts hollering for backup. Pinsker comes to, sees the purse, goes apeshit all over again, rocking and howling like a dingo.”
“Genuine grief?”
“Precisely my question to Claudel.”
“His answer?”
“‘Do I look like a freakin’ shrink?’”
I thought for a moment.
“How often is the Dumpster emptied?”
“Twice weekly. But the purse handle was hooked over an interior piece. There’s no telling how long the thing was in there.”
“The homeless man?”
“Harmless. Hoped his find would score him a six-pack.”
“Latents?”
“Negative. The purse is fabric.”
“So this big break is actually a nonstarter.”
“So far.”
“And the pension checks?”
“Cashed all at once at one location. No one remembers who brought them in. Signature’s nothing like Keiser’s. Name’s illegible.”
“The casher must have presented ID.”
“Must have.”
“What does Pinsker say?”
“Denies knowing anything about them.”
Out on the bay, sails flashed tangerine in the last light of evening.
“What about my Oka samples?” I asked.
“Still cooling their heels in the DNA queue.”
“Did you ask how long it would be?”
“They’ll get back to me. When they stop laughing.”
“Locate any relatives up in the Beauce?”
“Working on it.”
No real news on Keiser, and nothing on Oka. So why the text message?
“When are you coming north?” Ryan’s voice sounded lower, softer somehow.
“I usually get a call around January second.”
With my free hand I twisted a bougainvillea vine.
“Remember the year we found Santa?”
Ryan referred to a bearded man who’d fallen down his chimney wearing long red underwear. His body was found three years later, on December 26, rigid as granite.
“Yeah.” I smiled. “Good times.”
“Charlie misses you.”
“Give him a peck on the beak from me.”
“He’s practicing carols. Really nails the Chipmunk thing.”
Though I laughed, a cold heaviness had curled in my chest.
“Please buy him a gift for me.”
“Already got a cardigan with your name on the tag.”
A soft breeze lifted my hair.
“Merry Christmas, Brennan.”
“Merry Christmas, Ryan.”
