that big move so quietly?”
Santangelo ignored my blathering.
“Did Hubert contact you yesterday?”
“No.” Brushing fur from my shirt. “Why?”
A click of hesitation in her throat.
“Emily?”
“This call is unofficial.”
A tiny alarm pinged in my head.
“O-kaay.”
“Come to Montreal, Tempe.”
“You said no one needs me right now.” I laughed. “Must be some flukey planetary alignment. Maybe Jupiter’s getting it on with Venus and all of Quebec is awash in brotherly love. This has to be the longest stretch-”
“Fly up here.”
Ping.
I clicked off speaker and placed the phone to my ear.
“Is Hubert still in a funk over those phalanges?”
A long, long silence rolled down from the north.
“Tell me,” I prompted. “I can handle Hubert.”
“He has them.”
“What?” The fur-brushing hand froze on my chest.
“He has the phalanges.”
“How?”
“Joe went back out to Oka. With Briel.”
“How did
“Briel offered to do it for the experience. Said she’d work Saturday to make up for any time missed.” Santangelo’s voice was flat, masking something under the words. “She argued that Joe would know what to do since he’d been present at the initial recovery. Hubert bought it. One of them spotted the phalanges while screening.”
“When was this?”
“Friday.”
“What the hell was a pathologist doing disinterring bones?”
“Apparently she took a course in forensic anthropology while on a postdoc in France.”
I considered crushing or tossing the phone. Switched it to my left hand instead.
“Was Hubert planning to tell me?”
“He may not know. They finished late. I only found out because I was writing reports in my office when they got back to the lab.”
A nonexpert crossing the line.
I took a deep, calming breath.
Exhaled.
“I’ll be there Monday morning.”
That night I saw Charlie again. Sushi. Sayonara.
Charlie knew I’d been burned by Ryan. And Pete. As on our previous nondates, he didn’t press for more. I liked that.
So why the distance?
I didn’t want to repeat last October’s booty blunder. Or the embarrassing backseat high school romp.
But was that really it? I was free, so was Charlie. We weren’t kids fighting hormones in Daddy’s Buick. I thought of the statement that had so irritated Vecamamma. Women have needs.
Right on, Cukura Kundze.
So why the Puritan routine?
Was it Ryan?
Who knew?
What I did know was this. If I was keeping Ryan at arm’s length, I was keeping Charlie somewhere on the edge of the Milky Way.
Monday morning. January 26. Back in Montreal and, thanks to Birdie, I was running late.
Still pissed over being ambushed by Dramamine, kitty carrier, and airplane the night before, the little drip fired through the open door when I turned to set the alarm. It took ten minutes of lobby searching and furniture moving to find him.
My neighbor Sparky Monteil happened in as I was scooping the escapee from behind the lobby sofa. Seeing the cat, he began ranting about filth and disease and the sucking of breath from babies.
Knowing I would miss the beginning of the Monday- morning meeting, and annoyed with Birdie, I failed to handle the situation with the finesse it required. Barbs were exchanged. Sparky swore he’d have me evicted, threatened that one day my pet might simply vanish.
Good thing Sparky’s an Anglophone. Perhaps not. I can cuss like a sailor in my mother tongue.
At Wilfrid-Derome, I went straight to my office to shed my outerwear and grab pen and paper for the meeting.
Lisa is an autopsy tech with sun-tipped hair and a biblical rack. Cops attending autopsies always hope she will be the one handling their corpse.
As I unlocked my door, I noticed Lisa across the hall in the histo lab, deep in conversation with my assistant, Joe. Neither was smiling.
Spotting me through the window, both techs fell silent.
I waved.
Joe resumed logging organ samples.
Lisa gave a halfhearted flip of one hand.
Sexual tension?
Whatever.
Flinging my parka toward the desk, I dashed to the conference room.
Same green walls. Same table. Same roster of death due to malice, melancholy, folly, or fate.
Morin did the honors.
A dealer, held and punched by two rivals, dropped to the sidewalk and never got up. Probable homicide by rotation and hyperextension of the head.
A man noosed his neck to a tree and hit the gas in his pickup. Probable suicide by self-decapitation.
A meth addict slept naked on his balcony and froze to death. Probable accident by supreme stupidity.
As Morin talked, Briel made short quick strokes on her case list, frown lines going for a new personal best.
Santangelo alternated between drinking from and thumb-scraping the label off a bottle of spring water.
