tracked, with reports from all divisions coordinated into master files. Cases from years past were gradually being entered into the database. L?Expertise Judiciaire had roared into the computer age, and Lucie Dumont was leading the charge.
Her door was closed. I knocked, knowing there would be no answer. At 6:30 P.M. even Lucie Dumont was gone.
I trudged back to my office, pulled out my membership directory for the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, and found the name I was looking for. I glanced at my watch, quickly calculating. It would be only four- forty there. Or would it be five-forty? Was Oklahoma on Mountain or Central time?
?Oh hell,? I said, punching in the area code and number. A voice answered and I asked for Aaron Calvert. I was told, in a friendly, twangy way, that I was speaking with the night service, but that they?d be glad to take a message. I left my name and number and hung up, still not knowing into what time zone I?d been speaking.
This was not going well. I sat a moment, regretful that my burst of resolve hadn?t come earlier in the day. Then, undaunted, I reached for the receiver again. I dialed Gabby?s number and got no response. Apparently, even the answering machine had dropped out. I tried her office at the university, and listened to the line roll over after four rings. As I was about to hang up, the phone was answered. It was the departmental office. No, they hadn?t seen her. No, she hadn?t picked up her mail for a few days. No, that wasn?t unusual, it was summer. I thanked them and hung up.
?Strike three,? I said to the empty air. No Lucy. No Aaron. No Gabby. God, Gabby, where are you? I wouldn?t let myself think about it.
I tapped the blotter with a pen.
?High and outside.?
I tapped some more.
?Fourth and long,? I added, ignoring the mixed metaphor. Tap. Tap.
?D.Q.?
I leaned back and flipped the pen end on end into the air.
?Double fault.?
I caught the pen and sent it airborne again.
?Personal foul.?
Another launch.
?Time to switch to a new game plan.?
Catch. Launch.
?Time to dig in and hold the line.?
I caught the pen and held it. Dig in. I looked at the pen. Dig in. That?s it.
?Okay,? I said, pushing back my chair and reaching for my purse.
?Try batting from the other side of the plate.?
I slung the purse over my shoulder and turned out the light.
?In your face, Claudel!?
14
WHEN I GOT TO THE MAZDA I TRIED RESUMING MY SPORTS CLICH #201; soliloquy. It was no good. The genius was gone. Anticipation of what I had planned for the evening had me too wired for creative thought. I drove to the apartment, stopping only at Kojax to pick up a souvlaki plate.
Arriving home, I ignored Birdie?s accusatory greeting, and went directly to the refrigerator for a Diet Coke. I set it on the table next to the grease-stained bag containing my dinner, and glanced at the answering machine. It stared back, silent and unblinking. Gabby hadn?t called. A growing sense of anxiety was wrapping itself around me and, like a conductor high on his music, my heart was beating prestissimo.
I went to the bedroom and rifled through the bedside stand. What I wanted was buried in the third drawer. I took it to the dining room, spread it on the table, and opened my drink and carry-out. No go. The sight of greasy rice and overcooked beef made my stomach withdraw like a sand crab. I reached for a slice of pita.
I located my street on the now familiar foot, and traced a route out of Centre-ville and across the river onto the south shore. Finding the neighborhood I wanted, I folded the map with the cities of St. Lambert and Longueuil showing. I tried another bite of souvlaki as I studied the landmarks, but my stomach hadn?t altered its negativism. It would accept no input.
Birdie had oozed to within three inches of me. ?Knock yourself out,? I said, sliding the aluminum container in his direction. He looked astounded, hesitated, then moved toward it. The purring had already begun.
In the hall closet I found a flashlight, a pair of garden gloves, and a can of insect repellent. I threw them into a backpack along with the map, a tablet and a clipboard. I changed into a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and braided my hair back tightly. As an afterthought, I grabbed a long-sleeved denim shirt and stuffed it into the pack. I got the pad from beside the phone and scribbled: ?Gone to check out the third X-St. Lambert.? I looked at my watch: 7:45 P.M. I added the date and time, and laid the tablet on the dining room table. Probably unnecessary, but in case I got into trouble I had at least left a trail.
Slinging the pack over my shoulder, I punched in the code for the security system, but in my building excitement I got the numbers wrong and had to start over. After messing up a second time, I stopped, closed my eyes, and recited every word of ?I Wonder What the King Is Doing Tonight.? Clear the mind with an exercise in trivia. It was a trick I?d learned in grad school, and, as usual, it worked. The time-out in Camelot helped me reestablish control. I entered the code without a slip, and left the apartment.
Emerging from the garage, I circled the block, took Ste. Catherine east to De la Montagne, and wound my way south to the Victoria Bridge, one of three linking the island of Montreal with the south shore of the St. Lawrence River. The clouds that had tiptoed across the afternoon sky were now gathering for serious action. They filled the horizon, dark and ominous, turning the river a hostile, inky gray.
I could see #206;le Notre-Dame and #206;le Ste. H #233;l #232;ne upriver, with the Jacques-Cartier Bridge arching above them. The little islands lay somber in the deepening gloom. They must have throbbed with activity during Expo ?67, but were idle now, hushed, dormant, like the site of an ancient civilization.
Downriver lay #206;le des Soeurs. Nuns? Island. Once the property of the church, it was now a Yuppie ghetto, a small acropolis of condos, golf courses, tennis courts, and swimming pools, the Champlain Bridge its lifeline to the city. The lights of its high-rise towers flickered, as if in competition with the distant lightning.
Reaching the south shore, I exited onto Sir Wilfred Laurier Boulevard. In the time it took to cross the river, the evening sky had turned an eerie green. I pulled over to study the map. Using the small emerald shapes that represented a park and the St. Lambert golf course, I fixed my location, then replaced the map on the seat beside me. As I shifted into gear, a snap of lightning electrified the night. The wind had picked up, and the first fat drops began to splatter on the windshield.
I crept along through the spooky, prestorm darkness, slowing at each intersection to crane forward and squint at the street signs. I followed the route I?d plotted in my head, turning left here, right there, then two more lefts . . .
After ten more minutes I pulled over and put the car in park. My heart sounded like a Ping-Pong ball in play. I rubbed my damp palms on my jeans and looked around.
The sky had deepened and the darkness was almost total. I?d come through residential neighborhoods of small bungalows and tree-lined streets, but now found myself on the edge of an abandoned industrial park, marked as a small gray crescent on the map. I was definitely alone.
A row of deserted warehouses lined the right side of the street, their lifeless shapes illuminated by a single functioning streetlamp. The building closest to the lamppost stood out in eerie clarity, like a stage prop under studio lights, while its neighbors receded into ever-deepening murkiness, the farthest disappearing into pitch blackness. Some of the buildings bore realtors? signs offering them for sale or rent. Others had none, as if their owners had given up. Windows were broken, and the parking lots were cracked and strewn with debris. The scene was an old black-and-white of London during the Blitz.
The view to the left was no less desolate. Nothing. Total darkness. This emptiness corresponded to the
