[Quinn 03] - Shadow of Betrayal

“Could be just a coincidence,” Quinn said.

“Could be,” Orlando said, but she didn’t sound like she believed that.

“An adult daughter.”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s who Peter was talking about.”

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “Anything else on the family?”

“Hold on,” she said.

She brought up a search engine, then typed in the names of the three people who had died. Martin Dupuis, Rose Dupuis, Emily Dupuis. Husband, wife, daughter. A list of several links appeared, most associated with people other than those who had died. Orlando clicked through several of them before stopping on one.

“Here we go,” she said.

The website was for another newspaper, this time in French. Le Journal de Montreal. While Quinn was well versed in several languages, French was not one of his strongest. The same wasn’t true for Orlando, though. She was fluent.

“What’s it say?” Quinn asked.

“It’s another article about the deaths, but it goes into more detail about the family. Martin Dupuis was a retired professor. Taught sociology at McGill University until two years ago. Rose was a teacher, too. Literature, but at a private high school. She was still working. Their daughter had apparently been living back at home following a recent divorce.” Orlando paused as she continued reading to herself. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“There’s another daughter. Younger than the one who died. Only says she no longer lives in Montreal. No name given.”

“Maybe they haven’t been able to reach her yet,” Quinn said.

“Maybe she’s the one who killed them,” Orlando suggested.

Quinn shrugged, then straightened up. There was no way to tell these were the Dupuises Peter wanted them to check out. Still, the potential was too large to ignore.

“Get an address,” Quinn said. “Let’s at least do a drive-by.”

“Already got it.”

They rousted Nate out of his room, then took the Jetta across the river into Montreal. They found the Dupuis house about forty minutes later on the northeast side of town. It was a neighborhood of single-family homes, on small economical lots that made it difficult for one neighbor not to know what the other was doing. Several had lights on in their windows, but many were already dark, the owners either settled in for the night or not home.

They passed the Dupuis home at a slow, steady pace. It was two stories tall, but narrow. Quinn guessed no more than twelve hundred square feet of living space. The windows were all dark, but a nearby streetlamp illuminated enough of the front to see a strip of yellow tape strung across the opening between two bushes that led to the front door. Police tape. There was also a makeshift memorial at the front of the lawn. Dozens of glass candle containers, half already burned out, and several bundles of flowers spilled over from the grass onto the sidewalk.

Other than that, it was just like any of the other houses on the street.

Quinn circled the block and came back down the road again. This time he pulled to the curb two houses before reaching the Dupuis’, taking one of the few remaining parking spots on either side of the street. He stared out the window at the house the three members of the Dupuis family had died in, and tried to imagine the gas filling the house, pushing the oxygen out. But he was having a hard time believing it. From all appearances the house looked well maintained. In fact it looked in better shape than most of those around it. Could it be possible that a family who took that good care of their home could be neglectful when it came to the maintenance of the house’s inner workings? Quinn didn’t think so.

“Are we going in?” Orlando asked.

Quinn thought for a moment, then nodded. “Nate, you stay here.”

“Why me?”

“Someone needs to stay with the car, in case we have to get out in a hurry,” Quinn said.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Nate said.

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Because I told you to stay.”

“I can stay,” Orlando said.

“No,” Quinn said. “You’re coming with me.”

Orlando looked at Nate, but he shook his head and said, “It’s fine.”

Quinn opened the door and started to get out.

“Wait,” Orlando said. She reached into the small backpack she’d brought along, and pulled out three cloth packets. “Radios. Just in case.”

She handed them around.

Once they were out of the car, Quinn and Orlando did a quick visual check up and down the block. There were no other pedestrians. Not surprising for 10 p.m. on a residential street.

Satisfied, Quinn started walking toward the Dupuis home, Orlando falling into step behind him.

“You could have handled that better,” she whispered.