car, the U.S.-Canadian border now ten minutes behind them, and Montreal about twenty ahead.
“That’s not a lot to go on,” Quinn said.
“It’s all I have,” Peter snapped.
“How’s Tasha?” Orlando asked.
Peter took a moment before he answered, and when he did, he sounded calmer. “Still unconscious. But she’s made it twenty-four hours so far, so they tell me that’s a good sign.”
“What are we supposed to do when we find this woman?” Quinn asked.
“That’s a big if, I think,” Peter said. “What I need you to do is find out as much as you can
“Does she live in Montreal?”
Peter paused again. “The name came from Primus. He sent the information to the DDNI when they were negotiating the follow-up meeting after Ireland. An act of good faith, he’d said. It was an attached document with a single line of information. ‘Dupuis. Female. Montreal. Unresolved.’ That was it.”
“Unresolved? What does that mean?” Orlando asked.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Peter said.
No one spoke for a moment.
“Montreal. That doesn’t necessarily mean she lives there,” Quinn said.
“Maybe she has family there. Or friends. I didn’t say it was going to be easy.”
“So why are we looking for her?” Quinn asked.
Peter paused. “It’s the only lead we’ve got. And since she’s apparently of interest to the other side, I think that’s worth looking into, don’t you?”
“She’s part of them?”
“You have everything I know.”
Again silence.
“Peter,” Orlando said, “any chance you can send me that itinerary you showed us?”
“Why?”
“Just something I was thinking about. Thought I could check it out.”
Quinn gave her a questioning look, but she only smiled.
“All right,” Peter said. “I can do that.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You said there were more documents, too. If you really want our help, you should probably send those to me, also.”
“Fine,” he said. “Anything else?”
Quinn looked at Orlando. She shook her head. He then turned to Nate, who looked surprised by the attention.
“I got nothing,” Nate whispered.
“That’s all for the moment,” Quinn said, then disconnected the call.
Once they were back on the road, he said, “Itinerary?”
“Something that was bothering me on the drive. I think there’s a connection between all the destinations. But I need to see the list again to be sure.”
“What kind of connection?”
“Relax. Just let me take a look first.”
They got rooms at the Comfort Inn in Brossard just across the St. Lawrence River from the old city of Montreal. Nate used a localized jammer Orlando had brought along to neutralize the surveillance camera in the lobby when he made the arrangements for the rooms. Quinn had remained in the car, staying out of sight just in case.
By the time they were getting settled in their rooms — Nate in one, and Quinn and Orlando in another — it was 8:45 p.m. Outside, the sun had just sunk below the horizon.
While Quinn ran some cold water over his face in the bathroom, Orlando got out her laptop and checked to see if Peter had sent the documents.
“Nothing,” she called out.
“See what you can find out about the woman,” Quinn said. “The sooner we get this done …”
Orlando nodded, then turned back to her screen and set to work.
After drying his face, Quinn checked the dresser and nightstand until he found what he was looking for. A phone book. Not just for Brossard and the South Shore, but the whole Montreal area.
He flipped through the pages until he came to the D’s, then slowly turned a few more before stopping.
“Well, this isn’t good,” he said.
“What?” Orlando asked, not looking up.
“I’ve got three dozen Dupuis right here. More than half are just initials. No first name. And you’ve got to believe there are at least as many other Dupuis unlisted.”
Quinn used the tips of his fingers to create a crease along the edge of the page near the binding, then tore it out of the book. He set it on the desk next to Orlando’s computer.
“Here,” he said. “In case you need to cross-reference.”
She glanced up at him. “Why don’t you get us some dinner?”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Yes.”
Quinn smiled, then nodded and started for the door.
As he was pulling it open, Orlando said, “Wait.”
He looked back. Her attention was still on the computer, but she was waving him to return with her left hand.
“I think I found something,” she said.
Quinn walked back and leaned over her shoulder. She had the website for the
FAMILY TRAGEDY NOT AN ACCIDENT
Before Quinn could read further, Orlando said, “This is from two days ago. An elderly couple and their daughter, also an adult, died from a gas leak in their house. Went to sleep, never woke up. At first it was thought to be a faulty gas line, but now the police are saying the gas line might have been tampered with.”
“Don’t tell me,” Quinn said. “The family’s name is Dupuis.”
“Yep.”
“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.
“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.”
