“impossible home situation”? Why did David’s behavior seem so sinister?
How would I ever get through the ledgers by Monday? My flight was at 5 P.M. Could I finish the Nicolet report today, do those for the babies tomorrow, and work through the ledgers on Sunday? No wonder I had no social life.
By the time I got to rue Parthenais, steadily falling snow was sticking to the street. I found a parking spot just outside the door, and said a prayer that the car wouldn’t be plowed in when I came back.
The air in the lobby felt steamy and smelled of wet wool. I stomped my boots, contributing to the slick, shallow pool of melted snow spreading across the floor, and punched for an elevator. On the ride up I tried to clean streaked mascara from my lower lids.
There were two pink message slips on my desk. Sister Julienne had called. No doubt she wanted reports on Anna and Elisabeth. I wasn’t ready on either. Next. Ryan.
I dialed and he answered.
“Long lunch.”
I checked my watch. One forty-five.
“I’m paid by the hour. What’s up?”
“We’ve finally tracked down the owner of the house in St-Jovite. Guy’s name is Jacques Guillion. He’s from Quebec City, but moved to Belgium years ago. His whereabouts remain unknown, but a Belgian neighbor says Guillion has been renting the St-Jovite place to an old lady named Patrice Simonnet. She thinks the tenant is Belgian, but isn’t sure. She says Guillion also provides the tenant with cars. We’re running a check.”
“Pretty well-informed neighbor.”
“Apparently they were close.”
“The burned body from the basement could be Simonnet.”
“Could be.”
“We got good dental X-rays during the post. Bergeron has them.”
“We’ve given the name to the RCMP. They’re working with Interpol. If she’s Belgian, they’ll track her.”
“What about the other two bodies in the main house and the two adults with the babies?”
“We’re working on it.”
We both thought for a moment.
“Pretty big place for one old lady.”
“Looks like she wasn’t all that alone.”
I spent the next two hours in the histology lab teasing the last of the tissue from the babies’ ribs and examining them under the microscope. As I’d feared, there were no unique nicks or patterns in the bone. There was nothing I could say except that the killer had used a very sharp knife with a blade which was not serrated. Bad for the investigation. Good for me. The report would be brief.
I’d just returned to my office when Ryan called back.
“How about a beer?” he asked.
“I don’t keep beer in my office, Ryan. If I did, I’d drink it.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Then why are you asking me for beer?”
“I’m asking if you’d like one. Could be green.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you Irish, Brennan?”
I glanced at my wall calendar. March 17. The anniversary of some of my best performances. I didn’t want to remember.
“Can’t do it anymore, Ryan.”
“It’s a generic way of saying ‘Let’s take a break.’”
“Are you asking me for a date?”
“Yes.”
“With you?”
“No, with my parish priest.”
“Wow. Does he cheat on his vows?”
“Brennan, do you want to meet me for a beverage this evening? Alcohol-free?”
“Ryan, I—”
“It’s St. Paddy’s Day. It’s Friday night and snowing like a sonof-abitch. Got a better offer?”
I didn’t. In fact, I had no other offers. But Ryan and I often investigated the same cases, and I’d always had a policy of keeping work and home separate.
Always. Right. I’d been separated and living on my own less than two years of my adult life. And they hadn’t
