She returned the film, held out the envelope.
At twelve fifty-seven I was belted into a first-class seat on an American Airlines flight to Miami. Dominique Specter sat beside me, lacquered nails drumming the armrest. Dr. Fereira’s CT scans were locked in a briefcase at my feet. The cat hair samples were tucked beside them.
Mrs. Specter had spoken incessantly during the limo ride and throughout the wait in the airport lounge. She described Chantale, recounted childhood anecdotes, floated theories as to the cause of her daughter’s problems, wove schemes for her rehabilitation. She was like a DJ between records, terrified of silence, nonselective in the banality with which she filled it.
Recognizing the talk as tension release, I made reassuring sounds but said little. Feedback was not necessary. The verbal flow continued unabated.
Mrs. Specter finally fell silent as we thundered down the runway for takeoff. She compressed her lips, leaned her head against the seatback, and closed her eyes. When we leveled off, she pulled a copy of
The wallpaper chatter resumed during our transfer in Miami, died again on the flight to Montreal. Suspecting my companion had a fear of flying, I continued to grant her conversational control.
Traveling with the ambassador’s wife had its advantages. When our plane touched down at ten thirty-eight, we were met by suited men and whisked through customs. By eleven we were in the back of another limo.
Mrs. Specter maintained her cruising altitude silence as we sped toward Centre-ville, exited at Guy, and turned right onto rue Ste-Catherine. Perhaps she had run out of words, or simply talked herself calm. Perhaps being home was soothing her soul. Together we listened to Robert Charlebois.
Together we watched the lights of the city go by.
In minutes we pulled up at my condo. The driver got out.
As I gathered my briefcase, Mrs. Specter grabbed my hand. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, like meat from the fridge.
“Thank you,” she said, almost inaudibly.
I heard the trunk squeak, thunk shut.
“I’m glad I can help.”
She drew a deep breath.
“You have no idea how much.”
The door on my side opened.
“Let me know when we can see Chantale. I’ll go with you.”
I laid my hand on Mrs. Specter’s. She squeezed, then kissed it.
“Thank you.” She straightened. “Shall Claude help you inside?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Claude accompanied me up the steps, waited as I located my key to the outer door. I thanked him. He nodded, placed my suitcase beside me, and returned to the limo.
Again, I watched Mrs. Specter glide into the night.
15
BY SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING I WAS RACING THROUGH THE asphalt underbelly of Montreal. Above me, the city yawned and stretched to life. Around me, the Ville-Marie Tunnel looked as gray as my mood.
Quebec was in the grip of a rare spring heat wave. When I’d arrived home near midnight, my patio thermometer still topped eighty, and the temperature inside felt like nine hundred Celsius.
The AC was indifferent to my preference for sleeping cool. Ten minutes of clicking buttons, pounding, and swearing had done nothing to coax it to life. Sweating and angry, I’d finally opened every window and fallen into bed.
The street boys had been equally unconcerned about my comfort and need for sleep. A dozen were
I had slept badly, tossing and turning under limp sheets, awakened repeatedly by laughter, song, and angry outbursts. I had greeted the dawn with a pounding headache.
The Bureau du Coroner and the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale are located in a thirteen-story glass and concrete T in a neighborhood east of Centre-ville. In deference to its principal occupant, the provincial police, or Surete du Quebec, over the decades the structure has been dubbed the SQ building.
Several years back, the Gouvernement du Quebec decided to pump millions into law enforcement and forensic science. The building was refurbished, and the LSJML was expanded and moved from the fifth to the twelfth and thirteenth floors, into space formerly occupied by a short-term jail. In an official ceremony, the tower was reborn as the Edifice Wilfrid-Derome.
Old habits die hard. To most it remains the SQ building.
Exiting the tunnel at the Molson brewery, I passed under the Jacques Cartier Bridge, shot across De Lorimier, turned right, and wound through a neighborhood where neither the streets nor the people are beautiful. Three-
