Chantale wasn’t buying the act. She pulled her hands from her pockets and held them up, wrists pressed together.
“O.K. It was me. I killed them. And I’m dealing heroin at the junior high.”
“No one is accusing you of murder,” I said.
“I know. It’s a reality bite for a wayward teen.” She shot forward, widened her eyes, and waggled her head like a dashboard dog. “Bad things happen to bad girls.”
“Something like that,” I replied evenly. “You know, of course, that nothing will prevent Lucy’s return to Guatemala.”
Chantale stood so suddenly her chair crashed to the floor.
Mrs. Specter’s hand flew to her chest.
The guard shot through the door, hand on the butt of his gun. “Everything all right?”
Lywyckij lumbered to his feet. “We’re finished.” He turned to Chantale. “Your mother has brought something for you to wear when you appear before the judge.”
Chantale rolled her eyes. Globs of mascara clung to the lashes, like raindrops on a spiderweb.
“We should have you out of here in two or three hours,” he continued. “We will deal with the drug issue later.”
When the guard had escorted Chantale from the room, Lywyckij turned to Mrs. Specter.
“Do you think you can control her?”
“Of course.”
“She might take off.”
“These dreadful surroundings make Chantale defensive. She’ll be fine once she’s home with her father and me.”
I could see Lywyckij had his doubts. I definitely had mine.
“When is the ambassador arriving?”
“Just as soon as he can.” The plastic smile slipped into place.
Lyrics popped into my head. A song about a handy smile. We’d sung it in Brownies when I was eight years old.
“What of Miss Gerardi?” Lywyckij’s question snapped me back.
“What of her?” A return question from the ambassador’s wife, not indicating great concern.
“Will I be representing her?”
“Chantale’s difficulties probably stem from that girl’s influence. Obtaining documents. Hitchhiking with strangers. Crossing the continent on buses. My daughter would never do those things on her own.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said.
The emerald eyes swung to me, surprised.
“How could you know such a thing?”
“Call it gut instinct.” Not backing off.
A pause by Mrs. Specter, then a pronouncement.
“In any event, it is best that we not meddle in the affairs of Guatemalan citizens. Lucy’s father is a wealthy man. He will take care of her.”
That wealthy man was now here in Montreal and trailing a guard as we entered the corridor. His companion was outfitted like Lywyckij in expensive suit, Italian shoes, leather briefcase.
Gerardi turned as we passed, and his eyes met mine.
I’d empathized with the little girl at the school-yard fence. That reaction was nothing compared with the pity I now felt for Lucy Gerardi. Whatever had brought her to Canada was not about to be forgiven.
17
FORTY MINUTES LATER I WAS PASSING BETWEEN SHOULDER-HIGH hedges on a walkway leading to double glass doors. A logo was centered in each pane, with company information printed below. French on top, English underneath in smaller font. Very quebecois.
It had taken thirty minutes to drive, another thirty to find the address. The RP Corporation was one of a half dozen enterprises housed in two-story concrete boxes in a light-industrial park in St-Hubert. Each structure was gray, but expressed its individuality with a painted stripe circling the building like a gift ribbon. RP’s bow was red.
The lobby had the glossiest floor I’ve ever tread. I crossed it to an office to the left of the main entrance. When I peeked in, an Asian woman greeted me in French. She had shiny black hair cut blunt at the ears and straight across her forehead. Her broad cheekbones reminded me of Chantale Specter, which reminded me of the girl in the septic tank. I felt the familiar cringe of self-blame.
