“Did they pursue the case?”
“Until the leads went cold.”
“That was it?”
“Not quite. Three years later the Pomerleaus got a call from little Anique. Said she was fine, wouldn’t divulge her whereabouts.”
“That must have been a shock.”
“Couple years go by, the phone rings again. Same deal. Anique tells them she’s OK, but not a word about where she’s living. Last call came in ninety-seven. Father’s dead by then. Mother’s living in a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.”
“Pomerleau’s prints were on file here in Quebec?”
Ryan nodded. “She’s got a jacket full of petty stuff. Vandalism. Shoplifting. One incident involving a stolen auto. Probably joyriding. Last entry was four months before her disappearance.”
I felt agitation bubbling to the surface. Here was another twist that didn’t fit. “What on God’s earth is Anique Pomerleau doing with Stephen Menard?”
“He’s not Menard.”
“Don’t patronize me, Ryan.” I picked up my pen, tossed it back on the blotter. “Mister X.
I snatched up the pen and pointed it at Ryan.
“And why can’t we find out who this toad is? And where’s the real Stephen Menard? And when did the identity switch take place?”
“Would you like some dinner?”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“Why?”
“I have some things I want to tell you.”
“Right. You and Claudel keep a hotline to my phone for all breaking news. Where the hell is Claudel, anyway?”
Ryan started to speak. I cut him off.
“I’m sick to death of Claudel and his fuck-you-if-you-don’t-like-it attitude. Charbonneau’s the only one who treats me with any respect.”
“Claudel’s got his own way of doing things.”
“So do echinoderms.”
“You’re judging Claudel harshly. What are echinoderms?”
That tripped the switch.
“
I considered crushing the pen.
“The bones are too old. Carbon 14 is too expensive. The girls were hookers. Louise Parent died in her sleep. Old ladies do that. They’re known for doing it.”
“I was referring to drooling.”
“See!” I jabbed the pen at Ryan. “Your flip attitude doesn’t help.”
“Tempe—” Ryan reached out to touch me. I drew back.
“Of course. I forgot. You love me. But you love a lot of things. Goat cheese. Parakeets. The Weeki-Wachee Mermaids.”
Ryan’s mouth opened to say something. I cut him off.
“Right. You love me. You just can’t find time to be with me.”
I stormed on, all the pent-up frustration rolling in one powerful surge.
“Now, suddenly you’re free for dinner! On Saturday night! What a lucky girl I am!”
The words spewed like water through a sluice gate.
“What about duty? What about your”—I hooked my index fingers to bracket the word—“niece?”
The pen ricocheted off the blotter and winged toward Ryan. Throwing up a hand, he deflected it.
I shot to my feet.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
Dropping into my chair, I put my face in my palms. My cheeks felt warm and damp.
“Christ. What’s wrong with me?”
