Tossing my pen to the blotter, I dropped into the chair. The call was probably a long shot, but so was Deep Throat.
“This may sound crazy.” Nervous throat clearing. “And I know how very busy you must be.”
“Actually, I am in the middle of something, Mrs.—?”
The name was distorted by static. Gallant? Ballant? Talent?
“—bones you dug up.”
Another pause. More background whistling and squawking.
“What about them?”
The voice became stronger.
“I feel it is my moral responsibility.”
I said nothing, staring at the bones on the gurney and thinking about moral responsibilities.
“My moral duty to follow through. At least with a telephone call. Before I leave. It’s the least I can do. People just don’t take time anymore. No one bothers. No one wants to get involved.”
In the hall, I heard voices, doors slamming, then quiet. The autopsy techs had left for the day. I leaned back, tired, but anxious to finish the conversation and get back to work.
“What is it you would like to tell me?”
“I’ve lived a long time in Montreal. I know what went on in that building.”
“What building?”
“The one where those bones were hidden.”
The woman now had my full attention.
“The pizza parlor?”
“Now it is.”
“Yes?”
At that moment a bell shrilled, like those regulating movement in old school buildings.
The line went dead.
6
I JIGGLED THE BUTTON, TRYING TO GET THE SWITCHBOARD OPERATOR’S attention.
Nothing.
Slamming the receiver, I raced for the elevator.
Susanne, the LSJML receptionist, lives in a small town halfway between Montreal and the Ontario border. Her daily commute involves a metro, a train, and timing more delicate than a space station linkup. At closing, Susanne is off like a shot. I hoped by some miracle to catch her in flight.
Lighted digits indicated the elevator was on thirteen.
It took a month for the car to descend, another for the trip upstairs. On twelve, I bolted through the opening doors.
Susanne’s desk was deserted.
Praying that the informant had phoned back, and that the call had been rolled by the automatic night service to my voice mail, I rushed to my office.
The red light was flashing.
Yes!
A mechanical voice announced five messages.
My friend Anne in South Carolina.
The
A newcomer from CFCF news.
Ryan.
Mixed emotions. Curiosity that Anne had called. Relief that Ryan had tried to contact me. Frustration that my mysterious tipster had not. Fear that I’d lost the woman forever.
What was her name? Gallant? Ballant? Talent? Why hadn’t I asked that she spell it?
Flopping into my chair, I stared at the phone, willing the little square to light up and tell me a call had come into the system. I drummed the desktop. Pulled the phone cord. Allowed the spirals to curl back into place.
