Anne and I stood.
“How ’bout you ladies stay for dinner? We could order out, maybe knock back some enchiladas and margaritas?”
“That’s very kind,” I said. “But I’m working right now, not socializing.”
“You know where to find me.”
I zipped into my jacket and Cyr led us to the foyer.
At the door, I handed him my card.
“Please phone if you think of anything.”
Cyr held out his paper. “As I recall, these folks was about as sinister as mushroom soup.”
“Someone got killed, I had nothing to do with it.” Low and without a trace of humor.
“What makes you think someone was killed?” Since Cyr hadn’t mentioned
“That detective told me what was down in that cellar.”
So Claudel had interviewed Cyr. Damn him. Again, he’d left me out of the loop.
“Is that a fact?”
“Pompous little shitass.”
“Detective Claudel?”
“Little prick acted like I wasn’t quite bright. I didn’t tell him shit.”
“Tell me, Mr. Cyr. How do you think three people ended up buried in your basement?”
“Something bad went down, it was before my time.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“You ever meet Nicolo Cataneo?” The old man’s voice could have sharpened a razor.
I shook my head no.
“Watch yourself.”
15
THE STORM HAD ITS SLEEVES ROLLED UP, ITS COLLAR UNBUTTONED, and its tie hanging loose. Going for a two-footer.
Anne didn’t say a word as we picked our way to the car. She watched impassively as I dialed into my voice mail.
No messages.
I tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.
No answer.
I checked to see if her call to the lab on Wednesday had been traced, or if the number she’d left Thursday had been tied to a name or address.
Working on it.
“Damn!” Why didn’t they at least give me the name on the listing for the number I’d given them? They could compare the earlier call when they finished their trace. Were they just putting me behind any and all requests from detectives?
Ramming the cellular into my purse, I dug a scraper from the backseat, got out, cleared the windows, slid back behind the wheel, and slammed the door.
After starting the engine, I rocked the Mazda by shifting between forward and reverse. At the first hint of traction, I accelerated, and we fishtailed from the curb. White-knuckling, I turtled forward, squinting to see through the blanket of white.
We’d gone two blocks when Anne broke the silence.
“We could try old newspapers, pull up stories on missing girls.”
“English or French?”
“Wouldn’t disappearances be reported in both?”
“Not necessarily.” My attention was focused on holding to the tracks created by previous traffic. “And Montreal has several French papers today, has had godzillions in both languages over the years.”
The car’s rear winged left. I steered into the spin and straightened.
“We could start with the English papers.”
“What years? The building went up at the turn of the century.”
The snow was winning out over the wipers. I maxed the defroster.
