That night, the dark little yard triggered feelings of exposure and vulnerability. No matter that the patrol car Ryan had requested was passing frequently. His makeshift patch on the door was a constant reminder of my unbidden caller and the point of entry he had chosen. What other choices had been available to him? I had to admit that having Anne there was a comfort.
After a quick meal of carry-out Thai, Anne and I cleaned. Anger wormed inside me as I swept and vacuumed.
Again, I fell asleep with my thoughts brawling.
Had some coked-out ragnose violated my refuge? That seemed most likely. Someone desperate for cash for a fix who turned destructive when he didn’t find it. No B and E felon would have been that messy. But what about a scare scenario? Some greaseball ordered to divert me from long-hidden mob secrets leaving a “we know where you live” message. Or was it some malevolent sociopath with an issue specifically related to me?
What did the buttons mean?
Why hadn’t Claudel or Charbonneau returned my calls?
Where was Ryan? Why hadn’t he phoned?
Did I give a rat’s ass? Of course I did.
Saturday morning Anne made a trip to Le Faubourg while I dealt with the glass repairman. By noon a new pane was in, the refrigerator was stocked, and the place was reasonably clean.
For reasons my subconscious chooses not share with me, there are certain items I am incapable of discarding. Prescription medicines.
Hey, you never know.
After tomato, cheese, and mayo sandwiches with Anne, I collected every phone book in the house and stacked them beside my computer. Then I pulled out Cyr’s list. Where to begin locating tenants? Work backward or forward?
I started with Cyr’s earliest renters.
From 1976 until 1982 a luggage shop had occupied the space currently in use by Matoub’s pizzeria. The proprietor had been a woman named Sylvie Vasco.
The number on Cyr’s list was answered by a college student living in the McGill ghetto. He had no idea what I was talking about.
Neither the computer nor any directory listed a Sylvie, but together they coughed up seven S. Vascos. One number had been disconnected. Two went unanswered. My fourth call got me a lawyer’s office. My last three were picked up by women. None was named Sylvie or knew of a Vasco named Sylvie or Sylvia.
Circling the two unanswered numbers, I moved on.
From 1982 until 1987 the pizza parlor space had been occupied by a butcher shop named Boucherie Lehaim. Cyr had written the name Abraham Cohen, then made a notation “sp?”
The White Pages listed a zillion Cohens in and around Montreal. They too suggested alternate spellings, including Coen, Cohen, Cohn, Kohen, and Kohn.
Great.
The Yellow Pages listed a Boucherie Lehaim in Hampstead.
No one answered the
Back to Cyr’s list.
Patrick Ockleman and Ilya Fabian had been Cyr’s tenants from 1987 to 1988. The old man had penned the words “queer” and “travel” next to their names.
I found nothing in any directory for the name Ockleman.
Ilya Fabian was listed at an Amherst address in the Gay Village. The phone was answered on the first ring.
I introduced myself and asked if I was speaking with Ilya Fabian.
I was.
I asked if the gentleman was the same Ilya Fabian who had operated a travel agency on Ste-Catherine in the late eighties.
“Yes.” Wary.
I asked if Ockleman and his partner had used or visited the basement of the property during their tenancy.
“You said you’re with the coroner?” Wariness now edged with distaste.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh my God. Was someone dead down there? Was there a body in that cellar?”
What to tell him?
“I’m investigating bones found buried below the floor.”
“Oh my Gawd!”
“The material is probably quite old.”
