“Meaning?”
“They’re conservative. What else did these neighbors say?”
“Not much. Apparently Menard kept to himself, only ventured out to buy groceries or fill up on gas.”
“Talk to Chico. Dig up everything you can on this guy. And get a list of every female aged fifteen to twenty-five who went missing in the area while Menard was out there.”
“You really liking Menard for these pizza skeletons?”
“It’s the classic profile. Dominating mother. Failed ambition. A loner. An isolated location.”
“I don’t know.”
“Connect the dots, Charbonneau. Three girls were buried in the basement of a property Menard rented for nine years. Carbon 14 dating suggests that the timing of their deaths coincides with the period of Menard’s tenancy. Louise Parent was sufficiently suspicious of Menard to phone me twice.”
I was summarizing as much for Ryan’s sake as for Charbonneau’s.
“According to her sister, what Parent wanted to tell me was that on one occasion she had observed Menard carrying an unconscious teenaged girl into his shop. On another occasion she had observed Menard dragging a fleeing girl back into his shop. Both incidents took place late at night.”
“And Parent is now dead,” Charbonneau said.
I looked at Ryan. He was following every word.
“And Parent is now dead,” I said.
“Bring out the party hats. We may all be working the same patch.”
“Looks that way.”
“Ryan there?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
I handed Ryan the phone, then watched as he listened to Charbonneau. Though my nerves were high- stepping, I kept my face neutral. No hint of the jolt Charbonneau had just given me. No hint of the pain Charbonneau had triggered on Monday. No hint of the torture last night’s phone call had been.
I’d vowed to distance myself from Ryan, but all the threads were starting to connect. With the Parent and pizza basement investigations merging, professional separation would not yet be possible.
“Yeah, she is.” Ryan chuckled the chuckle men use when sharing a joke about women.
Paranoia roared. She is
Forget it, Brennan. Focus on the case. Keep your energy pointed there.
I pictured the bones in their anonymous cellar graves, Menard buying and selling above in his shop. Electronics stolen for a drug hit. Family heirlooms tendered with regret.
I pictured Menard in Vermont, hoeing peas and potatoes. Menard in California, studying Struever, Binford, Buikstra, Fagan.
An ill-defined thought tried to get my attention.
Chico.
“—got it right here.” Ryan rotated the napkin to read Menard’s address.
Chico is in north-central California. I know that. So why the heads-up from my hindbrain?
That wasn’t it. There was something more. What?
“Will do,” Ryan said.
Charbonneau said something.
“Yeah. Squeeze the squirrel a little. See how he reacts.”
Ryan clicked off and handed me my phone.
“You up for a little chat with this guy?”
“Menard?”
Ryan nodded.
“Definitely.”
The hindbrain thought seemed to relax slightly.
As Ryan and I left the restaurant we had no idea we were being watched.
26
THE MAP OF MONTREAL MAKES ME THINK OF A FOOT, WITH Dorval Airport and the west island suburbs forming the ankle, the toes pointing east, and the heel dropping down into the Fleuve St-Laurent. Verdun forms
