“Uh. Huh.”
“I’ll return it.”
“I never doubted that.”
The sun was arcing down, turning the windshield opaque with salty slush thrown up by the cars ahead. We fell silent as Ryan concentrated on driving.
“Could explain the antique buttons,” I said, as we crossed the Lachine Canal and wound onto de la Montagne.
“Could.”
I had a sudden thought.
“The forgery,” I said, turning to Ryan.
“You think Menard was helping customers round out their collections by doing a little manufacturing on his own?”
“Maybe that’s what he thinks we’re investigating. Maybe that’s why he was so nervous.”
“It’s a possibility,” Ryan said.
I had another thought.
“Or maybe Menard stumbled onto the skeletons but kept it to himself, thinking he might sell the bones to a collector someday. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to trade in human skeletal parts in Canada.”
“Another possibility.”
I settled back. “My gut tells me it’s more than that.”
“If the guy’s got baggage, I’ll find it.”
“Menard was definitely not glad to see us.”
“Exuded all the warmth of an autopsy room. Which reminds me. Where would you like to go?”
“The lab.”
I dialed my condo to check on Anne’s schedule but got no answer. I left a message for her to call me.
Twenty minutes later I was at my desk.
Ryan had promised to take the letter opener to SIJ. Either he or a tech would call if they were able to pull up latents.
For as long as I’ve known her, Anne has steadfastly insisted she dislikes Indian cuisine. I called again to propose dinner at La Maison du Cari, certain their lamb korma would change her mind.
Still no answer. Second message.
Two printouts lay on my blotter. The longer was Claudel’s list of girls who’d gone missing in Quebec. The shorter was Charbonneau’s list of those who’d disappeared in north-central California.
I started with the former.
One by one I worked my way through the names, excluding any girl whose profile was inconsistent with the pizza basement skeletons. A serious headache was kicking in by the time I came to Manon Violette.
Manon Violette had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.
I sat forward, feeling a sudden rush of excitement.
The girl in Dr. Energy’s crate had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.
Barely breathing, I read the details.
Manon Violette had disappeared nine years earlier after leaving her home in Longueuil to take a bus to Centre-ville.
Violette was white.
Violette was fifteen years old.
The next entry punched me in the sternum.
Manon Violette stood only fifty-eight inches tall.
Damn!
I’d estimated the Dr. Energy girl’s stature at sixty-two inches.
Could I have been that far off?
I fired into the lab and checked.
Nope. Dr. Energy’s girl was tiny. But not that tiny. Even considering the error factor, 38426 was too tall.
What about 38427? I’d estimated her age at fifteen to seventeen, her height at sixty-four to sixty-seven inches.
I pulled out the skull and checked the teeth.
An orthodontist’s dream. Perfect alignment. No rotations.
