Monday Mourning

“Any word from your friend?”

“No.”

I shifted my feet. Unzipped my parka. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. My legs. My arms. I felt awkward and uncomfortable with Ryan. I wasn’t sure I could manage conversation with him.

“Rough night?” Ryan asked.

“Why the sudden interest in my sleep patterns?”

“You look tired.”

I looked at Ryan. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper, his whole face more clenched.

What the hell’s going on with you? I wanted to ask.

“I’ve got a number of things on my plate,” I said.

Ryan put a finger to the tip of my nose. “Don’t we all.”

Twenty minutes later we were on Cyr’s porch.

Ryan had phoned ahead, and Cyr answered on the first ring. This time the old coot was fully clothed.

In the living room, Cyr took the same recliner he’d occupied during my visit with Anne.

Ole Hopalong.

Put it away, Brennan.

I introduced Ryan and let him do the talking.

“Monsieur Cyr, nous avon—”

“Speak English for the little lady.” Cyr grinned at me. “Where’s that good-looking friend of yours?”

“Anne’s gone home.”

Cyr cocked his head. “She’s a pistol, that one.”

“This will just take a moment.” Ryan pulled the fax from his pocket and handed it to Cyr. “Is that Stephen Menard?”

“Who?”

“Stephane Menard. The man who ran the pawnshop in your building.”

Cyr glanced at the fax.

“Tabernouche! I may look like Bogie, but I’m eighty-two years old.”

Cyr pushed to his feet, shuffled across the room, and turned on the TV. Picking up a large, boxy lens attached by a cord to the back of the set, he flipped a button and scanned the fax.

Menard’s face filled the screen.

“That’s terrific,” I said.

“Videolupe. Great little gadget. Magnifies so I can read just about everything.”

Cyr moved the lens casually over the photo, then focused on Menard’s ear. The image zoomed until the upper edge of the helix almost filled the screen.

“Nope.” Cyr straightened. “That’s not your boy.”

“How do you know?” I was astonished at his certainty.

Cyr lay down the lens, shuffled back, and crooked a finger at me.

I stood.

“See that?” Cyr fingered a small bump of cartilage on the upper part of his ear’s outer rim.

“A Darwin’s tubercle,” I said.

Cyr straightened. “Smart lady.”

Ryan was watching us, a look of confusion on his face.

“Never knew anybody had bumps like mine, so one time I showed them to my doctor. He told me it was a recessive trait, gave me some articles.” Cyr flicked his ear. “Know how these little buggers got their name?”

“They were once thought to be a vestige of pointed ears on quadrupeds.”

Cyr bounced on his toes, delighted.

“What does this have to do with Menard?” Ryan asked.

“Menard had the biggest bastards I’ve ever seen. I teased him about it. Told him one day I’d find him grazing on trees or eating small furry things in the basement. He wasn’t amused.”

Ryan rose. “And the man in the photo?”

Cyr held out the fax. “No bumps.”

At the door, Ryan paused.