Bones to Ashes

We all stared at the face.

Ryan spoke the name.

“Kelly Sicard.”

“Sicard posed for Cormier as Kitty Stanley,” I said.

“Cretaque.”

“The sonovabitch used his photography business to make contact with young girls.” Ryan was thinking out loud. “Then piped them into the skin trade.”

“Probably got a head fee every time he delivered a warm body.” Hippo.

“Maybe. But pedophiles aren’t like your regular criminals for profit. They don’t play just for money. They play for product. It’s an obsession.”

“You think the little perv hooked up girls to grow his collection?”

I jumped in. “Cormier’s motive doesn’t matter. If we’re going to find out what happened to Sicard, or Quincy, or any of his other victims, it’s the buyer we need. The creep who’s producing this filth.”

Ryan and Hippo exchanged glances.

“Bastarache,” I said. “It’s got to be him.”

Hippo ran a hand across his chin.

“Could be she’s right. Bastarache makes his living in the skin trade. Massage parlors, strip joints, prostitution.”

“It’s a short hop into porn,” I said. “Then kiddie porn.”

“Bastarache is a flesh bandit,” Ryan said. “But we’ve got nothing to tie him to this.”

“The contact sheet,” I said.

“He’ll deny knowing anything about it,” Ryan said.

“Even if he does, it’s still kiddie porn.”

Ryan shook his head. “It’s too old.”

“Evangeline worked for him.”

“You’re like an old record.”

“What will it take?”

“A direct link.”

Frustrated, I slumped into my chair and hit Play.

The camera zooms out. Sicard straightens, turns her back, playfully crooks one finger. Follow me.

The camera trails Sicard’s languid stroll across the room.

Still holding the halter straps, Sicard lowers herself onto the mattress. Curls, catlike.

Watching, I wondered what dreams filled her head. Lighted runways? Glossy magazines and red carpet openings?

Sicard smiles conspiratorially. Allows one strap of the halter to fall. A man enters and moves to the bed. Sucking one finger, Sicard looks up and smiles. Rises to her knees, allowing the dress to slip to her waist.

It took until midafternoon. The folder was titled Vintage. The footage was old. Hairstyles and clothing in some scenes suggested the fifties and sixties.

Video file seven. The script was hardly original.

The girl is in her midteens, tall, with center-parted dark hair. She is wearing a black bustier, garter belt, and fish-net hose. She appears ill at ease.

The girl glances to her left. The camera follows as she crosses a room and sits on a bench below and to the right of a window. Again she looks to her left, as though seeking direction. Sunlight falls on her hair.

My eyes drifted to the window framing the girl. Scanned the drapes. The woodwork. The misty landscape beyond the glass.

It took a few moments to register.

Hitting Pause, I studied the screen. Studied the shape. The hazy contour below it.

Somewhere, a million miles away, voices were talking.

I hit Play. Stop. Play.

Rewound. Did it again. And again.

“I’ve got him.” Calm, though my heart was in my throat.

The voices stopped.