Ryan and I must have looked surprised.
“Lady’s got kids. Prefers to discuss her good times in show biz away from the fam.”
Le Cafe Sainte-Anne was a typical Quebec truck stop. Counter. Vinyl booths. Sun-faded curtains. Tired waitress. At that time of night the place was pretty much empty.
Though she was older, and the amber hair was short, Kelly was recognizable from her pictures. Same blue eyes and Brooke Shields brows. She was in a back booth, a half cup of hot chocolate on the table before her. She wasn’t smiling.
Ryan flashed his badge. Kelly nodded without bothering to look.
Ryan and I sat. He began in French.
“A lot of people have been looking for you, Kelly.”
“It’s Karine now. Karine Pitre.” She answered in English, barely above a whisper.
“We’re not interested in jamming you up.”
“Yeah? My past makes the papers, it won’t be real easy setting up play dates.”
“You know what they say about reaping and sowing.”
“I was young and stupid. I’ve been out of that life for almost eight years. My daughters know nothing about it.” As she spoke her eyes scanned the cafe. I could tell she was jumpy and on edge.
A waitress appeared at our table. Her name was Johanne. Ryan and I asked for coffee. Karine ordered another hot chocolate.
“I’ll do my best to keep this discreet,” Ryan said when Johanne had gone. “Our interest isn’t in you.”
Karine relaxed a little. “Then what?”
“David Bastarache.”
“What about him?”
Ryan drilled her with the butane blues. “You tell us.”
“Bastarache owns bars.” Again, Karine’s eyes ran the room. “I danced in one of them. Le Chat Rouge in Moncton. That’s where I met my husband.”
“When’s the last time you saw Bastarache?”
“Sometime before I quit. It was cool. Mr. Bastarache didn’t have any beef with me.”
“That it, Karine? Just dirty dancing?”
Johanne returned and distributed mugs and spoons. Karine waited her out.
“I know what you’re getting at. But turning tricks wasn’t my thing. All I did was strip.”
“Never flashed a little tit on film?”
Karine lifted her mug, set it down without drinking. I noticed a tremor in her hand.
“Tell us about Stanislas Cormier,” Ryan said.
Karine’s eyes crawled to me. “Who’s she?”
“My partner. Stanislas Cormier?”
“You guys are thorough.”
“Not as thorough as we could be.”
“I was fifteen. I wanted to be a Spice Girl.” She swirled her hot chocolate. “Wanted to live in Hollywood and appear in
“Go on.”
“I went to Cormier to have a composite made. You know, glamour-shot stuff. I’d read an article saying that was the way to break into acting and modeling. What did I know? During the shoot we got to talking. Cormier offered to hook me up with an agent.”
“If you agreed to some questionable poses.”
“It seemed harmless.”
“Was it?”
She shook her head.
“Go on.”
“It’s hard to talk about.”
“Try.”
Karine’s eyes stayed on her mug. “A man called about a week after my sitting, said he had a small part for me in a film called
Karine shook her head sadly. Mourning what? I wondered. Her lost parents? Lost youth? Lost dreams of stardom?
“The man took me to a rat bag motel. I wore moccasins while a guy in a loincloth fucked me. I got fifty
