Bones to Ashes

“Call her again.”

I did. Voice mail.

“She’ll never find Malo’s place,” Ryan said.

“She has GPS on her phone.”

Ryan’s eyes met mine.

“Reach in back and hand me that LED.”

Unclasping my belt, I swiveled and lifted a portable strobe from the floor.

“Clip it onto your sun visor.”

I secured the light with its Velcro straps.

“Plug the cord into the lighter.”

I did.

Ryan flipped the high beams to alternating flash.

“Lower the visor and flick that switch.”

I did. The LED started pulsating red.

Ryan hit the siren and mashed pedal to metal.

40

A SIREN AND STROBE WILL GET YOU WHERE YOU’RE GOING. Pronto.

Two hours after leaving Ile d’Orleans, Ryan and I were closing in on Montreal. The return journey had definitely kept my attention. I rode with palms flat to the dash and side window, lurching and bouncing as Ryan accelerated and braked.

L’Ile-Bizard lies northwest of Montreal, at the western tip of the town of Laval. Crossing onto the island, Ryan cut to the forty, diagonaled southwest through the city, then shot north on Boulevard Saint-Jean.

Off Pierrefonds, we winged right and rocketed across the pont Jacques-Bizard. At midbridge, Ryan killed the lights and siren.

Most of L’Ile-Bizard is taken up by golf courses and the nature preserve, but a few neighborhoods straggle the periphery, some old, some new and so far upmarket the prices would never be broadcast. Malo’s street was just past a small tangle on the island’s southern edge.

Ryan slowed as we passed Rustique, but didn’t turn. Thirty feet down, he made a U-ey, doubled back, and crept by for a second look.

The street appeared to be strictly residential. Large old homes. Large old trees. I saw no one moving among them.

Again reversing direction on Cherrier, Ryan slid to the curb, positioning the Impala for optimal surveillance. His optimal surveillance. I had to crane around him to see.

Rustique was one block long, with what looked like a small park at the far end. Six houses on the left. Six on the right. Set far back on deep, narrow lots, the frame structures all looked tired, in need of paint and probably plumbing and wiring.

A number of residents had taken a shot at lawn care and gardening. Some were enjoying more success than others. Outside one faded Victorian was a carved wooden plaque saying 4 Chez Lizot.

“It’s like Bastarache’s setup in Tracadie,” I said.

“How so?”

“Dead-end street. Back to the river.”

Ryan didn’t reply. He’d pulled binoculars from the glove compartment and was scanning up one side and down the other, assessing.

I looked past him again. Three cars were snugged to the curb, one near Cherrier, one at midblock, one farther down by the park.

The Lizot’s sign suggested even numbers were on the right. I counted from the corner.

“Number thirteen has to be that double lot last on the left.” I couldn’t actually see much. Malo’s property was surrounded by six-foot chain linking overgrown with vines. Through gaps in the foliage I could make out pine, cedar hedges, and one enormous dead elm.

“Love what he’s done with the landscaping.” My anxiety was fueling imbecilic jokes.

Ryan didn’t laugh. He was punching buttons on his phone.

“Can you read Malo’s sign?” I asked.

“Prenez garde au chien.”

Beware of the dog. No joke there.

“I need you to run three DBQ’s, type one.” Ryan was asking for a trace on auto licenses, speaking, I assumed, with the desk officer at SQ headquarters. He waited, then read the plate number off a beat-to-hell Mercury Grand Marquis parked just down from Cherrier.