I remembered that case, too. “The girl was eventually buried as a Jane Doe.”
Ryan nodded, moved up in time.
“Two thousand two. MP number two. Claudine Cloquet pedals her Schwinn three-speed through a wooded area in Saint-Lazare-Sud. Claudine is twelve and mildly retarded. The bike is found two days later. Claudine is not.”
“An unlikely runaway.”
“Father’s sketchy, but alibis out. So does the rest of the family. Father’s since died, mother’s been hospitalized twice for depression.
“Two thousand four. MP number three. September first. Anne Girardin disappears from her Blainville home in the middle of the night.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. “Kid’s ten years old.”
“Pretty young to take off on her own.”
“But not unheard of. And this was a streetwise ten-year-old. Again, the old man’s a loser, but nothing’s found to tie him to the disappearance. Ditto for the rest of the household. A canvass of the neighborhood turns up zip.”
We both fell silent, recalling the massive search for Anne Girardin. Amber Alert. SQ. SPVM. Tracker dogs. Local volunteers. Personnel from NCECC, the National Child Exploitation Coordination Center. Nothing was found. Subsequent tips all proved bogus.
“And now I’ve got DOA number three, the Lac des Deux Montagnes floater.”
“Six girls. Three recovered in or near water. Three missing and unlikely to be runaways,” I summarized. “Any other links?”
Again, a tensing in Ryan’s jaw. “We may have a fourth MP. Phoebe Jane Quincy, age thirteen. Lives in Westmount. Missing since leaving home for a dance lesson day before last.”
Ryan took a photo from his pocket and placed it on the table. A girl mimicking Marilyn in
Thirteen?
“Who took this picture?”
“Parents have no idea. Found it hidden in the bottom of a dresser drawer. We’re looking into it.”
I stared at the photo. Though not overtly sexual, the image was disturbing.
“Her friends say she wants to be a model,” Ryan said.
She could be, I thought, studying the slender form, long hair, and luminous green eyes.
“A lot of little girls want to be models,” I said.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Kelly Sicard also had runway dreams,” Ryan said.
“Slim lead.” I slid the photo back toward Ryan.
“Slim beats none,” Ryan said.
We discussed the cases for a few more minutes. Mostly, I listened.
Ryan isn’t rattled by violence or death. He sees both frequently, has learned to mask his emotions. But I know the man. Know that the abuse of those powerless to protect themselves affects him deeply. It affects me, too. I was keenly aware of my feelings at that moment, having spent the past hours with the bones of a child.
Though Ryan claimed only fatigue, I could see through to the sadness and frustration. Fair enough. Comes with the job. But did I sense something else? Was some further factor contributing to Ryan’s agitation, robbing him of his usual lightheartedness, goading him to smoke? Was I being paranoid?
After a while, Ryan signaled for a check.
Returning to the lot, I started my Mazda and pointed the headlights for home. I needed to rest. To shower. To think.
Needed a drink I couldn’t have.
Turning west onto Rene-Levesque, I lowered a window. The air was warm and moist and unnaturally heavy, the sky a black screen on which occasional flickers of lightning danced.
The night smelled of rain.
A storm would soon break.
9
T HE NEXT DAY PASSED WITHOUT WORD FROM HIPPO OR RYAN. Harry was another story. Little sister had made appointments to view a downtown Houston penthouse, a horse ranch in Harris County, and beachfront property at South Padre Island. I suggested she take time to ponder what she truly wanted post- Arnoldo, instead of impulsively chasing around southeast Texas hoping for inspiration. She suggested I lighten up. I’m paraphrasing.
I slogged through the mess in my office, then resumed teasing dirt from the Rimouski remains. I often give nicknames to my unknowns. Somehow, it personalizes them for me. Though he’d been only marginally involved in
