the grounds of Le Grand Seminaire, recovery site of a dismembered body years ago. One of the first cases I’d worked with Ryan.
Still no rain, but the barometric pressure was at least a billion. Within blocks I was sweating and breathing hard. The physical exertion felt good. I pounded past the Shriner’s Temple, Dawson College, Westmount Park.
A mile and a half out, I looped back.
This time, no greetings from Birdie. In my hurry to be off, I’d left the door to the study ajar.
The cat and bird were eyeball to eyeball. Though feathers and seed casings littered the floor, neither feline nor avian looked particularly excited. But there’d definitely been action while I was out.
Shooing Birdie from the room, I hurried to the shower.
While I was drying my hair, the brain cells piped in again.
I spritzed Issey Miyake.
Le Maison du Cari is located in a basement on Bishop, across from the Concordia University library. Ben, the owner, remembers the preferences of each of his regulars. No question about mine. Ben’s korma is so rich it prompts a smile from the most jaded diner.
Descending the steps, I saw the top of Ryan’s head through the small front window. Dimly. Curry, brilliant. Tandoori, phenomenal. Windex, forget it.
Ryan was drinking Newcastle ale and munching papadum. I’d barely taken my seat when a Diet Coke hit the table. Lots of ice. Slice of lime. Perfect.
After hearing news of Ben’s daughter in Sweden, we ordered. Chicken vindaloo. Lamb korma. Channa masala. Cucumber raita. Naan.
Conversation launched from the neutral ground of Phoebe Jane Quincy.
“We may have a lead. Kid didn’t have a mobile, but the best friend did. Finally ’fessed up to allowing Phoebe to make calls she couldn’t make at home. Records showed one unfamiliar number. Dialed eight times in the past three months.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Photography studio. Low end, over on the Plateau. Rented to a guy named Stanislas Cormier.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed. “Cormier was promising to make the kid a supermodel.”
“The friend told you?”
Ryan nodded. “Quincy pictured herself the next Tyra Banks.”
“You picked Cormier up?”
“Spent a lovely afternoon interrogating the dolt. He’s innocent as Bambi.”
“His explanation for the calls?”
“Claims Quincy found him in the Yellow Pages. Wanted a photo shoot. Upstanding citizen asked her age, heard thirteen, told her no go without a parent.”
“She called eight times.”
“Cormier says she was persistent.”
“You believe him?”
“What do you think?”
“Did he take the Marilyn shot?”
“Claims to know nothing about it.”
“Can you hold him?”
“We’ll find a charge.”
“What now?”
“Waiting for a warrant. Once it’s issued, we toss the studio.”
“What about LaManche’s Lac des Deux Montagnes floater? Anything pop with the new info I gave you on age and race?”
“She’s not in CPIC or NCIC.”
The food arrived. Ryan ordered another Newcastle. As we served ourselves, I remembered something from our earlier conversation.
“Didn’t you say Kelly Sicard also wanted to be a model?”
“Yeah.” Ryan forked curry into his mouth. “Fancy that.”
