“Probably amuse themselves making fart noises under their armpits.”
I wasn’t convinced that it was that casual.
The men knew we’d visited Obeline. Knew we’d come from Montreal. How? Had they been following us? Was Cheech’s parting comment a threat or merely a macho adieu? Not wishing to alarm, I kept these concerns to myself.
Back at the condo, Birdie remained hidden, cheesed off at having been left alone. I was dumping my overnighter on my bed when Harry called out.
“Your bird’s a Korn fan?”
“What did he say?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Though Charlie’s quips weren’t always approved for all audiences, I couldn’t help but admire the breadth of his material. I was transporting him to the dining room when my cell phone chirped.
Depositing the cage, I checked the screen. No caller ID.
I clicked on.
“How’s it going?” Ryan sounded tired.
“Good.” Neutral.
“Got a minute?”
“Hang on.”
“Do you have everything you need?” I asked Harry.
She mouthed “Ryan?”
I nodded.
She arm-pumped “Yes!”
Shaking my head, I walked to my bedroom and closed the door.
“Do you listen to Korn?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Black Eyed Peas?”
“No. Why?”
“Never mind.”
“Someone there at your place?”
Ryan was good. Two queries in one casual question. Am I home? Am I alone?
“Harry’s here.”
“Unplanned trip?” Query three.
“She’s split with her husband.”
I heard a deep inhalation followed by a slow exhalation. Ryan was smoking. That meant he was anxious. Or angry. I braced for a rant about my trip to Tracadie. It didn’t come.
“I need your help.”
I waited.
“Warrant came through, so we tossed Cormier’s studio. Took all friggin’ day to get through maybe an eighth of the file cabinets. Guy’s got crap going back decades.”
“He doesn’t store his images digitally?”
“Dickhead thinks he’s Ansel Adams. Claims digital can’t capture the same ethereal quality as film. Uses a Hasselblad that went out of production sometime in the eighties. The guy’s probably too thick to keep up with technology.”
“There are other photographers who agree with him.”
“Cormier does mostly portraits. Couples. Pets. Lots of women. Glamour shots. You know, heavy makeup, big hair.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You should try that. Maybe with a boa.”
“Is that what you called to tell me?”
“Cormier also did kids. Hundreds of them.”
“Phoebe Jane Quincy?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Kelly Sicard?”
“No.”
