“What’s Tui Na?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Hippo was unlocking Cormier’s studio when Ryan and I clomped onto the second-floor landing. At his feet sat a cardboard tray holding a white paper bag and three plastic-lidded cups.
During my brief absence in New Brunswick, Montreal’s heat spell had soldiered on undiminished. The cramped hall was cooking, the air reeking of dust and mildew.
Pushing open the door, Hippo pulled a hanky from his pocket and wiped sweat from his face. Then he looked at me.
“Jet-lagged?” he asked, not kindly.
Not waiting for an answer, he squatted, scooped the tray from the threadbare carpet, and disappeared into the flat.
“What was that all about?” Ryan asked.
I shook my head.
I’d telephoned Hippo from the Moncton airport, but as we were leaving, not when we’d arrived. His displeasure was apparent. He’d asked for detailed descriptions of Cheech and Chong, then rung off abruptly.
Cormier’s apartment was what Montreal realtors call a four-and-a-half. He used the large living-dining room in front for his shoots. Arranged next to the walls were various types of photographic equipment. Lights. Backdrops. Meters. Sheets of colored plastic.
One bedroom functioned as an office, the other was strictly for storage. I estimated the rooms held maybe forty file cabinets between them.
The larger bathroom had been converted to a darkroom. The source, I assumed, of the vaguely acrid odor permeating the flat. Curling irons, blow-dryers, and lighted mirrors suggested the smaller bathroom served as a makeup and changing area.
The tiny kitchen retained its original function. There, we had sticky buns and coffee, and discussed strategy.
“How are the cabinets organized?” I asked.
“They got drawers. Each drawer’s stuffed with folders.”
Ryan’s brows lifted at Hippo’s sarcasm, but he said nothing.
“Are the folders arranged alphabetically by client name? By date? By category?” I spoke patiently, a parent to a derisive teen.
“My best assessment, Cormier’s system went something like this. Done. Paid. Shove it in the drawer.” The rusty voice was cool.
“So he separated paid from unpaid accounts?”
“Convoluted, eh?” Hippo reached for his third sticky bun. “Probably take some air travel to crack this baby.”
Ryan jumped in. “Cormier kept an in-basket on his desk for open accounts. Otherwise, his filing doesn’t seem to follow any pattern.”
“The cabinets should at least reflect a rough chronology, right?”
“They’re not that old,” Ryan said. “At some point, Cormier must have transferred materials from elsewhere. Looks like he just shoved crap into drawers.”
The strategy we settled upon went something like this. Take a cabinet. Work from top to bottom, front to back. Pull any file in which the subject was young and female.
Who says detective work isn’t complex?
Though Ryan opened windows in the parlor and kitchen, little breeze penetrated to the windowless bedrooms in the back of the flat. Four hours into the task, my eyes itched and my shirt was saturated.
Cormier had stored many of his records in large brown or blue envelopes. The rest he’d placed in standard manila jackets, the kind you buy at Staples.
And Ryan was right. The guy was lazy. In some drawers he hadn’t even bothered to set the files upright, choosing instead to dump them flat in piles.
Most envelopes were marked with the client’s name in black felt-tip pen. Most file folders were labeled on their tabs. Both envelopes and folders contained contact sheets and negatives in shiny paper sleeves. Some contact sheets bore dates. Others did not. Some files held photocopies of checks. Others did not.
By early afternoon, I’d stared at hundreds of faces frozen in variations on “I’m so happy” or “I’m so sexy.” Some had caused me to linger, pondering that moment when Cormier clicked the shutter.
Had this woman curled her hair and glossed her lips for a disinterested husband? Was her head filled with hopes of rekindled romance?
Was this child thinking of Harry Potter? Of her puppy? Of the ice cream she’d been promised for cheerful compliance?
Though I’d set several folders aside, solicited the opinion of Hippo or Ryan, in the end, I’d added each to my stack of rejects. Some resemblance, but no match. The girls were not among the cold case MP’s or DOA’s of which I was aware.
Hippo was shuffling paper on the far side of the room. Now and then he’d stop to Dristan a nostril or swallow a Tums. Ryan was across the hall in Cormier’s office. It had been almost an hour since either had sought my opinion.
