Part 12 (1/2)
”The lady's not into the power of sisterhood,” Ryan said.
”She acted like I wasn't there,” I agreed.
”You were,” Ryan said.
”I thought so,” I said.
”She's definitely not one of Purviance's fans.”
”No.”
Ryan started the engine and pulled from the curb.
”I'd say I'm pretty good at character a.n.a.lysis,” he said.
”I'd say that's a fair a.s.sessment,” I agreed.
”But I can't figure Miriam. One moment she's bereaved. The next she's broadcasting this f.u.c.k-you att.i.tude. Protecting something?”
”She was perspiring,” I said ”On a cold day,” Ryan said.
We rolled to a stop at the corner.
”Now what?” Ryan asked.
”You're the detective,” I said.
”The gun was an orphan. Can't trace it. My canva.s.s of Ferris's neighbors in the industrial park turned up zip. Ditto for statements by family and business a.s.sociates. I'm still waiting for tax records and a phone dump on the warehouse. I've got a Kessler query into every synagogue in town.”
”Sounds like you've been doing some serious detecting.”
”I've been detecting my a.s.s off, but progress is halting,” Ryan said.
”What now?”
”SIJ's still working the scene. Purviance is still checking to see if anything was stolen. That leaves lunch.”
I'd barely settled with my Whopper when my cell phone warbled. It was Jake Drum. This time the connection was clear.
”You actually diverted to Paris?” I asked, then mouthed the name Jake Drum to Ryan.
”No big deal. Instead of driving to Toronto and catching a flight to Tel Aviv, I'm connecting through Charles de Gaulle.”
”The skeleton's that important?”
”It could be huge.”
”What have you learned?”
Ryan partially unwrapped my burger and handed it to me. I took a one-handed bite.
”My hunch was right,” Jake said. ”A Masada skeleton arrived at the Musee de l'Homme in November of 1963. I located a specimen file and an accession number.”
”Go on.”
”What are you eating?”
”Whopper.”
”Fast food is sacrilege in a city like Montreal.”
”It's fast.”
”The gastronomic slippery slope.”
I compounded the blasphemy with a sip of Diet c.o.ke.
”Are the bones still there?”
”No.” Jake sounded frustrated.
”No?”
I went for more Whopper. Ketchup dribbled my chin. Ryan blotted it with a napkin.
”I found a woman named Marie-Nicole Varin who helped inventory collections in the early seventies. Varin recalls coming across a Masada skeleton. But it's not at the museum now. We searched everywhere.”
”No one's seen it since the seventies?”
”No.”
”Aren't records kept on the movement of every specimen?”
”Should be. The rest of that file's missing.”
”What's the museum's explanation?”
”C'est la vie. Few of the current staff were here back then. Varin did the inventory with a graduate student named Yossi Lerner. She thinks Lerner may still be in Paris. And here's an interesting twist. Varin thinks Lerner's either American or Canadian.” Few of the current staff were here back then. Varin did the inventory with a graduate student named Yossi Lerner. She thinks Lerner may still be in Paris. And here's an interesting twist. Varin thinks Lerner's either American or Canadian.”
That stopped the Whopper midway to my mouth.
”I'm trying to track him down.”
”Bonne chance,” I said. I said.
”I'll need more than luck.”