Part 9 (1/2)
Walking downhill through Place Jacques-Cartier, I pa.s.sed old stone buildings now housing souvenir shops, restaurants, and bars. Tourists and locals filled the outdoor terraces and wandered the square. A stilt-walking busker juggled b.a.l.l.s and told jokes. Another played spoons and sang.
Turning onto cobbled Rue Saint-Paul, I smelled fish and oil wafting off the river. Though I couldn't see it, I knew Ryan's home was on the far sh.o.r.e. My view? Habitat 67 resembles a huge cubist sculpture, like the cross on Mont Royal, better appreciated from afar than up close.
Ryan hadn't arrived when I entered the coffee shop. Choosing a rear table, I ordered a decaf cappuccino. Ryan joined me as the waitress delivered it. In moments she was back with his double espresso.
”You planning an all-nighter?” Nodding toward Ryan's high-test selection.
”I brought files home.”
No invite there, cowgirl. I waited until Ryan was ready to begin.
”I'll take it chronologically. For the cold cases, there are three missing persons and two unidentified corpses. This week's Lac des Deux Montagnes floater raises the un-ID'd body count to three.”
Ryan stirred sugar into his espresso.
”Nineteen ninety-seven. MP number one. Kelly Sicard, eighteen, lives with her parents in Rosemere. March twelfth, one-forty A.M A.M., she leaves a group of drinking buddies to catch a bus home. She never makes it.”
”The buddies checked out?”
”And the family and the boyfriend.”
Ryan sipped. His hand looked jarringly male holding the tiny white cup.
”Nineteen ninety-nine. DOA number one. The body of an adolescent female is snagged by a boat propeller in the Riviere des Mille iles. You worked the case with LaManche.”
I remembered. ”The corpse was putrefied. I estimated the girl was white, age fourteen or fifteen. We did a facial reconstruction, but she was never ID'd. The bones are in my storage room.”
”That's the one.”
Ryan knocked back the remainder of his espresso.
”Two thousand one. DOA number two. A teenaged girl is found in Dorval, on the sh.o.r.e below the Forest and Stream supper club. According to LaManche, the body's been in the river less than forty-eight hours. He does an autopsy, concludes the girl was dead when she hit the water, finds no evidence of shooting, stabbing, or bludgeoning. Pictures are circulated throughout the province. No takers.”
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 r.e.t.a.r.ded. 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 canva.s.s of the neighborhood turns up zip.”
We both fell silent, recalling the ma.s.sive 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 The Seven Year Itch, The Seven Year Itch, dress ballooning around her. Backlighting outlined the thin figure through the diaphanous white fabric. dress ballooning around her. Backlighting outlined the thin figure through the diaphanous white fabric.
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 s.e.xual, 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.