Part 16 (1/2)

No way, an optimist faction countered. an optimist faction countered.

The pessimists floated an image. Annie Hall Annie Hall. Alvie and Annie separating belongings.

We'd never lived together, but I'd spent nights at Ryan's place, he at mine. Had possessions migrated? Did Ryan want to talk about reclaiming CD's?

I began a mental list of objects at my condo. The wine opener. A toothbrush. A bottle of Boucheron aftershave.

Charlie?

He's over the marital status thing.

He's outta here.

Why the hug?

He's h.o.r.n.y.

”That's it.” I hit the radio.

Garou was crooning ”Seul.” Alone.

I snapped it off.

Birdie greeted me by flopping onto one side, stretching all four limbs, and rotating to his back. Ryan called the maneuver his ”drop and roll.”

I scratched the cat's belly. He must have felt tension in my touch. Popping to his feet, he regarded me, eyes yellow and round.

Partly Ryan. Partly Obeline. And partly being afloat on coffee.

”Sorry, big guy. Got a lot on my mind.”

Hearing my voice, Charlie weighed in. ”...love drunk off my hump.”

Black Eyed Peas. Good job with the training disc, Ryan.

But why that line?

When its battery dies, my smoke alarm shrills until a replacement is inserted. This occurred once on a weekend when I'd left Charlie alone. The c.o.c.katiel shrilled for the next three months.

It's the rhythm, I told myself. Not the lyrics.

I popped in the c.o.c.katiel training CD, filled seed and water dishes, and fed the cat. Then I wandered from room to room, each time forgetting the point of my going.

I needed exercise.

Lacing on running shoes, I jogged up the hill, then turned west. On the opposite side of Sherbrooke sprawled 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.

Mascara and blush.

Tart yourself up for yesterday's news?

Smart looks, smart thoughts.

Puh-leeze!

I spritzed Issey Miyake.

Trollop.

Le Maison du Cari is located in a bas.e.m.e.nt 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 c.o.ke 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. Cuc.u.mber 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?”