Part 36 (1/2)
”Any success locating Adelaide Girardin?”
”I'm running some leads. But right now Cormier's taking center stage. Hit fell to me because he's a player in the Phoebe Quincy disappearance.”
”Have you told Phoebe's parents?”
”No. I'm really looking forward to that conversation. Cormier was all we had. But the good news is his murder gives us the thumb drive. All that subpoena c.r.a.p is now history.”
I started to speak, halted. Ryan picked up on my hesitation.
”What?”
”Your plate's already full.”
”Tell me.”
”It may be nothing.”
”Let me decide.”
”I mentioned it to Hippo, but thought maybe you'd want a heads-up, too.”
”You plan to get to it sometime today?” Friendly enough.
I described the anonymous phone call at the lab, and the e-mail containing the photo and Death lyrics.
”Fernand Colbert hit a dead end tracing the call. He's not optimistic about the e-mail.”
”You're thinking one of the two slugs who ha.s.sled you in Tracadie?”
”Who else could it be?”
”You have a way of irking people.”
”I work on it.”
”You're good.”
”Thanks.”
”Leave this to me.”
”My hero.”
Humor intended. Neither of us laughed. New topic.
”I've resolved the issue of Hippo's girl,” I said, unconsciously using my nickname for the case.
”Hippo's girl?”
”The skeleton I ordered confiscated by the coroner in Rimouski. The one that had upset Hippo's friend Gaston.”
”Yeah?”
”The bones are probably old.”
”Not your lost chum.”
”No. When you have time, I'll fill you in. Or Hippo can.”
”You two kiss and make up?”
”Hippo's not one to bear grudges.”
”Unload, move on. Healthy.”
”Yes.”
Again, awkwardness hummed across the line.
”Tell Hippo I'll help with Cormier's files tomorrow.”
”I'll let you know what I dig up on these Tracadie thugs.”
He did. Sooner than I would have imagined possible.
Sunday morning, the long-promised rain finally arrived. I awoke to water streaking my bedroom windows, warping the courtyard and the city beyond. Wind tossed the branches of the tree outside, now and then mashed a leaf into the screening with a soft ticking sound.
While Harry slept, I set off for Cormier's studio.
As I drove across town, my wipers slapped a rubbery beat on the winds.h.i.+eld. My thoughts kept time to the rhythm of the blades. Cormier's dead. Cormier's dead. Cormier's dead. Cormier's dead. Cormier's dead. Cormier's dead.
I didn't yet know the reason for the photographer's murder. Knew it wasn't good news.
Sliding to the curb on Rachel, I raised the hood on my sweats.h.i.+rt and sprinted. The building's outer door was unlocked. The inner door was propped open with a rolled copy of Le Journal de Montreal Le Journal de Montreal. I a.s.sumed Hippo was already at work.
Brus.h.i.+ng water from my hair, I crossed the dingy lobby. A sign hung on the door of Dr. Brigault's dental office. Ferme. Ferme. Closed. Closed.
I started climbing toward the second floor. The storm made the stairwell seem darker, more menacing than on my previous visit. The erratic wind filled it with a hollow, ululating whine.
As I continued upward, the narrow pa.s.sage grew dimmer and dimmer. I stopped, allowed my brain to take this in. What little light was penetrating was doing so from below.
I looked up. One bare bulb jutted from high in the wall. It was dark. Making the turn, I leaned over the railing and checked the bulb on the second floor. It, too, was dark.
Had the storm knocked out the power?
At that moment, I sensed movement above.
”Hippo?”