Part 43 (1/2)
”You think the little perv hooked up girls to grow his collection?”
I jumped in. ”Cormier's motive doesn't matter. If we're going to find out what happened to Sicard, or Quincy, or any of his other victims, it's the buyer we need. The creep who's producing this filth.”
Ryan and Hippo exchanged glances.
”Bastarache,” I said. ”It's got to be him.”
Hippo ran a hand across his chin.
”Could be she's right. Bastarache makes his living in the skin trade. Ma.s.sage parlors, strip joints, prost.i.tution.”
”It's a short hop into p.o.r.n,” I said. ”Then kiddie p.o.r.n.”
”Bastarache is a flesh bandit,” Ryan said. ”But we've got nothing to tie him to this.”
”The contact sheet,” I said.
”He'll deny knowing anything about it,” Ryan said.
”Even if he does, it's still kiddie p.o.r.n.”
Ryan shook his head. ”It's too old.”
”Evangeline worked for him.”
”You're like an old record.”
”What will it take?”
”A direct link.”
Frustrated, I slumped into my chair and hit Play Play.
The camera zooms out. Sicard straightens, turns her back, playfully crooks one finger. Follow me.
The camera trails Sicard's languid stroll across the room.
Still holding the halter straps, Sicard lowers herself onto the mattress. Curls, catlike.
Watching, I wondered what dreams filled her head. Lighted runways? Glossy magazines and red carpet openings?
Sicard smiles conspiratorially. Allows one strap of the halter to fall. A man enters and moves to the bed. Sucking one finger, Sicard looks up and smiles. Rises to her knees, allowing the dress to slip to her waist.
It took until midafternoon. The folder was t.i.tled Vintage. Vintage. The footage was old. Hairstyles and clothing in some scenes suggested the fifties and sixties. The footage was old. Hairstyles and clothing in some scenes suggested the fifties and sixties.
Video file seven. The script was hardly original.
The girl is in her midteens, tall, with center-parted dark hair. She is wearing a black bustier, garter belt, and fish-net hose. She appears ill at ease.
The girl glances to her left. The camera follows as she crosses a room and sits on a bench below and to the right of a window. Again she looks to her left, as though seeking direction. Sunlight falls on her hair.
My eyes drifted to the window framing the girl. Scanned the drapes. The woodwork. The misty landscape beyond the gla.s.s.
It took a few moments to register.
Hitting Pause, Pause, I studied the screen. Studied the shape. The hazy contour below it. I studied the screen. Studied the shape. The hazy contour below it.
Somewhere, a million miles away, voices were talking.
I hit Play. Stop. Play. Play. Stop. Play.
Rewound. Did it again. And again.
”I've got him.” Calm, though my heart was in my throat.
The voices stopped.
”I've got the wife-beating sonovab.i.t.c.h.”
32.
H IPPO AND IPPO AND R RYAN JOINED ME.
”This video was shot at Bastarache's house in Tracadie.” I pointed at the image frozen on the monitor. ”You can see totem poles through the window.”
Hippo leaned so close the toothpick jutting from his lips nearly grazed my cheek.
”Beside that funny-looking shed?”
”It's a gazebo.”
”Why the tom-tom kitsch?”
”That's not the point.”
Scowling, Hippo rolled the toothpick to the front of his mouth.
”You saw the poles and gazebo on Bastarache's property?” Ryan asked.
”In the backyard.”
”You're sure?”
”Yes. I may have also seen the carved bench the girl's sitting on.”