Monday Mourning Part 15

"Beginning with C."

"Claudel."

Anne's eyes rolled up over the flowery frames.

"I think I'll go with 'callous,'" she said.

Anne refocused on her puzzle. I settled opposite her and listened to the news. A fire in St-Leonard. Another Habs loss. More snow on the way.

I'd just finished my m.u.f.fin when Anne tossed down her gla.s.ses and pen.

"Is this Claudel a good detective?"

I sheeshed air through my lips.

"I take that as a negative."

"Claudel's thorough, but narrow-minded, opinionated, and stubborn. He also sees no need for forensic anthropologists in general, and female ones in particular. He views every suggestion as interfering."

"Let me guess. And he's not making much of an effort on your skeleton case?"

"He's not even humoring me. And he considers it to be his skeleton case, not mine."

"You've had that problem with him before, haven't you?"

"Oh, yeah. Often-wrong-but-never-in-doubt Claudel."

"So he's not your favorite?"

"Claudel's not a laugh riot. His questions are curt to the point of rudeness, and he rarely explains why particular facts are of interest to him, or why my opinions are not."

"What would it take to get him to listen?"

"I could sing the Hallelujah Chorus naked." I got up and popped a second m.u.f.fin into the toaster.

"You still have the bod, but you never had the voice. I was thinking along more professional lines," Anne said.

"The point of controversy is postmortem interval. Claudel believes the bones are old. I don't. I've sent off samples for Carbon 14 testing, but I won't get results for at least a week."

"What else might get his attention?"

"Six or seven dead preschoolers."

"You're starting to p.i.s.s me off, Tempe. I'm asking a serious question." Anne held out her empty mug. "What would inspire Claudel to show more interest in your bones?"

"Proof that the deaths were recent."

I poured two refills and gave her one.

"There you go." Anne proffered her coffee-free hand, palm up.

"Claudel believes such proof is lacking."

"Don't wait for the Carbon 14. Change his mind."

"He refuses to explore the possibility."

"So give him more to chew on."

"What am I supposed to do? Hire thugs and have him beaten until he agrees?"

"Agrees to what?"

"To investigate."

"Meaning?"

"What is this, twenty questions?" I sat back down with my second m.u.f.fin.

"What is it you would like Claudel to do?"

I gave that a few moments' thought.

"Canvas the neighborhood. Learn more about the building. Research previous residents. Find out who owned the place. Who lived there. How long the first floor has been commercial. What businesses have occupied the premises. What building permits were issued and to whom."

"There you go." Again, the upraised palm.

"That's the second time you've said that."

"Don't force me to three."

"Where do I go?"

"To the solution to your problem."

It was too early. I wasn't making the bridges.

"Which is?"

"Do it yourself."

"Claudel would go ballistic."

"How could he? He says the bones are old. He sees no reason to explore further. You're doing additional research."

"It's not my job."

"Apparently Claudel thinks it's not his either."

"Claudel has no interest in my suggestions, but if I do anything that even loosely resembles detective work, he gets overtly hostile."

"Look. You don't have to make a TV series out of it. Just poke down the burrow and see what crawls out."

I thought about that while Anne entered, erased, then reentered thirty-four down in her puzzle. She had a point. What could it hurt to check out old deeds, tax records, and building permits? If Claudel was right, I'd be working with the archaeologists anyway. Besides, he was going to be tied up with this sting Ryan had mentioned. Also, when Claudel was free again and heard I was looking into things, though furious, he might feel obligated to do more investigating himself, just to guard against my finding things that he had not.

At that moment, the doorbell chirped. When I answered, SIJ announced its presence. I buzzed the team in, pointed out the damaged French door, Anne's room, and Katy's painting, and asked if they'd mind starting in the living room.

While the techs shot photos and dusted for prints, Anne and I retreated to our respective quarters to dress and brush and apply whatever makeup each deemed essential. During my toilette, I considered options.

It was Friday. Public offices were closed on weekends. If I examined the third skeleton today, I wouldn't have access to the courthouse or City Hall until Monday.

I could work at the lab anytime, over the weekend if absolutely necessary. I couldn't research records anytime.

Decision.

Once again, full a.n.a.lysis of the third skeleton was being deferred.

After replenis.h.i.+ng Birdie's food and water, I checked with the SIJ techs. So far, zip.

I was reaching for the phone when Anne swept into my bedroom. She wore boots and the jacket she'd declined the evening before. The angora scarf was in place, the hat and mittens clutched in one hand.

"Setting off?" I asked.

"We're setting off," Anne said.

"What about the museum?"

"Art is eternal. It will be there tomorrow. Today I sleuth. See? Already my life is multidimensional. You and I. Cagney and Lacey. It'll be a gas."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Cagney and Lacey were trained detectives with badges and guns. We'll be more like Miss Marple and one of her friends from the garden club. But, OK, let's give it a go. The crime scene techs will let themselves out. I'll check my messages and we're on our way."

I dialed the lab, punched in my mailbox number and access code. One message. Nine forty-three the previous evening.

The woman's words started a holocaust of possibilities whirling through my head, each uglier than the next.

12.

FRANTICALLY, I JABBED AT A PEN ON MY DRESSER JABBED AT A PEN ON MY DRESSER. ANNE DARTED and handed it to me. and handed it to me.

"Dr. Brennan. I feel I must give this one last try or I will not be able to live with myself."

I logged details of the voice. Old. Female.

"I called the day before yesterday about the story in Le Journal. Le Journal."

A pause. As before, I heard chirping in the background, vaguely familiar chirping.

"I believe I know who is dead and why." Shot through with desolation and doubt.

"Come on," I urged under my breath. "Who are you?"

"You have my name."

"No. I don't!"

Anne's head snapped up in surprise at my outcry.

"You may reach me at 514-937-"

"Atta girl!"

Anne watched as I scribbled the number, clicked off, and dialed.

Somewhere on the island a phone rang ten, eleven, twelve times.

I cut the connection and repunched the digits.

A dozen more unanswered rings.

"d.a.m.n!"

I clicked off and tossed the handset onto the bed, my whole body taut with frustration. I rose and paced the room, then s.n.a.t.c.hed up the handset and dialed again.

No answer.

"Pick up your G.o.dd.a.m.n phone!"

What to do? Call Claudel or Charbonneau and give him the number? Call Ryan? All three of them were probably fully occupied with this ma.s.sive joint operation they were on and didn't have time for phone numbers.

Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the bas.e.m.e.nt, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down. She watched without comment as I booted the computer, and typed the phone number into a browser.

No results. The browser suggested I check my spelling or try different words. "How do you spell a number, you ignorant twit?"

I tried another browser. Then another.

No matches. Same useful tips.

"What good are you!"