Monday Mourning Part 38

The air smelled of pine, coal smoke, and something organic.

"What's that odor?" I hissed.

"Horse manure." Ryan was also whispering. "Old Yeller is guarding a caleche caleche horse stable." horse stable."

"The horses that pull the carriages in Old Montreal?"

"The very ones."

I took another whiff.

Maybe. But there was something else there.

Ryan and I picked our way carefully along the uneven walk, breaths billowing, collars up to ward off the cold.

Ten yards off de Sebastopol the path took a sharp left, and Ryan and I found ourselves facing a weathered brick building. We both stopped and read the rusted numbers above the door.

"Bingo," Ryan said.

The building's entrance was recessed, the door rough and aged, but ornately carved. The windows were opaque, some black, others white with frost and windblown snow.

Dead vines spiderwebbed across the roof and walls, and one wooden sill angled down from its frame. The pines were thicker here, keeping the house and its small yard in even deeper shadow.

Irrationally, small hairs rose on the back of my neck.

Drawing a deep breath, I worked myself just calm enough.

Ryan stepped up to the door. I followed.

The bell was dull bra.s.s, the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind that sounded when the k.n.o.b was turned clockwise. Ryan reached out and gave it a twist.

Deep in the house, a bell shrilled.

Ryan waited a full minute, then rang again.

Seconds later, locks rattled, then the door creaked open four inches.

Ryan extended his badge to the crack.

"Mr. Menard?" he asked in English.

The crack didn't widen. The person peering through it was hidden from me.

"Stephen Menard?" Ryan repeated.

"Qu'est-ce que voulez-vous?" What do you want? Heavily accented. American. What do you want? Heavily accented. American.

"Police, Mr. Menard. We'd like to talk to you," Ryan persisted in English.

"Laissez-moi tranquille." Leave me alone. Leave me alone.

The door moved toward its frame. Ryan palmed it back with jackrabbit quickness.

"Are you Stephen Menard?"

"Je m'appelle Stephane Menard." Menard p.r.o.nounced the name in the French manner. Menard p.r.o.nounced the name in the French manner. "Qui etes-vous?" "Qui etes-vous?" Who are you? Who are you?

"Detective Andrew Ryan." Ryan flicked a hand in my direction. "Dr. Temperance Brennan. We need to speak with you."

"Allez-vous en." The voice sounded dry and almost frail. I still couldn't make out its owner. The voice sounded dry and almost frail. I still couldn't make out its owner.

"We're not going to go away, Mr. Menard. Cooperate and our questions should take only a few minutes of your time."

Menard didn't reply.

"Or we could do this at headquarters." Ryan's tone was tempered steel.

"Tabernac!"

The door closed. A chain rattled, then the door reopened.

Ryan entered and I followed. The floor was linoleum, the walls a color way too dark for the windowless room. The air smelled of mothb.a.l.l.s, old wallpaper, and musty fabric.

The tiny foyer was lit by one small china lamp. Menard stood shadowed by the door, one hand on the k.n.o.b, the other pressing a bra.s.s letter opener flat to his chest.

When Menard closed the door and turned to us, I got my first look at him.

Stephen Menard had to be six foot four. With his freckled face and bald, toad-shaped head, he was one of the most peculiar men I'd ever laid eyes on. He could have been a worn forty or a well-preserved sixty.

"Qu'est-ce que voulez-vous?" Menard asked again. What do you want? Menard asked again. What do you want?

"May we sit down?" Ryan unzipped his jacket.

A shrug. "N'importe." "N'importe." Whatever. Whatever.

Menard led us into a parlor as dim as the foyer. Heavy red drapes, mahogany secretary, coffee and end tables. Dark floral wallpaper. Deep cranberry upholstered pieces.

Laying the letter opener on the secretary, Menard dropped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. I removed my jacket and took the armchair to his right.

Ryan circled the room, turning on the overhead chandelier and a pair of crystal and bra.s.s lamps flanking the couch. The improved lighting allowed a better evaluation of the man of the house.

Stephen Menard was not just bald, he was totally hairless. No whiskers. No eyelashes. No body or head hair. The trait made him look smooth and oddly pale. I wondered if Menard's lack of hair was a genetic condition, or some bizarre fas.h.i.+on statement intentionally created.

Ryan lifted a Windsor chair from beside the secretary and parked it in front of Menard with body language clearly not intended to calm. Sitting, he placed elbows on knees, and leaned forward to within a yard of Menard's face.

Our reluctant host wore slippers, jeans, and a sweats.h.i.+rt with the sleeves pushed above the elbows. Drawing back from Ryan, Menard tugged the sleeves to his wrists, shoved them back up, adjusted his gla.s.ses, and waited.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Menard. You've caught our interest."

"Je suis-"

"My understanding is that you're American, so English shouldn't be any problem for you, right?"

Menard's chin tucked in a bit, but he said nothing.

"Richard Cyr tells us you ran a p.a.w.nshop out of his property on rue Ste-Catherine a few years back."

Menard's lips went needle thin, and a wrinkle formed above the place his brows should have been.

"You got a problem with my asking about that?"

Menard ran a hand across his jaw, readjusted his gla.s.ses.

"Pretty successful operation. Lasted, what? Nine years? You're a young man. What made you decide to call the p.a.w.n business quits?"

"I was not a mere p.a.w.nbroker. I traded in collectibles."

"Please explain that to me."

"I helped collectors locate hard-to-find items. Stamps. Coins. Toy soldiers."

I'd seen Ryan interrogate suspects in the past. He was good with silence. The person being interrogated would complete an answer, but instead of putting another question Ryan would look up expectantly and wait. He did so now.

Menard swallowed.

Ryan waited.

"It was a legitimate business," Menard mumbled.

Somewhere in the house I thought I heard a door open and close.

"Things grew complicated. Business was dropping off. The lease came up. I decided not to renew."

"Complicated how?"

"Just complicated. Look, I'm a Canadian citizen. I have rights."

"I'm just asking a few questions, Mr. Menard."

Eye contact had become noticeably difficult for Menard. His gaze kept s.h.i.+fting from his hands to Ryan, then darting back down.

Ryan allowed another long pause. Then, "Why the switch from archaeology?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What happened out in Chico?"

An idea hared through my mind. I didn't chase it.

"You got a warrant?" Menard asked, again adjusting the gla.s.ses.

"No, sir," Ryan said.

Menard's gaze drifted to a point over Ryan's left shoulder. We both turned.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and thin, with ivory skin and a long black braid. I guessed her age as mid to late twenties.

The crow's-feet cornering Menard's eyes constricted.

The woman tensed so visibly she seemed to flinch. Then her arms wrapped her waist, and she scurried out of sight.

Menard pushed to his feet.

"I'm not answering any more questions. Either arrest me, or leave my home."

Ryan took his time rising.

"Is there a reason we should be arresting you, Mr. Menard?"

"Of course not."

"Good."

Ryan zipped his jacket. I slipped into mine and started toward the foyer. Pausing near the secretary, I noticed the letter opener.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ryan put his face to Menard's.

"We'll play it your way for now, sir. But if you're withholding information from me, I'll make certain you come to regret that."

This time Menard met Ryan's gaze. The two stood eyeball-to-eyeball.

Turning my back to the face-off, I quietly scooped the letter opener into my purse.

27.

"THOUGHTS?" RYAN WAS TURNING OFF THE FAR END OF DE Sebastopol. Sebastopol.

"If they ever bring back the Inquisition, you'll be their first hire."

"I view that as a compliment. What's your take on Menard?"

"Guy gave me the creeps. Do you think the hairlessness is a medical condition?"