Cross Bones Part 12

"The lady's not into the power of sisterhood," Ryan said.

"She acted like I wasn't there," I agreed.

"You were," Ryan said.

"I thought so," I said.

"She's definitely not one of Purviance's fans."

"No."

Ryan started the engine and pulled from the curb.

"I'd say I'm pretty good at character a.n.a.lysis," he said.

"I'd say that's a fair a.s.sessment," I agreed.

"But I can't figure Miriam. One moment she's bereaved. The next she's broadcasting this f.u.c.k-you att.i.tude. Protecting something?"

"She was perspiring," I said "On a cold day," Ryan said.

We rolled to a stop at the corner.

"Now what?" Ryan asked.

"You're the detective," I said.

"The gun was an orphan. Can't trace it. My canva.s.s of Ferris's neighbors in the industrial park turned up zip. Ditto for statements by family and business a.s.sociates. I'm still waiting for tax records and a phone dump on the warehouse. I've got a Kessler query into every synagogue in town."

"Sounds like you've been doing some serious detecting."

"I've been detecting my a.s.s off, but progress is halting," Ryan said.

"What now?"

"SIJ's still working the scene. Purviance is still checking to see if anything was stolen. That leaves lunch."

I'd barely settled with my Whopper when my cell phone warbled. It was Jake Drum. This time the connection was clear.

"You actually diverted to Paris?" I asked, then mouthed the name Jake Drum to Ryan.

"No big deal. Instead of driving to Toronto and catching a flight to Tel Aviv, I'm connecting through Charles de Gaulle."

"The skeleton's that important?"

"It could be huge."

"What have you learned?"

Ryan partially unwrapped my burger and handed it to me. I took a one-handed bite.

"My hunch was right," Jake said. "A Masada skeleton arrived at the Musee de l'Homme in November of 1963. I located a specimen file and an accession number."

"Go on."

"What are you eating?"

"Whopper."

"Fast food is sacrilege in a city like Montreal."

"It's fast."

"The gastronomic slippery slope."

I compounded the blasphemy with a sip of Diet c.o.ke.

"Are the bones still there?"

"No." Jake sounded frustrated.

"No?"

I went for more Whopper. Ketchup dribbled my chin. Ryan blotted it with a napkin.

"I found a woman named Marie-Nicole Varin who helped inventory collections in the early seventies. Varin recalls coming across a Masada skeleton. But it's not at the museum now. We searched everywhere."

"No one's seen it since the seventies?"

"No."

"Aren't records kept on the movement of every specimen?"

"Should be. The rest of that file's missing."

"What's the museum's explanation?"

"C'est la vie. Few of the current staff were here back then. Varin did the inventory with a graduate student named Yossi Lerner. She thinks Lerner may still be in Paris. And here's an interesting twist. Varin thinks Lerner's either American or Canadian." Few of the current staff were here back then. Varin did the inventory with a graduate student named Yossi Lerner. She thinks Lerner may still be in Paris. And here's an interesting twist. Varin thinks Lerner's either American or Canadian."

That stopped the Whopper midway to my mouth.

"I'm trying to track him down."

"Bonne chance," I said. I said.

"I'll need more than luck."

I told Ryan what Jake had said.

He listened without comment.

We finished our fries.

Back on Van Horne, we watched a man in a long black coat, black hat, knickers, and pale stockings pa.s.s a kid in jeans and a Blue Jays jacket.

"Shabbat's coming on fast," I said.

"Probably won't increase the warmth of our welcome in these parts."

"Probably won't."

"Ever done surveillance?"

I shook my head.

"Gets the blood pumping," Ryan said.

"So I've heard," I said.

"Miriam might go out."

"Leaving Dora alone."

"I've yet to speak to Dora alone."

"We could pick up flowers," I suggested.

We hit a florist and were back at the Ferris duplex forty minutes after leaving it.

An hour later Miriam walked out Dora's front door.

9.

DORA ANSWERED ON THE SECOND RING. IN THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT, her wrinkled skin looked almost translucent. her wrinkled skin looked almost translucent.

Ryan reintroduced us.

The old woman regarded us blankly. I wondered if she was on medication.

Ryan held out his badge.

Dora looked at it, her expression pa.s.sive. It was obvious she didn't know who we were.

I offered the bouquet and cookies.

"Shabbat shalom," I said. I said.

"Shabbat shalom," she said, more reflex than greeting. she said, more reflex than greeting.

"We're so very sorry about your son, Mrs. Ferris. I've been away, or I would have called sooner."

Dora took my offerings and bent to smell the flowers. Straightening, she inspected the cookies, then returned them to me.

"Sorry, miss. They are not kosher."

Feeling like an idiot, I put the cookies in my purse.

Dora's eyes floated to Ryan, then back to me. They were small and moist and frosted with age.

"You were there at my son's autopsy." Slight accent. Maybe Eastern European.

"Yes, ma'am. I was."

"There's no one here."

"We'd like to talk to you, Mrs. Ferris."

"To me?" Surprise. A little fear.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Miriam's gone to market."

"This will only take a moment."

She hesitated, then turned and led us through a smoky-mirrored entry to a plastic-covered grouping in a small sunny living room.

"I'll find a vase. Please sit."

She disappeared down a hallway to the right of the entrance. I looked around.

The place was a testimonial to sixties bad taste. White sateen upholstery. Laminated oak tables. Flocked wallpaper. Wall-to-wall gold semis.h.a.g.

A dozen smells bickered for attention. Disinfectant. Garlic. Air freshener. From somewhere a closet or chest threw in a bid for cedar.

Dora shuffled back and we spent a few moments flower arranging.

Then, dropping into a wooden rocker with pillows strapped to its seat and back, she spread her feet and arranged her dress. Blue cross-trainers poked from below the hem.

"The children are with Roslyn and Ruthie at the synagogue."

I a.s.sumed those were the daughters-in-law from the other duplexes.