Bones to Ashes Part 38

"Cheech and Chong? That's a stretch. Let's eat."

After leaving Cormier's studio, I'd gotten smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz's deli on Saint-Laurent. Chez Schwartz Charcuterie hebraique de Montreal. Cultural syncretism. A city specialty.

As we ate, I told Harry about the false ceiling and the contact sheet. Her reaction was an exaggerated replay of mine. How could Evangeline have done something so demeaning? I had no answer to that. Why would Cormier have the proofs? Nor to that. Why would someone break in to steal them? Or that.

To lighten the mood, I asked Harry what she'd done for the past two days. She described her visit to the Oratoire Saint-Joseph, and showed me the spoils of Sat.u.r.day's shopping trip. Two silk blouses, a bustier, and a truly extraordinary pair of red leather pants.

After I cleared the table, Harry, Birdie, and I watched an old movie. An evil scientist was creating female robots genetically programmed to kill men over forty. Normally, the film would have given rise to much laughter. That night there was little.

As we headed to our rooms, Harry surprised me by saying she'd made plans for the following day. No amount of cajoling could pry them from her.

"Well, stay out of deserted alleys and pay attention to what's around you," I told her. "Both the e-mail and the phone call made reference to you."

Harry gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

Ryan was flirting with Marcelle, the LSJML receptionist, when I stepped off the lab elevator Monday morning. On spotting me, Marcelle's brows shot to her hairline. I wasn't surprised. My bruise was now the size of Morocco.

Ryan trailed me from the lobby. In my office, he grasped my chin and swiveled my face from side to side. I batted down his hand.

"Hippo told you?"

"In Technicolor detail. Can you ID this p.e.c.k.e.rwood?"

"No."

"Anything strike you about him?"

"He'd make one bada.s.s linebacker."

Taking my shoulders, Ryan maneuvered me into my chair, unpocketed several mug shots, and tossed them on the blotter.

Goon. Goon. Cheech. Subgoon. Chong.

"Bachelors number three and five." My skin burned where Ryan's fingers had touched my face. I kept my eyes lowered.

Ryan tapped the goons I'd chosen. "Michael Mulally. Louis-Francois Babin."

"And the rest of the dream team?" I swept a hand over Ryan's lineup.

"Bastarache muscle."

"Have you seen the contact sheet from Cormier's hidey-hole?"

"Yes." Pause. "I'm sorry."

I studied Mulally's face. Scraggly hair framing dark-stubbled cheeks. Gangsta glare. Babin was shorter and more muscular, but otherwise a clone.

"The e-mail. The phone call. The staircase." Ryan leaned a haunch on my desk. "Give me your take."

"It would be pure speculation."

"Speculate."

"I've been poking around in Tracadie and talking to Bastarache's wife." A vision surfaced in my consciousness. Obeline's face outside the gazebo. I felt a cold heaviness in my chest. Kept talking. "I'm looking at Cormier. Cormier is hooked to Bastarache, but he doesn't think I know that. Bastarache dislikes my snooping, so he whistles up the dogs to chase me away."

"Why?"

"I'm chaseable."

Ryan's look said he wasn't amused.

"OK. Say Bastarache can't understand why I'd make a sudden visit to Tracadie, and make straight for Obeline. This concerns him. He tells Cheech and Chong to find out what I'm up to. Or to scare me off."

"Cheech and Chong?"

"Mulally and Babin. You've talked to them?"

"Not yet. But I'm familiar with their rap sheets. Impressive."

"Hippo says it's too early to arrest Bastarache."

"Hippo's right. We don't want to move until our case is airtight."

"You know his whereabouts?"

"We're on him."

Ryan studied his shoe. Cleared his throat.

"Call me Ishmael."

Surprised by his sudden swerve to game playing, and the pansy lob, I identified Ryan's quote. "Moby-d.i.c.k." "Moby-d.i.c.k."

"The book's about?"

"A guy chasing a whale in a wooden boat." I smiled.

"The book's about obsession."

"Your point?"

"You're being a pit bull with this Evangeline thing. Maybe you should ease back."

The smile faded. "Ease back?"

"You're acting obsessively. If the sister was on the level, the kid died over thirty years ago."

"Or was murdered," I snapped. "Isn't that the point of cold case investigations?"

"Did you listen to what you said a few moments ago? Has it entered your thinking that Hippo may be justified in his concern for your safety?"

"Meaning?" I hate it when Ryan plays protector. I sensed him a.s.suming the role, and it made me churlish.

"Obeline Bastarache is missing and presumed drowned. Cormier is definitely dead."

"I know that."

"Some a.s.shole tried to take you out on a staircase yesterday. There's a good possibility it was Mulally or Babin."

"You suspect they sent the Death lyrics e-mail?"

"Everything I'm hearing says these clowns need instructions to use Velcro. The Internet may be beyond their learning curves."

"Then who?"

"I'm not sure." Ryan stood. "But I intend to find out. It's very likely that more people are involved. People you wouldn't recognize. So you ought not be setting yourself up as a target. Free for lunch?"

"What?"

"Lunch? Peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly? Tuna on rye?"

"Why?" Petulant.

"You gotta eat. After that, I know a good place to start asking questions."

Over the weekend, a thirty-eight-foot Catalina had been discovered at the bottom of the Ottawa River, near Wakefield, Quebec. Bones littered the sloop's V berth. The remains were believed to be those of Marie-eve and Cyprien Dunning, a couple missing since setting sail in rough weather in 1984.

Following Ryan's departure, I spent the day with the boat bones.

At ten, Hippo phoned to say that Opale St-Hilaire was alive and well and living with her parents in Baie-D'Urfe. The St-Hilaires had scheduled a sitting with Cormier on the occasion of Opale's sixteenth birthday. They'd been satisfied with the experience.

At eleven, Ryan phoned to cancel lunch. No reason given.

At noon, Harry phoned while I was in the cafeteria. No message. I returned her call but got voice mail.

By four, I was outlining a preliminary report on the boat bones. One male. One female. All skeletal indicators pointed to Mr. and Mrs. Dunning.

Ryan phoned again at four thirty-five.

"Heading home?"

"Shortly."

"I'll meet you there."

"Why?"

"Thought I'd float Mulally and Babin past your caretaker."

"The pair that inquired about my condo. I'd totally forgotten."

I heard the flare of a match, then deep inhalation. When Ryan spoke again, his voice had changed subtly.

"I came down on you pretty hard this morning."

"Forget it. You're frustrated with your cold cases. With the Lac des Deux Montagnes and Phoebe Quincy investigations. I'm frustrated over Evangeline." I swallowed. "And you're concerned about Lily."

"She's doing her part. Sticking with the program."

"I'm really glad, Ryan."

"How's Katy?"

"Still in Chile."

"Pete?"

"Engaged."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

I heard Ryan draw smoke into his lungs. Exhale.

"It's hard to go back."

Lily to sobriety? Ryan to Lutetia? I didn't ask.

"Tempe-"

I waited out another long inhalation, unsure where this conversation was heading.

"I'd like to hear about Hippo's buddy's skeleton." Ryan's tone was all business again.

"Any time."

"Tonight?"

"Sure."