Monday Mourning (25 page)

I dialed my condo to check on Anne’s schedule but got no answer. I left a message for her to call me.

Twenty minutes later I was at my desk.

Ryan had promised to take the letter opener to SIJ. Either he or a tech would call if they were able to pull up latents.

For as long as I’ve known her, Anne has steadfastly insisted she dislikes Indian cuisine. I called again to propose dinner at La Maison du Cari, certain their lamb korma would change her mind.

Still no answer. Second message.

Two printouts lay on my blotter. The longer was Claudel’s list of girls who’d gone missing in Quebec. The shorter was Charbonneau’s list of those who’d disappeared in north-central California.

I started with the former.

One by one I worked my way through the names, excluding any girl whose profile was inconsistent with the pizza basement skeletons. A serious headache was kicking in by the time I came to Manon Violette.

Manon Violette had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.

I sat forward, feeling a sudden rush of excitement.

The girl in Dr. Energy’s crate had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.

Barely breathing, I read the details.

Manon Violette had disappeared nine years earlier after leaving her home in Longueuil to take a bus to Centre-ville.

Violette was white.

Violette was fifteen years old.

The next entry punched me in the sternum.

Manon Violette stood only fifty-eight inches tall.

Damn!

I’d estimated the Dr. Energy girl’s stature at sixty-two inches.

Could I have been that far off?

I fired into the lab and checked.

Nope. Dr. Energy’s girl was tiny. But not that tiny. Even considering the error factor, 38426 was too tall.

What about 38427? I’d estimated her age at fifteen to seventeen, her height at sixty-four to sixty-seven inches.

I pulled out the skull and checked the teeth.

An orthodontist’s dream. Perfect alignment. No rotations.

Back to the list.

An hour later I sat back, frustrated.

I hated to admit it, but Claudel was right. There were no matches. If height fit, age didn’t. If age and height were consistent with one of the skeletons, racial background or some other trait excluded the candidate.

None of the MPs from Quebec and only one from California had suffered a Colles’ fracture of the right radius.

Claudel had referenced the girl from California in our earlier conversation. I read through her stats.

In 1985, Leonard Alexander Robinson filed a missing person report with the Tehama County Sheriff’s Department. Robinson’s daughter, Angela, a white female, age fourteen years and nine months, left home on the night of October 21 and was never seen again. Friends said she’d intended to hitchhike to a party.

Angela Robinson, “Angie,” had fallen from a swing at age eight, fracturing her right wrist.

Angie stood five foot two.

Back to the lab to double-check myself.

Angie Robinson was too young to be the girl in the leather shroud.

And too short.

I was discouraged, and my headache could have pounded the golden spike in Ogden. What if Angie had lived for a time after her disappearance? She would have aged. Perhaps grown.

Again, my subconscious seemed to be crooking a finger.

What?

The clock said five-ten. I decided to call it a day.

Returning to my office, I again tried Anne.

Still no answer.

I was replacing the receiver, when someone tapped on my door.

“Hey, Doc.” Charbonneau was in polyester from stem to stern. And cowboy boots.

“Hi.”

“I was on my way out, thought I’d pop up and give you the current lore.”

With what remained of my brain, I tried to decipher that.

“Lore?”

Charbonneau took a pink wad from his mouth, studied it, rolled his eyes up, and tipped his head toward my wastebasket.

I handed him a Post-it.

Charbonneau wrapped the Bazooka and arced it into the bin.

“Ryan told me about your drop-in at Menard’s crib on de Sébastopol. Sounds like the guy’s a real piece of work.”

“Yeah.”

I rubbed circles on my temples with the balls of my fingers.

“Headache?”

I nodded.

“Try eating something real spicy. That works for me.”

“Thanks.”

“Not much news from my end. Menard’s got no jacket in California. One correction on his academic career, though. Squirrel wasn’t tossed. He actually registered for the second year at Chico.”

“And?”

“No show.”

I stopped rubbing. “Menard paid tuition, enrolled in classes, then never showed up?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

Charbonneau shrugged. “Squirrel didn’t RSVP. Just never showed up.”

“Did he terminate his lease? Close out his accounts?”

“I’m working on that.”

“Where was he until he landed in Vermont in January?”

Charbonneau grinned. “I’m working on that, too.”

The condo was dark when I arrived. Birdie was sleeping on the sofa back. He raised his head and blinked when I turned on a lamp.

“Anne?” I called out.

No answer.

Birdie stretched, dropped to the floor, and went belly up.

“Anne?” I called again as I rubbed Birdie’s tummy.

Silence.

“Where is she, Bird?”

The cat rolled to all fours, stretched each back leg, then strolled to the kitchen. In seconds I heard the crunch of Science Diet nuggets.

“Annie?”

Her bedroom door was still closed. I knocked and went in.

And my heart sank.

Anne’s belongings were gone. A note lay on the desk.

I stared at it a moment, then reached out and unfolded the paper.

Dearest Tempe,
I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness and patience. Not just this past week, but throughout the entire course of our wonderful, joyful, precious friendship. You have been my buttress, the wind beneath my wings. (Remember “our” movie?)
We’re alike in so very many ways, Tempe. I’m not good at talking about my feelings. I’m not even good at thinking about my feelings. You were perfect for me.
Now it’s time to wrap this up. Though I can never say it to you, know that I love you so very very much. Please don’t be angry with me for doing it this way.
Anne

A whole catalog of emotions gripped me.

Love. I knew my friend and understood how hard those words had been for her.

Guilt. Engrossed in my own problems, I’d not really focused on Anne’s. How could I have been so selfish?

Anger. She’d just packed and split for home without telling me? How could she be so insensitive?

Then fear barreled in like a locomotive.

Had
she gone home? Wrap
what
up? For doing
what
this way? What way?

I remembered Anne’s book and our dinner conversation the night before. She hadn’t mentioned leaving.

What had she said? Something about cycles and changing in substance. I’d blown her off.

Sweet Jesus! Was she talking about death? Surely not. Depressed or not, Anne was not the suicidal type. But did we ever really know?

Memory collage. Another friend who’d stayed in that room. Left. Turned up dead in a shallow grave. Could Anne have undertaken some risky odyssey?

I tried calling her cell. No answer.

I dialed Tom.

“Hello.”

“Is Anne there?”

“Tempe?”

“Has Anne come home?”

“I thought she was with you.”

“She left.” I read Tom the note.

“What’s she talking about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“She was pretty upset with me.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think she’d do something crazy, do you?”

The same question had been winging through my skull.

“She hasn’t phoned?”

“No.”

“Call the airlines. See if she’s booked on a flight to Charlotte.”

“I don’t think they’ll tell me.”

“Fake it, Tom!” I was almost crying. “Lie! Think of something.”

“OK.”

“Call me the instant you know anything.”

“You, too.”

Standing with the phone in one hand, I caught a snapshot of myself in the newly replaced dining room mirror.

Body tense, face a frightened white oval.

Like Anne in my corridor the night of the break-in.

Dear God! Let her be all right.

What to do? Phone the airlines? Tom was doing that. Car rental companies? Cab companies? The police?

Was I overreacting? Had Anne simply taken off to be by herself? Should I do nothing and wait?

But Anne left a note. She had some plan in mind. But what plan?

I jumped when the phone shrilled in my hand.

“Anne?”

“It’s me.” Ryan must have picked up on the tension in my voice. “What’s wrong?”

I told him about Anne’s abrupt departure.

“Does the note say she’s going home?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Did she phone anyone?”

“This phone doesn’t record outgoing calls.”

“Or incoming. Or have caller ID. You really need to upgrade.”

“Thanks for the technical advice.”

“I’ll make some inquiries.”

“Thanks. Ryan?”

“Yeah.”

“She was very down.”

“She took her things. That’s a good sign.”

“Yes.” I hadn’t thought of that.

Pause.

“Do you want me to come over there?”

I did. “I’ll be all right. Why are you calling?”

“SIJ was able to lift prints from the letter opener. Two sets.”

“Menard and the woman.”

“You’re probably half right.”

“Half?”

“The guy’s not Menard.”

“T
HE PRINTS WERE LEFT BY TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE
. N
EITHER IS
Menard.”

“You’re sure?”

“I sent everything down to Vermont. Their lab compared the latents from our letter opener to those taken when Menard was busted on the DWI charge.”

“But Menard was all over that letter opener.” I wasn’t believing this.

“The guy in the house was. But he’s not Menard.”

“Any hit on the second set?”

“No. We’re running them up here, and sending them through AFIS in the States.”

AFIS is the Automated Fingerprint Information System.

“If the guy’s not Menard, who is he?”

“An exceptionally perceptive question, Dr. Brennan.”

This was not making sense. “Maybe there’s a screwup on the prints.”

“It happens.”

“Charbonneau’s got a college yearbook photo of Menard. Let’s roll it by Cyr and see what he says.”

“Can’t hurt,” Ryan agreed.

I waited, half hoping Ryan would reiterate his offer to come over. He didn’t.

“I’ll get the photo from Char—” Ryan started.

I heard what could have been a female voice in the background, then the muffled sound of a covered mouthpiece.

“Sorry.” Ryan’s voice was pitched lower. “I’ll get the photo from Charbonneau and pick you up at eight.”

I held it together through a Friday night macaroni and cheese dinner for one. Through a long, hot bath. Through the eleven o’clock news.

In bed, in the dark, unbidden images bombarded my mind.

A dingy basement. Bones in a crate. Bones in trenches.

A woman in bed, gray hair trailing across her face. A stained mattress. A lifeless body on stainless steel.

Shattered mirrors. A shard in a painting.

Anne with her luggage. Anne peering over her floral frames.

I felt a scream in my belly, streams of hot wetness on my face.

The last time I’d felt this overwhelmed I’d been with Ryan. I remembered how he’d wrapped his arms around me and stroked my head. How I’d felt his heart beating. How he’d made me feel so strong, so beautiful, so everything-would-be-all-right.

My chest heaved and a sob muscled up my throat.

Sucking air deep into my lungs, I drew my knees to my chest, and let go.

A good cry is more therapeutic than a one-hour bump with a shrink.

I awoke purged of all the grief and pent-up frustration.

Rejuvenated.

In control.

Until I made a jackass of myself twelve hours later.

Tom called at seven to ask if I’d heard from Anne. I hadn’t.

He’d established that his wife had made no reservations for a flight from Montreal to Charlotte for any day that week. I told him I’d talked to an SQ officer.

Tom suggested Anne had probably gone off by herself to think and we would hear from her soon. I agreed. We both needed to believe it.

Hanging up, my eye once again fell on the mirror. Nine days since the break-in and the cops had found zip.

Flash recall.

Anne’s hunk in 3C.

Mother of God! Had she gone off with some stranger she’d met on an airplane? Could that stranger be the same person who had vandalized my home?

Another flash.

Ryan’s surveillance order.

Were there still stepped-up patrols past my place? Might a passing squad car have seen Anne’s departure?

Unlikely, but worth a shot.

Bundling up, I headed out.

It was another immaculate day. The radio had predicted a high of minus thirty Celsius. At seven fifty-five, we weren’t even close.

Within ten minutes a squad car rolled up the block. I walked to the curb and waved them over.

Yes, they were still passing frequently. Yes, this team had been working days all week. No, they hadn’t seen a towering blonde with a lot of luggage. They promised to ask the guys on the other shifts.

Back to the lobby, where it was at least warm enough for blood to circulate.

Ryan pulled up at eight-ten. I got in. The car smelled of cigarette smoke.

“Bonjour.”

“Bonjour.”

Ryan handed me the faxed photo from Menard’s senior yearbook. The shot was small and dark, with all color and some contrast lost in transmission. But the face was reasonably clear.