Bones to Ashes (29 page)

Ryan pointed at the print. “Got this from Cormier’s computer. Part of a nasty little video. Drive holds quite a collection.”

“The world’s full of degenerates.”

“That your house?”

The thumbnail froze. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Nice landscaping.”

Bastarache squinted at the print, then flicked it toward Ryan with one meaty finger.

“What if it is? I was barely out of high school when this kid was playing Indian princess.”

A tiny bell pinged in my head. What was wrong there? I set it aside until later.

One by one, Ryan laid out the photos of Phoebe Quincy, Kelly Sicard, Claudine Cloquet, and the facial reconstruction of the girl from the Rivière des Mille Îles. Bastarache barely glanced at the faces.

“Sorry, pal. Wish I could help you.”

Ryan added autopsy shots of the Lac des Deux Montagnes floater and the girl from the Dorval shoreline.

“Jesus friggin’ Christ.” Bastarache blinked, but didn’t look away.

Ryan tapped the photos of Quincy and Sicard. “These girls also appear in Cormier’s collection.” Not exactly true for Quincy, but close enough. “They have now vanished. I want to know why.”

“I’ll say it one more time. I don’t know shit about porn flicks or missing kids.”

Bastarache glanced up at the ceiling. Seeking composure? Clever answers? When his face came down it was devoid of expression.

“You employ a pair of cretins named Babin and Mulally?” Ryan pulled another topical switch.

“I am now going to await the arrival of counsel. Much as I’m enjoying this, it’s time I roll outta here. Got a business to run.”

Ryan leaned back and folded his arms.

“You surprise me, Dave. Sensitive guy like you. I figured you’d still be in mourning for your wife.”

Was it my imagination, or did Bastarache tense at Ryan’s reference to Obéline?

“But then, hell, it’s been almost a week.”

Two beefy palms came up. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the coldhearted bastard you think I am. I feel it. But my wife’s passing was no shocker. The woman’s been suicidal for years.”

“That why you had to tune her up now and then? To reinvigorate her zest for life?”

Bastarache drilled Ryan with a porcine stare. Relaced his fingers. “My lawyer will have me out of here before you hit the on-ramp to the forty.”

I looked at Ryan, willing him to confront Bastarache with the contact sheet of Évangéline. He didn’t.

“Your lawyer has plenty of time.” Ryan held Bastarache’s stare. “CSU’s at your place right now. When I leave here, I’ll be helping them take your life apart, nail by nail.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, Dave.” Ryan spoke with a voice of pure steel. “We find one name, one phone number, one snapshot of a kid in a two-piece swimsuit, you’ll be so fucked you’ll wish your parents had decided on celibacy.”

Shoving back his chair, Ryan rose. I followed. We were at the door when Bastarache barked, “You haven’t a clue what’s going on.”

We both stopped and turned.

“How ’bout you tell me, then,” Ryan said.

“These girls call themselves performance artists. Every single one’s got dreams of being the next Madonna.” Bastarache shook his head. “Artists, my ass. They’re vipers. You block ’em, they’ll take you off at the dick.”

Though I’d promised to remain mute, the man was so repugnant I couldn’t hold myself back.

“How about Évangéline Landry? She ask to appear in one of your dirty little films?”

The sausage fingers went so tight the knuckles bulged yellow-white. Again, the lips crimped. After several wheezy nasal intakes, Bastarache replied to Ryan, “You’re way off base.”

“Really?” Loathing glazed my response

Still Bastarache ignored me. “You’re so far off base you might as well be in Botswana.”

“Where
should
we be looking, Mr. Bastarache?” I asked.

Finally, the response was directed at me.

“Not in my backyard, baby.” A serpentine vein pumped the midline of Bastarache’s forehead.

Ryan and I both turned our backs.

“Look in your own motherfucking backyard.”

Q
UEBEC CITY IS SIMPLY QUÉBEC TO QUEBECKERS. IT IS THE provincial capital. And oh-so-very-thoroughly
très
French.

The Vieux-Québec, the old quarter, is the only fortified town in North America up latitude from Mexico. The same zip code boasts the Château Frontenac, the Assemblée nationale, and the Musée national des beaux-arts. Hotel, parliament, and fine arts museum to us Anglophones. Quaint and cobbled, the Vieux-Québec is a world heritage site.

Bastarache’s small corner of the
ville
definitely was not.

Located on a seedy street off Chemin Sainte-Foy, Le Passage Noir was a dive in a row of dives featuring women taking off their clothes. Short on charm, the neighborhood filled a niche in Quebec City’s urban ecosystem. In addition to strippers flaunting T and A on runways, dealers hawked drugs on street corners, and hookers sold sex out of flophouses and taxis.

An SQ cop drove us to the address on Ryan’s warrant. Hippo’s car was at the curb along with a CSU van and a cruiser with Service de police de la Ville de Québec on its side panel.

When Ryan and I pushed through Le Passage’s heavy wooden door, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and dried sweat. The place was as small as a bar can be without becoming a kiosk. It was clear Bastarache didn’t spend a lot on lighting.

A bar shot the center of the room. A crude platform spanned its rear wall. At stage right glowed a Rock-Ola jukebox straight out of the for ties. At stage left was a pool table helter-skelter with balls and cues abandoned by hastily departing patrons.

A uniformed cop stood by the entrance, feet spread, thumbs hooking his belt. His badge said
C. Deschênes, SPVQ.

A man slouched on one of the eight stools at the bar, heels catching one rung. He wore a white shirt, razor-creased black pants, and shined black loafers. Gold cuff links. Gold watch. Gold neck chain. No name tag. I assumed Mr. Sharp was the abruptly idled bartender.

A pair of women smoked and talked at one of a dozen tables facing the stage. Both wore shocking pink polyester kimonos.

A third woman sat apart from the others, smoking alone. Unlike her colleagues, she was dressed in street clothes. Shorts. Sequined tank. Roman sandals laced to her knees.

Otherwise, the place was empty.

While Ryan spoke to Deschênes, I scoped out the ladies.

The youngest was tall, maybe eighteen, with dull brown hair and tired blue eyes. Her companion was a thirty-something redhead who’d definitely put part of her salary into a boob job.

The lone smoker had fried platinum hair that wisped down past her ears. I put her age at somewhere around forty.

Hearing voices, or perhaps sensing my interest, the blonde flicked her eyes sideways in my direction. I smiled. She glanced away. The other women continued their conversation, uncurious.

“Bastarache has an office in back. Hippo’s there.” Ryan was speaking in hushed tones at my shoulder. “His digs are on the second floor. CSU’s working that.”

“Has the staff been questioned?” My gesture took in the women and the bartender.

“Bastarache is the boss. They’re employees and know nothing. Oh. And the bartender says kiss his hairy French ass.”

Again, the blonde’s gaze slid to us, darted off.

“Mind if I speak to the talent?” I asked.

“Looking for new dance moves?”

“Can we lose the bartender and the kimono sisters?”

Ryan gave me a questioning look.

“I’ve got a feeling the blonde might be a talker if company’s not present.”

“I’ll ask Deschênes to bring the others to me.”

“OK. Now play along.”

Before Ryan could respond, I stepped back and snapped, “Stop telling me what to do. I’m not stupid, you know.”

Ryan got it. “Hard to tell most of the time,” he said, loud and very condescending.

“May I
at least
have my pictures?” I held out a haughty palm.

“Suit yourself.” Disgusted.

Ryan produced the envelope containing the prints, facial repros, and autopsy photos. Snatching it, I stomped across the room, yanked a chair, and threw myself down at a table.

The blonde had watched our “spat” with interest. Now her eyes were on the jar lid she was using as an ashtray.

After a brief exchange with Deschênes, Ryan disappeared through a rear door marked with a red electric
sortie
sign.

Deschênes collected the bartender, then crossed to the kimono twins. “Let’s go, girls.”

“Where?”

“I hear the joint’s got a lovely green room.”

“What about her?”

“Her turn’s coming.”

“Can we at least get dressed?” the redhead whined. “I’m freezing my ass.”

“Occupational hazard,” Deschênes said. “Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, the women followed Deschênes and the bartender through the same exit Ryan had used.

While appearing to act in a huff, I’d chosen a table near enough to allow conversation with the blonde, but far enough away that my move wouldn’t look like an approach.

“Ass wipe,” I muttered under my breath.

“The male sex is one long parade of ass wipes,” the woman said, jamming her cigarette into the jar lid.

“That one is the grand marshall.”

The woman made a chuckling noise in her throat.

I turned to face her. Up close I could see that her hair was dark down close to her scalp. Dried makeup caked the corners of her eyes and mouth.

“That’s funny.” The woman picked a speck of tobacco from her tongue and flicked it. “You a cop?”

“Now
that’s
funny.”

“Mr. Macho over there?”

I nodded. “Tough guy. Got a
big
badge.”

“Officer Ass Wipe.”

Now I chuckled. “Officer Ass Wipe. I like that.”

“But not him.”

“Jerk’s supposed to be helping me.”

The blonde didn’t take the bait. I didn’t push it.

Seemingly still fuming, I crossed my legs and began agitating one ankle.

The blonde lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Her fingers were nicotine yellow below fake pink nails.

We sat without talking for several minutes. She smoked. I tried to remember what I’d learned from Ryan about the art of interrogation.

I was about to take a chance when the blonde broke the silence.

“I been rousted so often I know the first name of every vice cop in town. Never encountered your Officer Ass Wipe.”

“He’s SQ, from Montreal.”

“A bit off his patch.”

“He’s searching for some missing kids. One of them is my niece.”

“These kids missing from here?”

“Maybe.”

“If you’re not on the job, why the tag-along privileges?”

“We’ve known each other a very long time.”

“You doing him?”

“Not anymore,” I said disdainfully.

“He give you that bruise?”

I shrugged.

The woman inhaled then blew smoke toward the ceiling in an inverted cone. I watched it drift and dissolve, backlit by neon over the bar.

“Your niece work here?” the blonde asked.

“She may have hooked up with the owner. Do you know him?”

“Hell, yeah, I know him. Worked for Mr. Bastarache off and on for twenty years. Mostly in Moncton.”

“What’s your take?”

“He pays OK. Doesn’t let customers rough up his girls.” Her lips pooched forward as she shook her head. “But I rarely see him.”

That seemed odd with Bastarache living upstairs. I filed the comment for future consideration.

“My niece may have gotten herself involved in something,” I said.

“Everyone’s involved in something, sunshine.”

“Something more than dancing.”

The blonde didn’t respond.

I lowered my voice. “I think she was doing porn flicks.”

“Gal’s gotta earn a living.”

“She was barely eighteen.”

“What’s this niece’s name?”

“Kelly Sicard.”

“What’s yours?”

“Tempe.”

“Céline.” Again, the chuckling noise. “Not Dion, but not without flair of my own.”

“Nice to meet you, Céline Not Dion.”

“Ain’t we a pair.”

Céline sniffed, then backhanded her nose with a wrist. Reaching into my purse, I moved to her table and handed her a tissue.

“How long you been searching for this Kelly Sicard?”

“Almost ten years.”

Céline looked at me as though I’d said Kelly had marched off to Gallipoli.

“The other kid’s only been missing two weeks.” I didn’t mention Évangéline, who’d been missing over thirty years. “Her name is Phoebe Jane Quincy.”

Céline took a very long drag, then the current butt joined the others in the lid.

“Phoebe is only thirteen. She disappeared while walking to dance class.”

Céline’s hand paused, then resumed mashing the butt. “You got a kid?”

“No,” I said.

“Me neither.” Céline stared at the jar lid, but I don’t think she saw it. She was looking at a place and time far removed from the little table in Le Passage Noir. “Thirteen years old. I wanted to be a ballerina.”

“This is Phoebe.” I slipped a picture from Ryan’s envelope and placed it on the table. “It’s her seventh-grade class photo.”

Céline considered the image. I watched for a reaction, but saw none.

“Cute kid.” Céline cleared her throat and looked away.

“Ever see her here?” I asked.

“No.” Céline continued gazing off into space.

I replaced Phoebe’s photo with that of Kelly Sicard.

“How about her?”

This time there was a twitch in her lips and movement in her eyes. Nervously, she rubbed her nose with the back of a wrist.

“Céline?”

“I’ve seen her. But like you said, it was a long time ago.”

I felt a ripple of excitement. “Here?”

Céline looked over her shoulder and around the bar.

“Mr. Bastarache has a place in Moncton. Le Chat Rouge. This kid danced there. But not for long.”

“Her name was Kelly Sicard?”

“Doesn’t click.”

“Kitty Stanley?”

A fake pink nail came up. “Yeah. That was it. She danced as Kitty Chaton. Cute, eh? Kitty Kitten.”