Death Du Jour (16 page)

“You’ll have to submit a photo ID to get a visitor’s pass,” I said, indicating the guard at the security desk.

He was observing the scene, a half smile on his face, and spoke before either of us could make a move.

“
Vôtre sœur?
” he bellowed across the lobby, exchanging looks with the other guards.

I nodded. Obviously everyone now knew that Harry was my sister, and found it terribly amusing.

The guard gave a sweeping gesture toward the elevators.

“
Merci,
” I mumbled, and shot him a withering glance.

“Mercy,” Harry drawled, giving each guard a radiant smile.

We gathered her bundles and rode to the fifth floor, where I stacked everything in the hall outside my office. No way to fit it inside. The quantity of her gear raised apprehension as to the likely length of her stay.

“Hell, this office looks like a twister just traveled through here.” Though she was only five feet nine and thin as a fashion model, Harry seemed to fill the small space.

“It’s a little messy right now. Let me shut down the computer and collect a few things. Then we’ll head out.”

“Take your time, I’m in no hurry. I’ll just chat with your friends.” She was looking up at a row of skulls, her head tipped back so that the ends of her hair brushed the bottom fringe on her jacket. It looked blonder than I remembered it.

“Howdy,” she said to the first, “decided to quit while you’re a head, did you?”

I couldn’t help but smile. Her cranial friend did not. While Harry worked her way along the shelf, I logged off and gathered the ledgers and books from Daisy
Jeannotte. I planned to be back first thing in the morning, so I didn’t pack my unfinished reports.

“So, what’s new with you?” Harry spoke to the fourth skull. “Not talking? Oh, you’re so sexy when you’re moody.”

“She’s always moody.” Andrew Ryan stood in the doorway.

Harry turned and looked the detective up and down. Slowly. Then blue eyes met blue eyes.

“What the hey?”

My sister’s smile for the security guards was nothing compared with the one she now beamed at Ryan. In that moment I knew calamity was predestined.

“We were just leaving, ” I said, zipping my computer case.

“Well?”

“Well what, Ryan?”

“Out-of-town company?”

“A good detective always notices the obvious.”

“Harriet Lamour,” said my sister, sticking out her hand. “I’m Tempe’s younger sister.” As usual, she emphasized the birth order.

“Reckon you’re not from around these parts,” Ryan drawled. The fringe went to town as they shook hands.

“Lamour?” I asked, incredulous.

“Houston. That’s in Texas. Ever been there?”

“Lamour?” I repeated. “What happened to Crone?”

“Once or twice. Mighty pretty country.” Ryan was still doing Brett Maverick.

“Or Dawood?”

That got her attention.

“Now why would I ever go back to using that retard’s name? Do you
remember
Esteban? The only human being ever fired for being too dumb to stock the 7-Eleven?”

Esteban Dawood had been her third husband. I couldn’t summon an image of his face.

“Are you and Striker divorced already?”

“No. But I have dumped his ass and scrapped that ridiculous name. Crone? What was I thinking? Who’d ever choose a handle like Crone? What kinda name is that for your descendants? Missus Crone? Cousin Crone? Great-granddaddy Crone?”

Ryan joined in. “Not bad if you’re a lone Crone.”

Harry giggled. “Yeah, but I don’t ever want to be an old Crone.”

“That’s it. We’re outta here.” I reached for my jacket.

“Bergeron says we’ve got a positive,” said Ryan.

I stopped and looked at him. His face had gone serious.

“Simonnet?”

He nodded.

“Anything on the bodies from upstairs?”

“Bergeron thinks they’re probably European, too. Or at least they got drilled and filled over there. Something about their dental work. We had Interpol run a search in Belgium, because of the Simonnet link, but they came up empty. The old lady had no family, so that’s a dead end. The RCMP got no hits in Canada. Same for NCIC. No matches in the States.”

“Rohypnol’s pretty hard to get here, and those two were loaded. A European connection might explain that.”

“Might.”

“LaManche says the bodies in the outbuilding were negative for drugs and alcohol. Simonnet was too badly burned to test.”

Ryan knew this. I was thinking aloud.

“Jesus, Ryan, it’s been a week and we still have no idea who these people are.”

“Yip.” He smiled at Harry, who was listening closely. Their flirting was starting to annoy me.

“You haven’t found any leads in the house?”

“You may have heard about a little altercation on the West Island Tuesday? The Rock Machine blew the lights out on two Hells Angels. The Angels returned fire and left one of the Machine dead and three others bleeding bad. So I’ve been otherwise engaged.”

“Patrice Simonnet took a bullet in the head.”

“The biker boys also took out a twelve-year-old kid who happened to be on his way to hockey practice.”

“Oh, God. Look, I’m not suggesting you’re dragging your feet, but surely someone must miss these people. We’re talking about a whole damn family. Plus two others. There must be
something
in that house that provides a clue.”

“Recovery took forty-seven cartons of crap out of there. We’re sifting through it, but so far zippo. No letters. No checks. No photos. No shopping lists. No address books. The utility and phone bills are paid by Simonnet. Heating oil is delivered once a year, she pays in advance. We can’t find anyone who’s been into the place since Simonnet’s been renting.”

“What about property taxes?”

“Guillion. Pays by an official check drawn on Citicorp in New York.”

“Were any weapons recovered?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Pretty much rules out suicide.”

“Yeah. And it isn’t likely Granny slashed the family.”

“Did you run a history on the address?”

“It was negative. The police were never called there.”

“Have you gotten the phone records?”

“They’re coming.”

“What about the cars? Weren’t they registered?”

“Both to Guillion. At the St-Jovite address. He also pays the insurance by official check.”

“Does Simonette have a driver’s license?”

“Yeah, Belgian. Clean record.”

“Health insurance card?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing comes up.”

“Who serviced the cars?”

“Apparently Simonnet took them to a station in town. The description matches. She paid cash.”

“And the house? A woman that age couldn’t do her own repairs.”

“Obviously there were other people living there. The neighbors say the couple with the babies had been around for several months. They’d seen other cars pull in, sometimes in large numbers.”

“Maybe she took in boarders?”

We both turned to Harry.

“You know. Maybe she rented out rooms.”

Ryan and I let her go on.

“You could check the newspapers for ads. Or church bulletins.”

“She doesn’t seem to have been a churchgoer.”

“Maybe she ran a drug ring. With this dude Guillion. That’s why she got killed. That’s why there are no records or anything.” Her eyes were round with excitement. She was getting into it. “Maybe she was hiding out there.”

“Who is this Guillion?” I asked.

“He’s got no police record here or there. The Belgian cops are checking him out. The guy kept to himself, so nobody knows much about him.”

“Like the old lady.”

Ryan and I stared at her. Good point, Harry.

A phone shrilled, indicating the lines had been switched to the night service. Ryan glanced at his watch.

“Well, I hope I’ll see y’all this evening.” Maverick was back.

“Probably not. I’ve got to get through this Nicolet report.”

Harry opened her mouth, but seeing my look, closed it.

“Thanks anyway, Ryan.”

“
Enchanté,
” he said to Harry, then turned and headed up the hall.

“That’s one good-looking cowboy.”

“Don’t train your scope on him, Harry. His little black book has more entries than the Omaha white pages.”

“Just lookin’, darlin’. That’s still free.”

*   *   *

Though it was only five, we walked out into deep dusk. Headlights and streetlamps shone through falling snow. I unlocked and started the car, then spent several minutes cleaning the windows and windshield while Harry scanned the radio choices. When I got in, my usual Vermont Public Radio had been replaced by a local rock station.

“That is so cool.” Harry voiced her approval of Mitsou.

“She’s a québécoise,” I said, shifting between drive and reverse to rock the Mazda out of the snow rut. “Been big here for years.”

“I mean, rock and roll in French. That is too cool.”

“Yeah.” The front wheels caught pavement, and I joined the flow of traffic.

Harry listened to the lyrics as we wound our way west toward Centre-Ville.

“Is she singing about a cowboy?
Mon
cowboy?”

“Yes,” I said, turning onto Viger. “I think she likes the guy.”

We lost Mitsou when we entered the Ville-Marie Tunnel.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later I unlocked the door to my condo. I showed Harry the extra bedroom and went to the kitchen to check my food stock. Since I’d planned to hit the Atwater Market over the weekend, there wasn’t much. When Harry joined me I was rummaging in the tiny closet I call a pantry.

“I’m taking you out to dinner, Tempe.”

“You are?”

“Actually, Inner Life Empowerment is taking you to dinner. I told you. They’re paying all my expenses. Well, at least up to twenty dollars for dinner tonight. Howie’s Diners Club card will pick up the rest.”

Howie was her second husband, and probably the source of whatever had been in the Neiman Marcus bags.

“Why is Inner Life whatever paying for this trip?”

“Because I did so well. Actually, it’s a special deal.” She gave an exaggerated wink, opening her mouth and scrunching the right side of her face. “They don’t usually do that, but they really want me to go on with this.”

“Well, if you’re sure. What do you feel like?”

“Action!”

“I meant food.”

“Anything but barbecue.”

I thought a minute. “Indian?”

“Shawnee or Paiute?”

Harry hooted. She always loved her own jokes.

“The Etoile des Indes is just a few blocks from here. They make a great khorma.”

“Yippee. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten an Indian. And I know I’ve never eaten a French Indian. Anyway, I don’t think you can eat karma.”

I could only shake my head.

“I look like forty miles of bad road,” said Harry, singling out several long strands for inspection. “I’m going to do a few repairs.”

I went to my bedroom, changed into jeans, then got pen and paper and propped myself against the pillows on my bed. I opened the first ledger and noted the date of the earliest entry: January 1, 1844. Selecting one of the library books, I flipped to the section on Élisabeth Nicolet and checked the day of her birth. January 18, 1846. Her uncle had begun this volume two years before she was born.

Though Louis-Philippe Bélanger wrote with a strong hand, time had faded his entries. The ink was a dull brown, and at places the words were too blurry to read. In addition, the French was antiquated and replete with unfamiliar terms. After thirty minutes my head was pounding and I’d taken few notes.

I lay back and closed my eyes. I could still hear water running in the bathroom. I was tired and discouraged and pessimistic. I’d never get through this in two days. I’d do better to spend a few hours at the copy machine, then work through the ledgers at my leisure. Jeannotte hadn’t said anything about
not
copying the material. And it was probably safer for the originals, I reasoned.

And I didn’t have to find the answer right away. After all, my report didn’t require an explanation. I saw what I saw in the bones. I would report my findings,
and let the good sisters come to me with theorizations. Or questions.

Perhaps they wouldn’t understand. Perhaps they wouldn’t believe me. They probably wouldn’t welcome the news. Or would they? Would it affect their application to the Vatican? I couldn’t help that. I was certain I was right about Élisabeth. I just couldn’t imagine what it meant.

T
WO HOURS LATER
H
ARRY SHOOK ME AWAKE
. S
HE HAD
finished bathing, blow drying, and whatever else the repair process required. We bundled up and headed out, winding our way to rue Ste-Catherine. The snow had stopped, but a layer blanketed everything, slightly muffling the city clamor. Signs, trees, mailboxes, and parked cars wore fluffy caps of white.

The restaurant was not crowded and we were seated immediately. When we’d ordered, I asked about her workshop.

“It’s awesome. I’ve learned whole new ways of thinking and being. I don’t mean some kinda Eastern mysticism cow flop. And I’m not talking about potions or crystals or that astral projection shit. I mean I am learning how to take control of my life.”