Deja Dead Part 33

"Alsa!"

I'd forgotten all about the little monkey.

My outburst startled Lucie. She jerked, almost dropping her printout.

"Shall I come back?"

I was already digging for Lucie's earlier printout. Yes. Of course. The bus terminal. It's practically next to the Berri-UQAM station. I plotted Alsa. Her pin went right in the center of the triangle.

Was that it? The monkey? Did she tie in? If so, how? Another victim? An experiment? Alsa died two years before Grace Damas. Hadn't I read about that pattern also? Teenage peeping and fantasy escalating to animal torture and, finally, human rape and murder? Wasn't that Dahmer's chilling progression?

I sighed and sat back. If that was the bulletin my subconscious was trying to post, Ryan wouldn't be impressed.

Out the door and down to the central files. Lucie had vanished. I'd apologize later. I was doing that a lot lately. Back to my desk.

The Damas folder held little save my report. I opened the jacket marked Adkins and leafed through. The contents were beginning to look archival, I'd handled them so often. Nothing clicked. On to Gagnon. Morisette-Champoux. Trottier.

I spent an hour pouring over the files. Gran's puzzle pieces again. Jumbled bits of information. Feed them in, let your mind rotate and arrange. It was the arranging that wasn't going well. Coffee time.

I brought it back, along with the morning's Journal Journal. Sip and read. Regroup. The news varied little from the English language Gazette Gazette, the editorials enormously. What did Hugh MacLennan call it? The Two Solitudes.

I sat back. There it was again. The subliminal itch. I had the pieces, but wasn't making the fit.

Okay, Brennan. Be systematic. The feeling started today. What have you been doing? Not much. Read the paper. Took the car in. Rode the Metro. Reviewed files.

Alsa? My mind wasn't satisfied. There's more.

Car?

Nothing.

Paper?

Maybe.

I leafed back through it. Same stories. Same editorials. Same want ads.

I stopped.

Want ads. Where had I seen want ads? Stacks of them.

St. Jacques's room.

I went through them slowly. Jobs. Lost and found. Garage sales. Pets. Real estate.

Real estate? Real estate!

I pulled the Adkins folder and withdrew the pictures. Yes. There it was. The tilting, rusty sign, barely visible in the untended yard. a Vendre a Vendre. Someone was selling a condo in Margaret Adkins's building.

So?

Think.

Champoux. What had he said? She didn't like it there. That's why we were leaving. Something like that.

I reached for the phone. No answer.

What about Gagnon? Didn't the brother rent? Perhaps the landlord was selling the building.

I checked the photos. No sign. d.a.m.n.

I tried Champoux again. Still no answer.

I dialed Genevieve Trottier. It was answered on the second ring.

"Bonjour." Cheerful.

"Madame Trottier?"

"Oui." Curious.

"This is Dr. Brennan. We spoke yesterday."

"Oui." Fearful.

"I have one question, if I may?"

"Oui." Resigned.

"Did you have your home on the market when Chantale disappeared?"

"Pardonnez-moi?"

"Were you trying to sell your home in October of last year?"

"Who told you that?"

"No one. I was just curious."

"No. No. I have lived here since my husband and I separated. I have no intention of leaving. Chantale . . . I . . . it was our home."

"Thank you, Madame Trottier. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." Again I'd violated the accord she'd reached with her memories.

This is going nowhere. Maybe it's a stupid idea.

I tried Champoux. A male voice answered as I was about to hang up.

"Oui."

"Monsieur Champoux?"

"Un instant."

"Oui." A second male voice.

"Monsieur Champoux?"

"Oui."

I explained who I was and posed my question. Yes, they had been trying to sell the property. It was listed with ReMax. When his wife was killed he took it off the market. Yes, he thought ads had run, but he couldn't be sure. I thanked him and hung up.

Two out of five. Could be. Maybe St. Jacques used want ads.

I called recovery. The materials from the Berger Street apartment were in property.

I glanced at my watch-eleven forty-five. Time to meet Ryan. He wouldn't bite. I needed more.

Once again I spread the Gagnon photos and studied them, one by one. This time I saw it. Grabbing a magnifying gla.s.s, I moved the lens until the object came into focus. I leaned closer, adjusting and readjusting to be sure.

"Hot d.a.m.n."

I scooped the pictures into their envelope, stuffed them into my briefcase, and almost ran to the restaurant.

Le Paradis Tropique is directly across from the SQ building. The food is lousy, the service slow, but the tiny restaurant is always crowded at noon, due largely to the effervescence of its owner, Antoine Janvier. Today's greeting was typical.

"Ah, madame, you are hoppy today? Yes! I am so glad to see you. It has been a very long time." His ebony face showed mock disapproval.

"Yes, Antoine, I've been very busy." True, but Caribbean food would never be my daily fare.

"Ah, so hard, you work too hard. But today I have some nice fish. Fresh. Barely dead. The ocean is still dripping from his back. You will eat him and feel better. I have a beautiful table for you. The best in the house. Your friends, they are here."

Friends? Who else?

"Come. Come. Come."

There must have been a hundred people inside, sweating and eating under brightly colored umbrellas. I followed Antoine through the maze of tables to a raised platform in the far corner. Ryan sat silhouetted against a fake window hung with yellow and lavender curtains tied back to show a painted sunset. A ceiling fan revolved slowly above his head as he talked to a man in a linen sports jacket. Though his back was to me, I recognized the razor cut and perfect creases.

"Brennan." Ryan half rose from his chair. Catching my expression, his eyes narrowed in warning. Bear with me.

"Detective Lieutenant Ryan." Okay. But this better be good.

Claudel remained seated and nodded.

I took the seat next to Ryan. Antoine's wife appeared and, after the pleasantries, the detectives ordered beer. I asked for Diet c.o.ke.

"So. What's this breakthrough?" No one could do condescending like Claudel.

"Why don't we order first?" Ryan the peacemaker.

Ryan and I exchanged thoughts on the weather. We agreed it was warm. When Janine returned I asked for the fish special. Jamaican plates for the detectives. I was beginning to feel the outsider.

"So. What have you come up with?" Ryan the moderator.

"The Metro."

"The Metro?"

"That narrows it to four million people. Two if we stick to males."

"Let her talk, Luc."

"What about the Metro?"

"Francine Morisette-Champoux lived six stops from the Berri-UQAM station."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

Ryan shot him a look that could have cut gla.s.s.

"So did Isabelle Gagnon. And Margaret Adkins."

"Hm."

Claudel said nothing.

"Trottier is too far out."

"Yes. And Damas is too close."

"The St. Jacques apartment is a few blocks away."

We ate in silence for a while. The fish was dry, the fries and dirty rice were greasy. Hard combination to get just right.

"It may be more complicated than simply the Metro stops."

"Oh?"

"Francine Morisette-Champoux and her husband had their home on the market. Listed with ReMax."

No one said anything.

"There was a sign outside Margaret Adkins's building. ReMax."

They waited for me to go on. I didn't. I reached into my purse, extracted the Gagnon photos, and placed one on the table. Claudel forked a fried plantain.

Ryan picked up the photo, studied it, then looked at me quizzically. I handed him the magnifying gla.s.s and pointed to an object barely visible at the far left edge of the photo. He examined it for a long time, then, saying nothing, he extended the picture and lens across the table.

Claudel wiped his hands, wadded the paper napkin, and tossed it onto his plate. Taking the photo, he repeated Ryan's actions. When he recognized the object his jaw muscles bunched. For a long time he stared at it, saying nothing.