Monday Mourning (15 page)

Mousseau flipped the buttons. “Notice the initials etched beside the eyelet.”

Even to an amateur, the difference was obvious. Christie had engraved his letters with smooth, flowing motions. On the forgery, the S had been gouged as a series of intersecting cuts.

I was perplexed and somewhat taken aback.

But not as taken aback as I would be come Monday morning.

M
Y CONDO IS A GROUND-FLOOR UNIT IN A FOUR-STORY LOW-RISE
wrapping a central courtyard. Two bedrooms. Two baths. Living and dining rooms. Narrow-gauge kitchen. Foyer.

From the long hall running between the front entrance and the dining room, just opposite the kitchen, French doors open onto a patio bordering the central courtyard. From the living room, another set of French doors gives access to a tiny patch of lawn.

In summer, I plant herbs along the edge of the grass. In winter, I watch snow build on the redwood fence, and on the boughs of the pine within its confines. Five square yards. Acreage
extraordinaire
in a downtown flat.

That night, the dark little yard triggered feelings of exposure and vulnerability. No matter that the patrol car Ryan had requested was passing frequently. His makeshift patch on the door was a constant reminder of my unbidden caller and the point of entry he had chosen. What other choices had been available to him? I had to admit that having Anne there was a comfort.

After a quick meal of carry-out Thai, Anne and I cleaned. Anger wormed inside me as I swept and vacuumed.

Again, I fell asleep with my thoughts brawling.

Had some coked-out ragnose violated my refuge? That seemed most likely. Someone desperate for cash for a fix who turned destructive when he didn’t find it. No B and E felon would have been that messy. But what about a scare scenario? Some greaseball ordered to divert me from long-hidden mob secrets leaving a “we know where you live” message. Or was it some malevolent sociopath with an issue specifically related to me?

What did the buttons mean?

Why hadn’t Claudel or Charbonneau returned my calls?

Where was Ryan? Why hadn’t he phoned?

Did I give a rat’s ass? Of course I did.

Saturday morning Anne made a trip to Le Faubourg while I dealt with the glass repairman. By noon a new pane was in, the refrigerator was stocked, and the place was reasonably clean.

For reasons my subconscious chooses not share with me, there are certain items I am incapable of discarding. Prescription medicines.
National Geographic
s. American Academy of Forensic Sciences directories. Phone books.

Hey, you never know.

After tomato, cheese, and mayo sandwiches with Anne, I collected every phone book in the house and stacked them beside my computer. Then I pulled out Cyr’s list. Where to begin locating tenants? Work backward or forward?

I started with Cyr’s earliest renters.

From 1976 until 1982 a luggage shop had occupied the space currently in use by Matoub’s pizzeria. The proprietor had been a woman named Sylvie Vasco.

The number on Cyr’s list was answered by a college student living in the McGill ghetto. He had no idea what I was talking about.

Neither the computer nor any directory listed a Sylvie, but together they coughed up seven S. Vascos. One number had been disconnected. Two went unanswered. My fourth call got me a lawyer’s office. My last three were picked up by women. None was named Sylvie or knew of a Vasco named Sylvie or Sylvia.

Circling the two unanswered numbers, I moved on.

From 1982 until 1987 the pizza parlor space had been occupied by a butcher shop named Boucherie Lehaim. Cyr had written the name Abraham Cohen, then made a notation “sp?”

The White Pages listed a zillion Cohens in and around Montreal. They too suggested alternate spellings, including Coen, Cohen, Cohn, Kohen, and Kohn.

Great.

The Yellow Pages listed a Boucherie Lehaim in Hampstead.

No one answered the
Boucherie
’s phone.

Back to Cyr’s list.

Patrick Ockleman and Ilya Fabian had been Cyr’s tenants from 1987 to 1988. The old man had penned the words “queer” and “travel” next to their names.

I found nothing in any directory for the name Ockleman.

Ilya Fabian was listed at an Amherst address in the Gay Village. The phone was answered on the first ring.

I introduced myself and asked if I was speaking with Ilya Fabian.

I was.

I asked if the gentleman was the same Ilya Fabian who had operated a travel agency on Ste-Catherine in the late eighties.

“Yes.” Wary.

I asked if Ockleman and his partner had used or visited the basement of the property during their tenancy.

“You said you’re with the coroner?” Wariness now edged with distaste.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh my God. Was someone dead down there? Was there a body in that cellar?”

What to tell him?

“I’m investigating bones found buried below the floor.”

“Oh my Gawd!”

“The material is probably quite old.”

“Oh my Gawd! Like
The Exorcist.
No, no. What was that movie with the little girl? The one where they built the house over the cemetery? Yes!
Poltergeist.
”

“Mr. Fabian—”

“I’m not surprised about that basement. Patrick and I took one look at that wretched, stinking, filthy cesspool and never set foot in it again. Made my skin crawl every time I thought about all that creeping and breeding going on below my feet.” Fabian gave “creeping” and “breeding” at least four e’s each. “That basement was alive with vermin.” Four i’s to “alive.” “And now you’re telling me there were corpses down there?”

“Did you ever use the cellar for storage?”

“God forbid.” In my mind I saw a theatrical shudder.

Bit squeamish for a tour operator, I thought.

“Did your agency specialize in any particular world area, Mr. Fabian?”

“Patrick and I arranged gay travel packages to sacred places.” Sniff. “The era was a bear market for spiritual journeys. We folded in eighteen months.”

“Patrick Ockleman?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Mr. Ockleman now?”

“Dead.”

I waited for Fabian to elaborate. He didn’t.

“May I ask how and when your partner died?”

“He was run over by a bus, of all things. A tour bus.” Whiny. “In Stowe, Vermont, four years ago. Wheels squashed his head like an overripe—”

“Thank you, Mr. Fabian. If follow-up is needed we’ll be back in touch.”

I disconnected. Fabian and Ockleman seemed unlikely candidates for serial killers, but I underlined the number and made a few notes.

The next name listed was S. Ménard. Beside it Cyr had written “pawnshop” and the dates 1989 to 1998.

I found four pages of Ménards in the Montreal phone book, seventy-eight listed with the initial S.

After forty-two calls I decided Ménard was a job for a detective.

Next.

Phan Loc Truong’s nail salon had occupied Cyr’s property from 1998 until 1999.

Not as discouraging as Ménard, but the White Pages alone listed 227 Truongs. No Phan Loc. Two P’s.

Neither of the P’s listed was a Phan Loc. Neither knew a Phan Loc who had operated a nail salon.

I started working my way through the rest of the Truongs. Many spoke little English or French. Many had affiliations to nail salons, but none knew anything about the shop once located in Richard Cyr’s building.

I was dialing my twenty-ninth Truong when a voice interrupted me.

“Find anything?”

Anne was standing in the doorway. The room had gone dark without my noticing.

“A lot of ladies willing to do my nails.”

Discouraged, I turned off the computer.

Together Anne and I cooked steaks, potatoes, and asparagus. As we ate, I told her about my fruitless afternoon.

After dinner we watched two Inspector Clouseau movies while Birdie dozed between us. None of us laughed much. We all turned in early.

Around noon on Sunday I tried the Boucherie Lehaim again.

No go.

At two
P.M.
my call was answered.

“Shalom.” Voice like a baritone oboe.

I introduced myself.

The man said his name was Harry Cohen.

“Is this the same Boucherie Lehaim that was located on Ste-Catherine during the eighties?”

“It is. The shop belonged to my father then.”

“Abraham?”

“Yes. We moved in eighty-seven.”

“May I ask why?”

“We cater to a strictly kosher crowd. This neighborhood seemed a better fit.”

“I know this may sound like an odd question, Mr. Cohen, but can you remember anything about the basement of that building?”

“The cellar was accessed through our shop. We kept nothing there, and I don’t remember anyone ever entering or leaving it.”

“Might other tenants have used the basement for storage?”

“We would not have permitted that kind of use of our space, and the only way down was through a trapdoor in our bathroom. My father kept that door padlocked at all times.”

“Do you know his reason for doing that?”

“My father is extremely conscientious about security.”

“Why is that?”

“He was born Jewish in Ukraine in 1927.”

“Of course.”

I was grasping at straws. What to ask?

“Did you know the tenants that preceded or followed you?”

‘No.”

“You were in that location for almost six years. Did anything in particular trigger your move?”

“That neighborhood became” — Cohen hesitated — “unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?”

“We are Chabad-Lubavitch, Dr. Brennan. Ultra-Orthodox Jews. Even in Montreal we are not always understood.”

I thanked Cohen and disconnected.

A small spruce is rooted in a stone planter at courtyard central. Each December our caretaker strings the scraggly thing with lights. No tasteful Presbyterian-in-Connecticut-Christmas-white for Winston. It’s rainbow natty, or nothing at all.

My cat is especially appreciative. Birdie puts in hours curled by the fireplace, eyes shifting from the flames to Winston’s miracle in the snow.

Anne and I idled away Sunday afternoon following Birdie’s lead. We spent long stretches by the fire, heads pillowed, ankles crossed on the hearth. Over endless cups of coffee and tea, I whined about Claudel and Ryan. Anne whined about Tom. We laughed at our neediness. We were somber over our neediness.

Through the hours of talk and tide of words I came to understand the true depth of Anne’s unhappiness. The shopping and banter had been “game face.” Slap on the greasepaint and raise the curtain. The show must go on. Win one for the team. Do it for the kids. Do it for Tempe.

Anne had always been unflappable. I found her intense sadness deeply disturbing. I prayed it wasn’t a permanent sadness.

As we talked, I tried to think of encouraging things to say. Or comforting. Or at least distracting. But everything I came up with sounded clichéd and worn. In the end, I simply tried to show my support. But I feared for my friend.

Mostly, Anne and I shared memories. The night we swam naked at the lake. The party where Anne did a bunny-hop pratfall. The beach trip on which we misplaced two-year-old Stuart. The day I showed up drunk at Katy’s recital.

The year I showed up drunk at everything.

Between chats, we’d check our messages.

Many from Tom.

None from Ryan.

Though I dialed every few hours, Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent persisted in not answering. She was equally unswerving in not phoning again.

Now and then conversation veered to Claudel’s buttons. Monique Mousseau had ventured no opinion as to the age or meaning of the forgery. Anne and I cooked up countless scenarios. None made sense. Birdie offered little input.

Sunday evening I finally persuaded Anne to accept a call from Tom. Later she drank a great deal of wine. Quietly.

A
NNE WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN
I
LEFT FOR THE LAB
M
ONDAY
morning. I jotted a note asking her to phone when she woke. I didn’t expect a call before noon.

Exiting the garage, I was almost blinded. The sky was immaculate, the sun brilliant off the weekend’s snow.

Once again the city’s armada of plows had prevailed. All roads were clear in Centre-ville. Farther east, most side streets were passable, though bordered by vehicles buried to their roofs. The cars looked like hippos frozen in rivers of milk.

Here and there I passed frustrated commuters, shovels pumping, breath mimicking the exhaust from their half-hidden vehicles.

The lesser streets surrounding the lab were impossible, so I parked in Wilfrid-Derome’s pay lot. Crossing to the building’s back entrance, I wove between snowbanks and circled a small sidewalk plow, its amber light pulsing in the crystalline air.

My footfalls sounded sharp and crunchy. In the distance, tow trucks jolted residents awake with their brain-piercing two-toned
whrrp
s. Out of bed! Move your ass! Move your car!

The day’s first surprise ambled in as I was reaching to check my voice mail.

Michel Charbonneau is a large man whose size isn’t diminishing any with age. His bull neck, beefy face, and spiky hair give him the look of an electrified football tackle.

Unlike Claudel, who favors designer silks and wools, Charbonneau has taste that runs to polyesters and markdowns. Today he wore a burnt-orange shirt, black pants, and a tie that looked like a street fight at the south end of a color wheel. His jacket was an unfortunate brown and tan plaid.

Dropping into a chair, Charbonneau draped his overcoat across his lap. I noticed an abrasion on his left cheek.

Charbonneau noticed me noticing.

“You should see the other guy.”

He grinned.

I didn’t.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Claudel and I were last-minute loan-overs to narco, and the bust came down on Friday. I suppose you read about it?”

“No. I haven’t gotten to the news.” Anne and I had dispensed with all forms of journalism over the weekend, opting for videos and oldies on the Movie Channel.