Monday Mourning

Where was he during that period?”

“I’ll make some calls to Chico.”

“What did Menard do when he landed back in Vermont?”

“Grew vegetables, I guess. Lived off his inheritance. Paid no Social Security, filed no tax returns.”

“Did you talk to the locals?”

“I managed to scare up a couple of neighbors who remembered him. Most people in the area are newcomers since Menard left, but a few old-timers remembered Genevieve Rose and her son. Apparently Mama was one tough lady. Kept the kid on a very short rein.”

“Corneau never remarried?”

“Nope. Single parent. Folks remember Menard as a quiet kid who stayed in a lot. Didn’t participate in sports or the usual extracurricular school stuff. One or two said they recalled seeing him during the year following his return from Chico. Guy must have had some sort of epiphany in grad school. Made an impression back home with the dreadlocks and beard.”

“It’s Vermont.”

“Meaning?”

“They’re conservative. What else did these neighbors say?”

“Not much. Apparently Menard kept to himself, only ventured out to buy groceries or fill up on gas.”

“Talk to Chico. Dig up everything you can on this guy. And get a list of every female aged fifteen to twenty-five who went missing in the area while Menard was out there.”

“You really liking Menard for these pizza skeletons?”

“It’s the classic profile. Dominating mother. Failed ambition. A loner. An isolated location.”

“I don’t know.”

“Connect the dots, Charbonneau. Three girls were buried in the basement of a property Menard rented for nine years. Carbon 14 dating suggests that the timing of their deaths coincides with the period of Menard’s tenancy. Louise Parent was sufficiently suspicious of Menard to phone me twice.”

I was summarizing as much for Ryan’s sake as for Charbonneau’s.

“According to her sister, what Parent wanted to tell me was that on one occasion she had observed Menard carrying an unconscious teenaged girl into his shop. On another occasion she had observed Menard dragging a fleeing girl back into his shop. Both incidents took place late at night.”

“And Parent is now dead,” Charbonneau said.

I looked at Ryan. He was following every word.

“And Parent is now dead,” I said.

“Bring out the party hats. We may all be working the same patch.”

“Looks that way.”

“Ryan there?”

“Yes.”

“Put him on.”

I handed Ryan the phone, then watched as he listened to Charbonneau. Though my nerves were high-stepping, I kept my face neutral. No hint of the jolt Charbonneau had just given me. No hint of the pain Charbonneau had triggered on Monday. No hint of the torture last night’s phone call had been.

I’d vowed to distance myself from Ryan, but all the threads were starting to connect. With the Parent and pizza basement investigations merging, professional separation would not yet be possible.

C’est la vie. I would be a pro. I would do my job. Then I would wish Ryan well and move on.

“Yeah, she is.” Ryan chuckled the chuckle men use when sharing a joke about women.

Paranoia roared. She is what? Which she?

Forget it, Brennan. Focus on the case. Keep your energy pointed there.

I pictured the bones in their anonymous cellar graves, Menard buying and selling above in his shop. Electronics stolen for a drug hit. Family heirlooms tendered with regret.

I pictured Menard in Vermont, hoeing peas and potatoes. Menard in California, studying Struever, Binford, Buikstra, Fagan.

An ill-defined thought tried to get my attention.

Chico.

“—got it right here.” Ryan rotated the napkin to read Menard’s address.

Chico is in north-central California. I know that. So why the heads-up from my hindbrain?

That wasn’t it. There was something more. What?

“Will do,” Ryan said.

Charbonneau said something.

“Yeah. Squeeze the squirrel a little. See how he reacts.”

Ryan clicked off and handed me my phone.

“You up for a little chat with this guy?”

“Menard?”

Ryan nodded."

"“Definitely.”

The hindbrain thought seemed to relax slightly.

As Ryan and I left the restaurant we had no idea we were being watched.

26

THE MAP OF MONTREAL MAKES ME THINK OF A FOOT, WITH Dorval Airport and the west island suburbs forming the ankle, the toes pointing east, and the heel dropping down into the Fleuve St-Laurent. Verdun forms the fatty pad of the heel, with Pointe-St-Charles as a tiny toeward bunion.

The Point is topped off by the Lachine Canal, and bottoms out in the CP rail yards. Vieux-Montréal and its port lie to the east. Originally inhabited by immigrants working construction on Montreal’s bridges, the Point has street names that reflect a strong Irish presence. Rue St-Patrick. Sullivan. Dublin. Mullins.

But that’s history. Today the Point is largely French.

Less than twenty minutes after leaving Lafleur, Ryan turned onto rue Wellington, the neighborhood’s main east-west artery.