Monday Mourning

When she didn’t turn up on Sunday, the parents started checking. On Monday they filed the MP report. At that point Anique had been gone for almost sixty hours.”

“She never made it to the boyfriend’s place?”

“She made it all right. The two hit a couple of bars Friday night, got into a fight, Anique stormed out. Lover boy got lucky, spent the weekend with bachelorette number two.”

“Cops believed his story?”

“The bartender and the lucky lady backed him up. Pomerleau was a troubled kid with a history of runaways. The parents insisted she’d been abducted, but the cops figured she’d taken off.

“Did they pursue the case?”

“Until the leads went cold.”

“That was it?”

“Not quite. Three years later the Pomerleaus got a call from little Anique. Said she was fine, wouldn’t divulge her whereabouts.”

“That must have been a shock.”

“Couple years go by, the phone rings again. Same deal. Anique tells them she’s OK, but not a word about where she’s living. Last call came in ninety-seven. Father’s dead by then. Mother’s living in a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.

“Pomerleau’s prints were on file here in Quebec?”

Ryan nodded. “She’s got a jacket full of petty stuff. Vandalism. Shoplifting. One incident involving a stolen auto. Probably joyriding. Last entry was four months before her disappearance.”

I felt agitation bubbling to the surface. Here was another twist that didn’t fit. “What on God’s earth is Anique Pomerleau doing with Stephen Menard?”

“He’s not Menard.”

“Don’t patronize me, Ryan.” I picked up my pen, tossed it back on the blotter.

I snatched up the pen and pointed it at Ryan.

“And why can’t we find out who this toad is? And where’s the real Stephen Menard? And when did the identity switch take place?”

“Would you like some dinner?”

“What?”

“Dinner.”

“Why?”

“I have some things I want to tell you.”

“Right. You and Claudel keep a hotline to my phone for all breaking news. Where the hell is Claudel, anyway?”

Ryan started to speak.

“I’m sick to death of Claudel and his fuck-you-if-you-don’t-like-it attitude. Charbonneau’s the only one who treats me with any respect.”

“Claudel’s got his own way of doing things.”

“So do echinoderms.”

“You’re judging Claudel harshly. What are echinoderms?”

That tripped the switch.

“I’m judging him harshly? From the outset I’ve had to fight that narcissistic little prig to get him to take me seriously. To get anyone to take me seriously.