Monday Mourning

Charbonneau lumbered to his feet, flipped his coat over one arm, and dug a paper from a pocket. “I’m supposed to give you this.”

The note contained the telephone number left by Mrs. Ballant/ Gallant/Talent, the name Alban Fisher, and an address in Candiac.

“That a phone trace?”

I nodded.

“Someone giving you a hard time?”

“Besides the freak that broke into my condo?”

“Oh, yeah?” Charbonneau’s face tensed.

Mistake.

“It’s nothing. Anyway, Ryan’s got stepped-up surveillance on my place.”

I glanced at the paper Charbonneau had handed me.

“This woman called claiming to know something about the pizza parlor bones.”

“What?”

“Beats me. She said she knew what had gone on in Cyr’s building.”

“You let me know what this lady says as soon as you talk to her. If you don’t reach her today I’ll take a spin out there. And you let me know if anyone hassles you, Doc. I mean it.”

Again, Charbonneau hesitated, longer this time.

“Don’t let Luc get under your skin. He’ll come around. And, Doc, he won’t stand for you being hassled either.

I wondered.

Having survived the minefield of Charbonneau’s conversation, I should have been prepared for my next surprise. I wasn’t.

When I arrived in the conference room, the five pathologists were deep in discussion.

I mumbled an apology for my late arrival. LaManche slid a photocopy across the table.

Three autopsies had already been assigned. Pelletier got two crack addicts found in the Lionel-Groulx Metro.

I flipped a page and glanced quickly through the last two cases.

A man had been discovered facedown below the staircase at the Mont Royal end of Drummond.

Nom de décédé: Inconnu. Unknown.

A woman had been found dead in her bed.

Nom de décédé: Louise Parent

Date de naissance: 1943/6/18

Info.: Mort suspecte

My eyes dropped to the next line.

My heart dropped like a rock.

18

LAMANCHE’S VOICE GREW DISTANT. THE ROOM RECEDED around me.

Jamming one hand into the pocket of my lab coat, I yanked out Charbonneau’s note.

Sweet Jesus!

The address on the phone trace matched the address on the case file.

As I stared at the name, LaManche spoke it.

“Louise Parent.”

Ballant. Gallant. Talent. Parent.

Bands of tension squeezed my chest.

“Who discovered her?”

Everyone turned, surprised at my vehemence.

Wordlessly, LaManche pulled out the police report.

“Claudia Bastillo. The victim’s niece.