Part 3 (2/2)
”I've got to go. I'll call you tomorrow.”
I hung up and dialed Ryan's apartment. No answer. I called his pager and entered my number. No response. I looked at Birdie. He had no explanation.
By nine I knew he wasn't coming. I'd called his home seven times. I'd phoned his partner, with the same result. No answer. No response.
I tried grading the final exams I'd brought from UNC-Charlotte, but couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept going back to Ryan. Time would pa.s.s and I'd find myself staring at the same essay in the same blue book, my mind absorbing nothing the student had written. Birdie nestled in the crook of my knees, but it was small comfort.
It couldn't be true. I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't Wouldn't believe it. believe it.
At ten I took a long, hot bubble bath, zapped a carton of frozen spaghetti, and took it to the living room. I chose CDs I hoped would cheer me, and placed them in the player. Then I tried reading. Birdie joined me again.
No good. Same loop. Pat Conroy might as well have been printed in Nahuatl.
I'd seen Ryan's image on the screen, hands cuffed behind his back, uniformed cops on either side. I'd watched them angle his head forward as he bent to slide into the cruiser's backseat. Still, my mind wouldn't accept it.
Andrew Ryan was selling drugs?
How could I have been so wrong about him? Had Ryan been dealing the whole time I'd known him? Was there a side to the man that I'd never seen? Or was it all a terrible mistake?
It had to be a mistake.
The spaghetti cooled on the table. I had no stomach for food. I had no ear for music. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and the Johnny Favourite band played swing that could make a gulag get up and dance, but it did nothing to brighten my mood.
The rain fell steadily now, drumming the windows with a soft ticking sound. My Carolina spring seemed very far away.
I twirled a forkful of pasta, but the smell made something in my stomach recoil.
Andrew Ryan was a criminal.
Emily Anne Toussaint was dead.
My daughter was somewhere on the Indian Ocean.
I often phone Katy when I'm feeling down, but for the past few months that had been difficult. She was spending her spring on Semester at Sea, circling the world aboard the S.S. Universe Explorer Universe Explorer. The s.h.i.+p wouldn't return for another five weeks.
I took a gla.s.s of milk to my bedroom and cracked the window and stared out, thoughts swirling like five o'clock traffic.
The trees and bushes looked like black shadows through the dark glistening mist. Beyond them I could see headlights and the s.h.i.+mmer of neon from the corner depanneur depanneur. Now and then cars swooshed by, or pedestrians hurried past, their heels clicking on the wet sidewalk.
So routine. So normal. Just another rainy night in April.
I let the curtain fall back and crossed to my bed, doubting my world would return to normal for a very long time.
I spent the next day in constant activity. Unpacking. Cleaning. Shopping for food. I avoided radio and television, glanced only briefly at the paper.
The Gazette Gazette featured the Toussaint murder: featured the Toussaint murder: SCHOOLGIRL KILLED IN b.l.o.o.d.y SHOOT-OUT SCHOOLGIRL KILLED IN b.l.o.o.d.y SHOOT-OUT. Beside the headline was a blowup of Emily Anne's fourth-grade photo. Her hair was braided and bowed at both ends with large pink ribbons. Her smile showed gaps that adult dent.i.tion would never have the chance to fill.
The picture of Emily Anne's mother was equally heartbreaking. The camera had caught a slim black woman with her head thrown back, mouth wide, lips curled inward in a cry of agony. Mrs. Toussaint's knees were buckled, her hands clasped below her chin, and on either side, a large black woman supported her. Unspeakable grief screamed from the grainy image.
The story gave few details. Emily Anne had two younger sisters, Cynthia Louise, age six, and Hannah Rose, age four. Mrs. Toussaint worked in a bakery. Mr. Toussaint had died in an industrial accident three years earlier. Born in Barbados, the couple had immigrated to Montreal, seeking a better life for their daughters.
A funeral Ma.s.s would be celebrated Thursday at 8 A.M. A.M. at Our Lady of the Angels Catholic Church, followed by burial at the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery. at Our Lady of the Angels Catholic Church, followed by burial at the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery.
I refused to read or listen to reports about Ryan. I wanted to hear from him. All morning I left messages on his machine, but got no response. Ryan's partner, Jean Bertrand, had also gone incommunicado. I could think of nothing else to do. I was certain no one at the c.u.m or SQ would talk about the situation, and I knew none of Ryan's family or friends.
After a trip to the gym, I cooked a dinner of chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s with prune sauce, glazed carrots with mushrooms, and saffron rice. My feline companion would no doubt have preferred fish.
Monday morning I rose early, drove to the lab, and went directly to see LaManche. He was in conference with three detectives, but told me to talk with Stephane Patineau as soon as possible.
Wasting no time, I headed down the corridor containing the offices of the medico-legal staff and the anthropology, odontology, histology, and pathology labs. Pa.s.sing the Section des Doc.u.ments on my left and the Section d'Imagerie on my right, I continued to the main reception area and turned left into the wing housing the administrative personnel of the LSJML. The director's office was at the very back.
Patineau was on the phone. He waved me in and I took a chair opposite his desk.
When he finished his call, he leaned back and looked directly at me. His eyes were deep brown, hooded by heavy ridges and thick brows. Stephane Patineau was a man who would never worry about thinning hair.
”Dr. LaManche tells me you want to get involved with the Toussaint investigation.”
”I think I could be of use to Carcajou. I've worked on several biker cases. Right now I'm sorting out the victims from the Vipers' clubhouse bombing. I'm not new to this stuff. I cou-”
He waved a hand.
”The director of Operation Carcajou has asked if I could a.s.sign one of my personnel to act as liaison to his unit. With this war heating up he'd like to be sure the crime lab, the medico-legal staff, and his investigators are all on the same page at the same time.”
I didn't wait to hear more.
”I can do it.”
”It's spring. Once the river thaws and the hikers and campers. .h.i.t the woods your workload is going to get heavier.”
That was true. The number of floaters and decomps always increased when the weather warmed and the past winter's dead came to light.
”I'll work overtime.”
”I was going to a.s.sign Real Marchand, but you are welcome to give it a try. It's not a full-time job.”
He lifted a paper from his desk and handed it to me.
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