В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
I ordered another Perrier.
As we ate, the conversation turned to work. Safe ground.
“Claudel’s gone to Vermont.”
My brows shot up. “To research the real Menard?”
Ryan nodded.
“Whose idea?”
“Claudel is a good cop.”
“Who thinks I’m a moron.”
“I don’t hang with morons.”
You don’t hang with me. I didn’t say it.
“Do you suppose this Menard impostor killed Louise Parent?” I asked.
“It’s a possibility.”"
"“Pretty good possibility, don’t you think? Parent calls me about Menard. Within days, some guy tunes her up with a pillow.
Ryan didn’t comment.
“But how could this Menard impostor have known that Parent called me?”
“How could anyone have known?”
I had no answer for that.
“Have you talked to the neighbor with the SUV?”
“He’s clean.”
“I keep thinking about Parent’s final night. Her last feelings and thoughts. Do you suppose she knew?”
“There were no signs of a struggle. She was lubed on Ambien.”
“Some cold-blooded psycho found a way into that house in the middle of the night and smothered Parent with her sister’s pillow.
“Don’t do this to yourself, Tempe.”
“I just keep wondering about her last sensations.”
To keep myself from imagining those of three dead girls. I didn’t say that either.
“There’s something I haven’t told you yet.”
I waited for Ryan to continue.
“Louise Parent left an estate worth almost a half million dollars. She was insured for another quarter million.
“The beneficiary?” I asked.
“Her sister. Rose Fisher.”
Ryan dropped me off around nine-thirty. He didn’t ask to come in. I didn’t invite him.
The answering machine was dark and still.
Where the hell was Anne?
Shower. Teeth. Face.
Into bed. Birdie hopped up and curled beside me.
I tried reading. Too agitated.
Closing my book, I turned off the light.
Subliminal gnawing.
I rolled from my right side to my left. To my right.
Birdie shifted to the corner of the bed.
I’d never wanted a drink so badly in my life. Could one tiny cabernet hurt?
You’re an alkie. Alkies can’t do booze.
I punched the pillow. Rolled to my back.
Giving up on sleep, I groped for the remote, clicked on the TV, and found a mindless sitcom.
What was it I was missing?
Anique Pomerleau disappeared from Mascouche in 1990. She was fifteen. Today she’s alive and living in Montreal.
Two of the pizza basement girls were around fifteen.
