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.
Too iffy.
“How far out for results?”
“Hopefully, no more than a week. LaManche suggested I move on to the third skeleton. Basically, he’s telling me to forget about PMI for now.”
“Not bad advice.”
“It’s frustrating.”
“Goes with the job.”
Ryan’s beeper sounded. He checked the number and clipped the gizmo back on his belt.
“Granted, these kids didn’t die last week, or even last month,” I went on. “But I can’t shake the thought that time is being wasted. I just have a bad feeling about this case.”
“Why?”
I told Ryan about Mrs.
“What exactly did she say?”
“That she knew what had gone on in that building.”
“Which was?”
“We didn’t get that far.”
“She could be a crackpot.”
“She could be.”
“You say she sounded old.”
“Yes.”
“It’s possib—”
“I’ve thought of that, Ryan. But what if she is sharp and she is on the level? And she does know something?”
“She’ll ring back.”
“She hasn’t.”
“Are you having her call tracked?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to see what I can find out?”
“I can handle it.
“What threat could an old lady pose to anybody?”
“This woman knows about our little field trip to the basement. God knows who else read or heard about it. You saw Le Journal. The media were on the thing like cats on a fish wagon.”
“Other than its age, what do you know about this building?”
“Three dead girls were buried in its basement.”
“You can be a pain in the ass, Brennan.”
“I work at it.”
“Have dinner with me tonight?” Ryan asked.
“I’m busy.”
Deafening quiet slipped across the office.
Uncrossing his ankles, Ryan straightened from the wall. The ice blue eyes looked straight into mine. It was not a happy look.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes,” I said.
Adios, cowboy, I thought, watching Ryan disappear through the door.
9
MIDWEEK, LATE AFTERNOON IS NOT A GOOD TIME FOR MOTORING in Montreal. Through the Ville-Marie Tunnel and onto the 20, I flew along at a clip that reached thirty-five mph at its peak. At the Turcot Interchange, my progress could be measured in spastic movements of car lengths.
A bumper sticker glimmered in the taillights ahead of me. The beatings will continue until morale improves. The first reading drew a chuckle. By the tenth, the humor had bled out. Translate: The traffic snarl will continue until impatience subsides.
To ease the boredom, I scanned billboards. Slogans in mangled English and French hawked cell phones and Hondas and sitcoms and hair spray.
