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.
“Someone else got the patent, but Crapper invented the toilet.”
Where did she come up with this stuff?
Cyr gave a laugh that sounded like one of Crapper’s brainchildren. “Sacrifice. You are a pip. That husband of yours loses playground privileges, you give old Richard Cyr a call.”
“You’re as good as on my speed dial.”
Cyr pushed to his feet using both hands.
“May take me a few minutes to dig through my files. Want some scotch that’ll curl your toenails?”
Again, Anne and I declined.
A half hour later Cyr shuffled back clutching a sheet from a spiral tablet.
Anne and I stood.
“How ’bout you ladies stay for dinner? We could order out, maybe knock back some enchiladas and margaritas?”
“That’s very kind,” I said. “But I’m working right now, not socializing.”
“You know where to find me.”
I zipped into my jacket and Cyr led us to the foyer.
At the door, I handed him my card.
“Please phone if you think of anything.”
Cyr held out his paper. “As I recall, these folks was about as sinister as mushroom soup.
“Merci, Monsieur Cyr.”
“Someone got killed, I had nothing to do with it.” Low and without a trace of humor.
“What makes you think someone was killed?” Since Cyr hadn’t mentioned Le Journal, I assumed he hadn’t seen the article.
“That detective told me what was down in that cellar.”
So Claudel had interviewed Cyr. Damn him. Again, he’d left me out of the loop.
“Is that a fact?”
“Pompous little shitass.”
“Detective Claudel?”
“Little prick acted like I wasn’t quite bright.
“Tell me, Mr. Cyr. How do you think three people ended up buried in your basement?”
“Something bad went down, it was before my time.”
“How can you be so certain?”"
"“You ever meet Nicolò Cataneo?” The old man’s voice could have sharpened a razor.
I shook my head no.
“Watch yourself.”
15
THE STORM HAD ITS SLEEVES ROLLED UP, ITS COLLAR UNBUTTONED, and its tie hanging loose. Going for a two-footer.
Anne didn’t say a word as we picked our way to the car.
No messages.
I tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.
No answer.
I checked to see if her call to the lab on Wednesday had been traced, or if the number she’d left Thursday had been tied to a name or address.
Working on it.
“Damn!” Why didn’t they at least give me the name on the listing for the number I’d given them? They could compare the earlier call when they finished their trace.
