Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(30)

“I don’t know.” I didn’t. “Coincidence?”

“You don’t believe in coincidence.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

That night Ryan came over to my place and we got carryout sushi from Baku. We ate in the kitchen, under Birdie’s steadfast gaze. Every few minutes Ryan would slip the cat raw fish. I’d scold them both. The cycle would repeat.

We were clearing the table when Slidell phoned. By reflex, I checked the time. Nine-forty and he was still working. Impressive. His update was not.

The possible Leal witness from the convenience store whom he’d interviewed a week earlier had provided car descriptors and two digits from the license. The pairing had generated over twelve hundred possibilities. Someone was making calls.

Leal’s ring was neither listed on the CSS inventory nor in the property room. It appeared in none of the photos.

The IT guys had yet to recover any of the browser history deleted from Leal’s laptop. They were still trying.

The FBI’s sketch artist had agreed to age-progress Pomerleau’s mug shot. When he could.

Hot damn. We were on fire.

“I plan to visit my mother tomorrow,” I said to Ryan, rinsing rice and soy sauce from a plate.

“I’ll hang here, go through the rest of the files, and push harder on tracking Pomerleau.”

“Sounds good.”

“Shouldn’t you give Daisy a heads-up?”

“Like she won’t be there?” Turning off the tap.

“She is a known flight risk.”

“Funny.”

Actually, it was. Sort of.

I took my mobile to the study and settled on the couch. Ryan’s backpack now hung from the arm of the desk chair. His phone charger jutted from a socket. Inexplicably, seeing his belongings amid mine calmed me. And filled me with sadness.

I was glad Ryan had agreed to relocate to my guest room. It was nice having him under my roof. A friend now, nothing more. Still, I was glad he was here.

I dialed. The first ring was cut short.

“I am so glad you phoned.” Mama’s voice had the intensity of a pit bull signaling a break-in. “I was about to phone you.”

“Mama—”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“I’m coming to see you tomorrow.”

“I was hitting a lot of dead ends. ‘Daisy,’ I said to myself, ‘the devil’s in the details. Focus on the details.’ ”

When Mama’s round the bend, her listening skills are not at their best.

“I’ll be there by noon.”

“Are you hearing me, Tempe?”

“Yes, Mama.” I knew that trying to interrupt would only crank her up further.

“I’ve learned something dreadful.”

I felt a tickle of unease. “Dreadful?”

“Another little girl is going to die.”





CHAPTER 13


“DATES, TEMPE. DATES.” Almost breathless. “I was out of ideas so I ran a matrix on the dates.”

“What dates?”

“Some you gave me, most I found through online news reports.”

“I’m not following you, Mama.”

“The dates the children were taken. I don’t have all of them, of course. But I have enough.”

“What children?” I kept my voice even.

“The ones in Montreal. And the later ones. Do you have something to write with?” Dramatic stage whisper. “It’s unsafe to transmit this information electronically.”

I relocated to the desk and got pen and paper. Then I pressed a button and set the phone down.

“What was that? Am I on speaker?”

“It’s okay, Mama.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Ryan appeared in the doorway. I gestured for him to be quiet but to come closer so he could hear.

“I located a great deal of information on the situation in Montreal.”

“How?”

“I started with names—Anique Pomerleau, Andrew Ryan, Temperance Brennan. I paired the names with key words such as ‘SQ,’ ‘Montreal,’ ‘skeletons.’ One loop led to another and another. That’s always the case. Coverage was quite extensive, you know, in both French and English.”

That was an understatement.

“Have I told you how very proud I am—”

“Where are you going with this, Mama?”

A beat, then, “You identified three girls from their skeletal remains in the cellar: Angela Robinson, Marie-Jo?lle Bastien, and Manon Violette. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Write down those names.”

I did.

“Angela Robinson went missing on December 9, 1985. Marie-Jo?lle Bastien on April 24, 1994. Manon Violette on October 25, 1994.”

I scribbled each date beside the appropriate name.

“Did you write that?”

“I did.”

“Were there any others?”

“A girl’s name was written in a journal found at Pomerleau’s house. But we learned nothing about her, and no remains were ever found.”

“Do I have your full attention?”