Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(39)

I began by studying the pictures. And circled straight to that cellar with its rats and refuse and reek of decay.

Manon Violette’s bones were jumbled in a crate stamped with the words Dr. Energy’s Power Tonic. Marie-Jo?lle Bastien’s skeleton lay naked in a shallow grave. Angela Robinson’s was wrapped in a moldy leather shroud.

The images. My findings. Reports of the SQ and city cops. Lab results. The final positive IDs. The names of those responsible. Pomerleau. Catts, aka Menard.

At one point I lingered on a crime scene pic of the house on de Sébastopol. I thought of the original owners, Menard’s grandparents, the Corneaus. Wondered if the crash in which they’d died had ever been investigated.

The file felt like a phone call from a decade ago.

Two hours later, I sat back in my chair, frustrated and discouraged. I’d found nothing I didn’t already know. Except that Angela Robinson had broken her wrist in a fall from a swing at age eight. I’d forgotten that.

The wall clock said 10:40.

I wrote a brief report on the Saint-Chrysostome deceased. Odocoileus virginianus. White-tailed deer. Then I went to tell LaManche. He was not in his office. I left a note.

As agreed, I met Ryan in the lobby at eleven.

André and Marguerite Violette lived in C?te-des-Neiges, a neighborhood known for sprawling cemeteries and the Université de Montréal, not for architectural caprice. Like the Westmount of the well-heeled English, and the Outremont of their French counterparts, the quartier is up-mountain from Centreville, a mix of student, middle class, and blue collar, with enough rough spots to make it interesting.

Twenty minutes after leaving Wilfrid-Derome, Ryan pulled to the curb on a stretch of boulevard édouard-Montpetit within spitting distance of the university campus. We both took a moment to look around.

Duplexes and low-rise apartments lined the street, red brick, plain, and functional. No turrets, no mansard roofs, no curlicue iron stairs. None of the whimsy that gives Montreal its charm.

The Violette building fit with the theme. The address was posted on a two-story brick box stuck to another two-story brick box, each accessed by a set of shotgun steps.

“Remind me,” I said. “What did André do?”

“He was a pipe fitter. Still is.”

“And Marguerite?”

“She irons his shorts.”

“As I recall, he was difficult.”

“The guy was a cocky little prick.”

“Charming turn of phrase.”

“What I have can’t be taught.”

Ryan and I got out and climbed to the door, footsteps clanging on the stiff metal risers.

When Ryan rang the bell, I heard a muffled double bong, then a voice barked once, like a Doberman firing a warning. Seconds later, locks rattled and the door opened inward.

André Violette looked smaller than I remembered, shorter and thinner. His hair was dyed now, dull and unrelentingly black. The pompadour styling was unchanged from 2004. So was the brash kiss-my-ass attitude.

“Perhaps you remember us. I’m Detective Ryan. This is Dr.—”

“I know who you are.”

“Thank you for seeing us.”

“Pfff. You give me a choice, me?”

Joual is a form of Quebecois French. Some speak it due to lack of education, others as a statement of francophone pride. André’s accent was thicker than I recalled. His moi came out a nasal “moe”; his toi was “toe.” I doubted his choice of lexicon was based on politics.

“We’re very sorry—”

André cut me off. “For my loss. I heard that speech ten years ago.”

“We’re still working to find the woman who hurt your daughter.”

No reply.

“May we come in?” Ryan’s tone said the request was clearly a formality.

André stepped back. We followed him down a short hall to a living room overfilled with bulky sofas, chairs, and carved mahogany pieces. A tasseled lamp occupied every table. A doily protected every seat back. Shelves on either side of a painted brick fireplace held bric-abrac, religious statues, and framed photos.

André dropped into a chair and lifted an ankle onto a knee. The upraised foot looked unnaturally large inside its salt-stained boot.

As Ryan and I settled on opposite ends of the couch, a woman materialized in a doorway to our left. Her hair, once brown, was fast going gray. She was doing nothing to hide it. I liked her for that.

André’s eyes cut to his wife. “Is it all right—?” she started.

André flicked an impatient hand. The woman scuttled to a chair, hands clutched to her chest.

I’d never met Marguerite Violette. Back in ’04, André had been my sole point of contact. It was André who’d delivered antemortem records. André to whom I’d reported the ID.

I recalled his odd reaction. He hadn’t cried, hadn’t questioned, hadn’t lashed out. He’d pulled a Mr. Goodbar from his pocket, eaten half the chocolate, risen, and walked from my office.

Seeing the Violettes together, I understood the dynamic.

“Would anyone like—?” Marguerite began.

“This ain’t a social visit.” To Ryan, “So, what? You finally caught this freak?”

“I’m sorry I can’t report that. Yet. But there are new leads.”