Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(40)

André shook his head. Marguerite slumped visibly.

“We have reason to believe that the woman involved in your daughter’s abduction—”

“My daughter’s murder.” André’s foot began winging on his knee.

“Yes, sir. We believe your daughter’s abductor is now in the U.S.”

“Anique Pomerleau.” Marguerite’s whisper was barely audible.

Ryan nodded. “Recently discovered evidence places Pomerleau in Vermont in ’07, and in North Carolina this year.”

“What evidence?” André asked.

“DNA.”

Marguerite’s eyes went wide. The irises were blue and flecked with caramel-colored points. “Has she hurt another child?”

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said softly. “I can’t discuss details of the investigation.”

“So arrest the bitch,” André snapped. “It’s good she’s in America. They can put her down.”

“We are using every resource at our disposal to find her.”

“That’s it? Ten years and you tell us our kid’s killer maybe left her spit in one place or another? Whoop-de-f*cking-do.” The last was delivered in English. “You guys are worthless. Next you’ll say it’s bonhomme Sept-Heures done it.”

“You’ve had a lot of time to think,” I said gently. “Perhaps one of you has remembered a detail that hadn’t occurred to you back when Manon went missing. Or hadn’t seemed important. Any bit of information could prove useful.”

“Remember? Yeah, I remember. Every day.” His face hardened, and venom infiltrated his voice. “I remember how my baby kicked off the covers and slept sideways on her bed. How she loved rainbow sherbet. How I patched up her knee when she fell off her bike. How her hair smelled like oranges after she washed it. How she got on the f*cking Métro and never came home.”

André’s jaw clamped suddenly. His cheeks were aflame with ragged patches of red.

Ryan caught my eye. I got the message and didn’t reply.

But neither Violette seemed compelled to fill the awkward silence that followed the outburst. André remained mute. Marguerite’s breathing went faster and shallower as a thousand emotions clearly vied for control of her face.

I studied André’s eyes, his body language. Saw a man hiding pain behind macho bluster.

A full minute passed. Ryan spoke first. “Those are precisely the types of recollections that might prove useful.”

“I got a recollection. I recall my knitting club meets today.” André’s foot was again dancing on his knee. “We’re done.”

“Mr. Violette—”

“I got a right to remain silent, yeah?”

“You are not a suspect, sir.”

“I’m gonna do that anyway.”

“Thank you for your time.” Ryan rose. I followed. “And again, we are so sorry for your loss.”

André remained seated, his thoughts obviously fixed on things other than needles and yarn.

Marguerite led us down the hall. At the door, she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t judge my husband harshly. He’s a good man.”

The sadness in the caramel-blue eyes seemed bottomless.





CHAPTER 17


“WHAT’S BONHOMME SEPT-HEURES?” I asked Ryan when we were back in the Jeep.

“Excuse-moi?”

“André used the phrase.”

“Right. Bonhomme Sept-Heures is a Quebecois bogeyman who kidnaps kids up after seven P.M.”

“What’s his MO?”

Ryan snorted, sending vapor coning from each nostril. “He wears a mask, carries a bag, and hides under the balcony until the clock strikes seven.”

“A myth to scare the kids into bed.”

“Frightening when the myth hits home.”

“Yes.”

“This was a waste of time.” Ryan slipped aviator shades onto his nose.

“At least the Violettes know we’re not giving up.”

“I’m sure they’re popping the bubbly even as we speak.”

“Did you have a bad night?”

Ryan activated his turn indicator.

“You look like you spent it somewhere dark and dank.”

My attempt at humor drew no response. Ryan made a right, another, then a left. Loud and clear. The boy wanted distance.

Using a mitten to clear condensation from the glass, I looked out my window. Pedestrians streamed the sidewalks flanking Queen Mary and bunched at the intersections, impatient to cross. Students with backpacks. Shoppers with plastic or string-handled bags. Mothers with strollers. All wore clothing suited for Antarctica.

Undaunted, I tried again. “Did you locate Tawny McGee?”

“Working on it.”

“Is her family still in Maniwaki?”

“No.”

“The mother was on her own, right? Two kids?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t the sister somewhere out west?”

“Sandra Catherine. In Alberta.”

“She still there?”

“No.”

“What next?” When Ryan didn’t elaborate.