Monday Mourning читать онлайн

Tom called at seven to ask if I’d heard from Anne. I hadn’t.

He’d established that his wife had made no reservations for a flight from Montreal to Charlotte for any day that week. I told him I’d talked to an SQ officer.

Tom suggested Anne had probably gone off by herself to think and we would hear from her soon. I agreed. We both needed to believe it.

Hanging up, my eye once again fell on the mirror. Nine days since the break-in and the cops had found zip.

Flash recall.

Anne’s hunk in 3C.

Mother of God! Had she gone off with some stranger she’d met on an airplane? Could that stranger be the same person who had vandalized my home?

Another flash.

Ryan’s surveillance order.

Were there still stepped-up patrols past my place? Might a passing squad car have seen Anne’s departure?

Unlikely, but worth a shot.

Bundling up, I headed out.

It was another immaculate day. The radio had predicted a high of minus thirty Celsius. At seven fifty-five, we weren’t even close.

Within ten minutes a squad car rolled up the block.

I walked to the curb and waved them over.

Yes, they were still passing frequently. Yes, this team had been working days all week. No, they hadn’t seen a towering blonde with a lot of luggage. They promised to ask the guys on the other shifts.

Back to the lobby, where it was at least warm enough for blood to circulate.

Ryan pulled up at eight-ten. I got in. The car smelled of cigarette smoke.

“Bonjour.”

“Bonjour.”

Ryan handed me the faxed photo from Menard’s senior yearbook.

The shot was small and dark, with all color and some contrast lost in transmission. But the face was reasonably clear.

“Looks like Menard,” I said.

“And a thousand other guys with red hair, glasses, and freckles.”

I had to agree.

“Any word from your friend?”

“No.”

I shifted my feet. Unzipped my parka. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. My legs. My arms. I felt awkward and uncomfortable with Ryan. I wasn’t sure I could manage conversation with him.

“Rough night?” Ryan asked.

“Why the sudden interest in my sleep patterns?”

“You look tired.”

I looked at Ryan. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper, his whole face more clenched.

What the hell’s going on with you? I wanted to ask.

“I’ve got a number of things on my plate,” I said.

Ryan put a finger to the tip of my nose. “Don’t we all.”

Twenty minutes later we were on Cyr’s porch.

Ryan had phoned ahead, and Cyr answered on the first ring. This time the old coot was fully clothed.