Monday Mourning

26

THE MAP OF MONTREAL MAKES ME THINK OF A FOOT, WITH Dorval Airport and the west island suburbs forming the ankle, the toes pointing east, and the heel dropping down into the Fleuve St-Laurent. Verdun forms the fatty pad of the heel, with Pointe-St-Charles as a tiny toeward bunion.

The Point is topped off by the Lachine Canal, and bottoms out in the CP rail yards. Vieux-Montréal and its port lie to the east. Originally inhabited by immigrants working construction on Montreal’s bridges, the Point has street names that reflect a strong Irish presence. Rue St-Patrick. Sullivan. Dublin. Mullins.

But that’s history. Today the Point is largely French.

Less than twenty minutes after leaving Lafleur, Ryan turned onto rue Wellington, the neighborhood’s main east-west artery. We passed sporting goods stores, tattoo parlors, the MH Grover clothing shop, a Wellington institution for decades. Here and there, a perky café interrupted the drab little strip.

Ryan paused where rue Dublin tied into Wellington on the left. On the right, a row of Victorians looked incongruously playful, styling out in pastels, ornate woodwork, brick arches, and leaded glass. I could read the name Dr. George Hall scripted in milky glass above one front door.

Ryan noticed my gaze.

“Doctor’s Row,” he said. “Built in the nineteenth century by a group of fat-cat physicians looking for prestigious addresses. The hood’s changed a bit since then.”

“Are they still private homes?”

“They’re divided into condos, I think.”

“Where’s rue de Sébastopol?”

Ryan tipped his head left. “It’s a rabbit warren in there, lot of dead ends and one-ways. I think de Sébastopol skims the edge of the rail yard.”

As Ryan turned onto Dublin, I noticed a historic marker out my window.

“What’s Parc Marguerite-Bourgeoys?”

“Mon Dieu, Madame la docteure, you’re referring to one of Quebec’s best-loved ladies. Sister Maggie set up schools for little girls back in the seventeenth century. Pretty rad idea for Quebec at the time. She also founded the Soeurs de la Congrégation de Notre-Dame. A few years ago the church upped her pay grade to saint.”

“Why the sign?” I asked.

“In the mid-sixteen hundreds Bourgeoys was given a hefty hunk of this little peninsula. Bit by bit, the nuns sold the land off, and Pointe St-Charles now covers most of the acreage, but Bourgeoys’s original school and parts of the farm are up ahead. Site’s now a museum.”

“Maison St-Gabriel?”

Ryan nodded.

Snow removal in the area had been sketchy at best. Sidewalks were mounded and parked cars jutted into the traffic lanes. Ryan drove slowly, pulling far to the right for oncoming traffic. As we moved deeper into the Point I assessed my surroundings.

The architecture was a jumble of nineteenth- and twentieth-century housing, most of which appeared to have been built for the working-class poor. Many streets were lined with two-story redbrick row houses whose front doors opened right at the curb. Others streets tended toward rough-hewn limestone. While most residences were starkly plain, a few sported a cornice, a false mansard, or a carved wooden dormer.

Mixed in with the previous century’s efforts were three-story trior six-plexes built during the early years of this one. Their creators favored more generous setbacks allowing tiny front gardens, recessed entrances, yellow, chamois, or brown brick facing, and exterior staircases twisting to second-floor balconies.

Near the entrance to the Maison St-Gabriel, we passed several four-story postwar monstrosities with entrances canopied under concrete or plastic. The designers of these eyesores obviously placed efficiency well before style. So much for feng shui.

After several turns, Ryan made a right, and rue de Sébastopol stretched before us. To our left sprawled the rail yards, half-hidden by six-foot fencing and evergreen shrubbery. Through the branches and chain-linking, I could see row after row of rusted tanker cars.

Snow crunched under our tires as Ryan rolled to a stop. Wordlessly, we each made a visual tour.

At midblock, a series of redbrick row houses elbowed up to the curb, the run-down little dwellings seeming to huddle together for support. Or warmth.

Beyond the row houses, I could see a gap, then a hodgepodge of cement structures with graffiti scarring their exterior walls. To our right stood a seedy barn enclosed within a dilapidated fence. Inside the fence, a mongrel dog took issue with our presence.

Bare trees fingered up through the power lines. Previously plowed snow sat mounded and blackened with grime.

Rue de Sébastopol looked like many other streets in the Point.

Yet somehow more bleak.

More isolated.

To our left yawned the vast uninhabited rail yard. Behind us lay the only vehicle access to the lane.

As I stared the length of the block, I felt a deep sense of foreboding.

Ryan nodded toward the row houses. “That’s Sébastopol Row, built in the 1850s by the Grand Trunk Railway.”

“Apparently Big Railroad didn’t pony up for aesthetics.”

Ryan pulled the napkin from his pocket, checked the address, then advanced so he could see the digits on the first row house.

The dog stopped barking, rose with forepaws on the fence, and watched our progress.

“What’s the number?”

Ryan told me.

“Must be farther down.”

As Ryan crept forward, I read off the addresses. The numbers on the row houses didn’t go high enough, but that on the first cement structure indicated we’d gone too far.

“Maybe it’s farther off the pavement, back in that vacant area,” I suggested.

Ryan reversed up the block and parked opposite the last of the row houses. A silhouette was faintly visible through bare trees and heavy pines.

“Ready?” Ryan scooped his gloves from the backseat.

“Ready.”

I pulled on my mittens and got out. At the thunk-thunk of our doors, the dog reengaged.

Ryan proceeded up an ice-crusted walkway six feet beyond the outer wall of the last row house. Needled boughs and bare branches blocked the sky, creating a gloomy tunnel effect.

The air smelled of pine, coal smoke, and something organic.

“What’s that odor?” I hissed.

“Horse manure.” Ryan was also whispering. “Old Yeller is guarding a calèche horse stable.”

“The horses that pull the carriages in Old Montreal?”

“The very ones.”

I took another whiff.

Maybe. But there was something else there.

Ryan and I picked our way carefully along the uneven walk, breaths billowing, collars up to ward off the cold.

Ten yards off de Sébastopol the path took a sharp left, and Ryan and I found ourselves facing a weathered brick building. We both stopped and read the rusted numbers above the door.

“Bingo,” Ryan said.

The building’s entrance was recessed, the door rough and aged, but ornately carved. The windows were opaque, some black, others white with frost and windblown snow.

Dead vines spiderwebbed across the roof and walls, and one wooden sill angled down from its frame. The pines were thicker here, keeping the house and its small yard in even deeper shadow.

Irrationally, small hairs rose on the back of my neck.

Drawing a deep breath, I worked myself just calm enough.

Ryan stepped up to the door. I followed.

The bell was dull brass, the old-fashioned kind that sounded when the knob was turned clockwise. Ryan reached out and gave it a twist.

Deep in the house, a bell shrilled.

Ryan waited a full minute, then rang again.

Seconds later, locks rattled, then the door creaked open four inches.

Ryan extended his badge to the crack.

“Mr. Menard?” he asked in English.

The crack didn’t widen. The person peering through it was hidden from me.

“Stephen Menard?” Ryan repeated.

“Qu’est-ce que voulez-vous?” What do you want? Heavily accented. American.

“Police, Mr. Menard. We’d like to talk to you,” Ryan persisted in English.

“Laissez-moi tranquille.” Leave me alone.

The door moved toward its frame. Ryan palmed it back with jackrabbit quickness.

“Are you Stephen Menard?”

“Je m’appelle Stéphane Ménard.” Menard pronounced the name in the French manner. “Qui êtes-vous?” Who are you?

“Detective Andrew Ryan.” Ryan flicked a hand in my direction. “Dr. Temperance Brennan. We need to speak with you.”

“Allez-vous en.” The voice sounded dry and almost frail. I still couldn’t make out its owner.

“We’re not going to go away, Mr. Menard. Cooperate and our questions should take only a few minutes of your time.”

Menard didn’t reply.

“Or we could do this at headquarters.” Ryan’s tone was tempered steel.

“Tabernac!”

The door closed. A chain rattled, then the door reopened.

Ryan entered and I followed. The floor was linoleum, the walls a color way too dark for the windowless room. The air smelled of mothballs, old wallpaper, and musty fabric.

The tiny foyer was lit by one small china lamp. Menard stood shadowed by the door, one hand on the knob, the other pressing a brass letter opener flat to his chest.

When Menard closed the door and turned to us, I got my first look at him.

Stephen Menard had to be six foot four. With his freckled face and bald, toad-shaped head, he was one of the most peculiar men I’d ever laid eyes on. He could have been a worn forty or a well-preserved sixty.

“Qu’est-ce que voulez-vous?” Menard asked again. What do you want?

“May we sit down?” Ryan unzipped his jacket.

A shrug. “N’importe.” Whatever.

Menard led us into a parlor as dim as the foyer. Heavy red drapes, mahogany secretary, coffee and end tables. Dark floral wallpaper. Deep cranberry upholstered pieces.

Laying the letter opener on the secretary, Menard dropped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. I removed my jacket and took the armchair to his right.

Ryan circled the room, turning on the overhead chandelier and a pair of crystal and brass lamps flanking the couch. The improved lighting allowed a better evaluation of the man of the house.

Stephen Menard was not just bald, he was totally hairless. No whiskers. No eyelashes. No body or head hair. The trait made him look smooth and oddly pale. I wondered if Menard’s lack of hair was a genetic condition, or some bizarre fashion statement intentionally created.

Ryan lifted a Windsor chair from beside the secretary and parked it in front of Menard with body language clearly not intended to calm. Sitting, he placed elbows on knees, and leaned forward to within a yard of Menard’s face.

Our reluctant host wore slippers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed above the elbows. Drawing back from Ryan, Menard tugged the sleeves to his wrists, shoved them back up, adjusted his glasses, and waited.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Menard. You’ve caught our interest.”

“Je suis—”

“My understanding is that you’re American, so English shouldn’t be any problem for you, right?”

Menard’s chin tucked in a bit, but he said nothing.

“Richard Cyr tells us you ran a pawnshop out of his property on rue Ste-Catherine a few years back.”

Menard’s lips went needle thin, and a wrinkle formed above the place his brows should have been.

“You got a problem with my asking about that?”

Menard ran a hand across his jaw, readjusted his glasses.

“Pretty successful operation. Lasted, what? Nine years? You’re a young man. What made you decide to call the pawn business quits?”

“I was not a mere pawnbroker. I traded in collectibles.”

“Please explain that to me.”

“I helped collectors locate hard-to-find items. Stamps. Coins. Toy soldiers.”

I’d seen Ryan interrogate suspects in the past. He was good with silence. The person being interrogated would complete an answer, but instead of putting another question Ryan would look up expectantly and wait. He did so now.

Menard swallowed.

Ryan waited.

“It was a legitimate business,” Menard mumbled.

Somewhere in the house I thought I heard a door open and close.

“Things grew complicated. Business was dropping off. The lease came up. I decided not to renew.”

“Complicated how?”

“Just complicated. Look, I’m a Canadian citizen. I have rights.”

“I’m just asking a few questions, Mr. Menard.”

Eye contact had become noticeably difficult for Menard. His gaze kept shifting from his hands to Ryan, then darting back down.

Ryan allowed another long pause. Then, “Why the switch from archaeology?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What happened out in Chico?”

An idea hared through my mind. I didn’t chase it.

“You got a warrant?” Menard asked, again adjusting the glasses.

“No, sir,” Ryan said.

Menard’s gaze drifted to a point over Ryan’s left shoulder. We both turned.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and thin, with ivory skin and a long black braid. I guessed her age as mid to late twenties.

The crow’s-feet cornering Menard’s eyes constricted.

The woman tensed so visibly she seemed to flinch. Then her arms wrapped her waist, and she scurried out of sight.

Menard pushed to his feet.

“I’m not answering any more questions. Either arrest me, or leave my home.”

Ryan took his time rising.

“Is there a reason we should be arresting you, Mr. Menard?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

Ryan zipped his jacket. I slipped into mine and started toward the foyer. Pausing near the secretary, I noticed the letter opener.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ryan put his face to Menard’s.

“We’ll play it your way for now, sir. But if you’re withholding information from me, I’ll make certain you come to regret that.”

This time Menard met Ryan’s gaze. The two stood eyeball-to-eyeball.

Turning my back to the face-off, I quietly scooped the letter opener into my purse.