Monday Mourning

Were they just putting me behind any and all requests from detectives?

Ramming the cellular into my purse, I dug a scraper from the backseat, got out, cleared the windows, slid back behind the wheel, and slammed the door.

After starting the engine, I rocked the Mazda by shifting between forward and reverse. At the first hint of traction, I accelerated, and we fishtailed from the curb. White-knuckling, I turtled forward, squinting to see through the blanket of white.

We’d gone two blocks when Anne broke the silence.

“We could try old newspapers, pull up stories on missing girls.”

“English or French?”

“Wouldn’t disappearances be reported in both?”

“Not necessarily.” My attention was focused on holding to the tracks created by previous traffic. “And Montreal has several French papers today, has had godzillions in both languages over the years.”

The car’s rear winged left. I steered into the spin and straightened.

“We could start with the English papers.”

“What years? The building went up at the turn of the century.

The snow was winning out over the wipers. I maxed the defroster.

“The UV fluorescence tells me the bones are probably not older than the building. Beyond that, I can’t narrow it.”

“OK. We won’t search newspaper archives.”

“Without knowing language and time frame, we’d be at it all winter. Also, the girls were found here, but may not have gone missing here.”

We crept another block.

“What about that button?” Anne asked.

“What about that button?” I snapped, again coaxing the rear wheels back behind the front.

Loosening her scarf, Anne leaned back in an attitude that suggested I was now to be ignored.

“Sorry.” I was playing Claudel to Anne’s Tempe.

The silence lengthened. Clearly, it was going to be up to me to end it.

“I apologize. Driving in blizzards makes me tense. What was your button idea?”

After a few more moments of “you’re being an asshole” muteness, Anne rephrased her suggestion.

“Maybe you could talk to another expert. Try to develop more information.

Gently pumping the brakes, I brought the car to a stop. Across Sherbrooke, an old woman walked an old dog. Both wore boots. Both had their eyes crimped against the snow.

I looked at Anne.

Maybe I could.

Depressing the gas pedal slowly, I crawled into the intersection and turned left.

Jesus, of course I could. I’d been ignoring the buttons, accepting Claudel’s opinion concerning their age. Maybe his McCord source was less than a quiz kid.