Page 125 of The Bone Code
TB:We’ll be there.
Tim Hortons coffee shops are like dental offices. Predictable, reliable, and unimaginative. This one was situated on a corner, at one end of an uninspired strip mall.
A red awning topped by Tim’s familiar signature overhung the entrance. Inside, a lighted wall menu behind a long vinyl counter listed selections. Below the counter, a glass case offered an array of sandwiches and pastries.
Tables filled the floor. Three were occupied. A mother with a chocolate-smeared toddler in a stroller. A trio of workers wearing boots, parkas, and earflap hats. Two women in scrubs, both looking exhausted and probably fresh off a graveyard shift.
While Ryan got coffee and doughnuts, I chose a spot as far from the other patrons as possible. Eisenberg had seemed nervous. I didn’t want her spooked.
Ryan arrived with three lidded red cups and a bag. He was placing the coffee on the table when Eisenberg pushed through the door dressed like a trapper returning from the Klondike. Mercifully, the hat, gloves, and ankle-length coat were all imitation. Not a single animal had been killed in their making.
A birdlike scan of her surroundings, then Eisenberg scurried toward us, bootheels clicking like corn in a popper.
“Thank you so much for meeting with us.” Ryan and I had agreed that I’d steer the conversation.
“It’s not right.” Eisenberg was clearly agitated.
“I hope you drink coffee, Dora.” I gestured at the cups. “May we call you Dora?”
“I can’t stay long.”
Eisenberg lowered herself into one of the empty chairs. As sheshrugged from the acres of fake fur, a tsunami of odor wafted my way. Doing my best not to react, I opened the bag and offered the doughnuts. She chose an apple fritter and a honey cruller.
Ryan and I waited while Eisenberg pried off the lid and added sugar to her coffee. Stirred. Tested. Added more. Replaced the lid. Ate the cruller.
Finally, I asked, “You work in human resources at InovoVax?”
Eisenberg nodded. Took a bite of the fritter. A big one.
“Have you been with the company long?”
“Twenty-five years.” Through a mouthful of sugar and dough. “Since before the move to Laval.”
“Did you know Mélanie Chalamet?”
“He’s not really a policeman?” Eyes flicking to Ryan. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you.”
“Detective Ryan is a licensed investigator,” I said, taking some liberty with the title.
“What about you?”
“I’m also an investigator.” Not wanting to alarm her by mentioning the lab or the coroner.
“Did something happen to Mélanie? Are you doing some kind of cold-case investigation? I’ve seen shows about that on TV.”
“Mm. What can you tell us about Mélanie?”
“I can tell you that Dr. Murray was lying just now. He knew Mélanie, knew her well. Toward the end, he made her life miserable.”
“Oh?”
“And Mélanie wasn’t fired.” Head again wagging, which caused the hide hat to shift. “Uh-uh. No way. I’ll swear to that on a stack of Bibles.”
Sudden thought. “You have access to the company’s personnel files, don’t you, Dora?”
Eisenberg licked a finger and began picking sugar particles from the tabletop.
“You retrieved Mélanie’s file?” I guessed.
