Page 129 of The Bone Code
“Grim,” Ryan said.
“It’s not so bad,” I said.
“All the appeal of an outlet mall in Ipswich.”
“Have you ever been to an outlet mall in Ipswich?”
“I just like to say Ipswich.”
“The trees are nice.”
“Right out ofArchitectural Digest.”
But I had to admit Ryan’s point was valid. The block had none of the charm of older Montrealquartiers. No gabled roofs. No weathered brownstone facades. No iron staircases whimsically sweeping front elevations. Here the leitmotif was function over fashion.
We got out and hurried up a walkway bisecting a swatch of concrete that should have been lawn. Not far off, vehicles droned steadily, probably traffic on Autoroute 440.
The door was unpainted steel and unlocked. Ryan and I passed through into a tiny lobby, flavorless in keeping with the building’s exterior. The left-hand wall hosted four mailboxes, three with names displayed behind yellowed rectangles of plastic.
“T. Sadoul. F. Sorg. T. Y. Chou,” I read aloud.
“My money’s on Sorg,” Ryan said.
“Here’s hoping Auntie hasn’t moved on up,” as I pressed the button.
I expected a voice warbling through a speaker. Instead, a buzzer sounded, and the lock behind us clicked. Ryan pulled the door wide, and we climbed a set of metal stairs.
There were two units per floor. Number 2B was on the right, bright plastic flowers affixed to the door.
Ryan knocked. We heard movement, but no one answered.
Ryan knocked again.
Still nothing.
The garish bouquet made my eyeballs want to bleed. Purple asters. Orange marigolds. Black and yellow sunflowers.
Between the stems and leaves, a bright blue iris in a sea of venous pink.
Hiding my surprise, I said, “Madame Sorg?”
The eyeball drew closer to the peephole.
“My name is Temperance Brennan. I’m here with Detective Andrew Ryan. We wish to speak to you concerning Mélanie Chalamet.”
“Piss off.”
I tried French.
“Va chier, mon tabarnac.”
Rough translation: go shit, asshole. Awesome. I’d been disparaged in two languages.
Hiding a smile, Ryan raised his brows and pointed to his chest. I yielded center stage at the bouquet.
“Madame Sorg, we’re so very sorry to call unannounced.” Oozing gentlemanly charm.
The eye in the peephole blinked.
