Page 141 of Evil Bones
“Neither knows nothing about you being snatched or Brown being capped.”
“What’s your plan going forward?” Ryan asked.
“A night behind bars to allow Meloy and Hall enough time for some real dark thoughts. Then a couple of cozy chats at dawn.”
“Play the lady and gent off against each other.” Ryan knew the drill.
“Fuckin’ A.”
“Suppose neither cracks?” I asked.
“They always crack. But in the meantime, no more of your goddam middle of the night walkabouts.”
Ryan got a call on his mobile at eight the next morning. He listened, replied with a series of brusqueouis, then agreed to something. His face told me that the something was not to his liking.
I asked no questions, allowing him to share at his preferred pace.
He imparted some details while at the stove cooking us breakfast. Omelets made of ingredients miraculously dredged from my fridge.
“Do you remember Pierre Giguère?” he began.
I had to think a moment.
“Your last boss before you retired from the SQ. Nice guy, bad toupee. Right?”
“It looks okay when he wears a hat.”
No, I thought. It doesn’t.
“That was Giguère on the phone earlier?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you were pals.”
“We’re not, really.”
I didn’t pose the obvious question.
“Pierre only calls in a professional capacity,” Ryan said.
I felt a prickle of unease, suspecting where this was going.
Ryan plated the omelets and put one on each of the mats I’d set out. Circled the table and took the chair opposite mine.
“This smells delicious,” I said. Wanting to delay the inevitable?
“I went heavy with the olives and capers.”
I had olives and capers in the house?
We ate in silence for several seconds. A silence strained by the knowledge of bad news in the offing.
Ryan broke it.
“I’ll give you the condensed version of Giguère’s message. In the last two months there have been three stabbing deaths in the southern part of the city, two in Petite-Bourgogne, one in Saint-Henri. The vics were all men in their twenties. Yesterday, there was another in Ville-Émard.”
“That’s awful. Same perp?”
