Page 39 of The Bone Code

We moved to two easy chairs facing the glass wall overlooking the skyline stretching all the way down to the river. Twelve floors below, the windows along Sherbrooke winked copper in the warm rays of the waning day.

“Will you be busy while I’m here?” I asked.

“A guy in Montpelier wants me to look into an auto fatality.”

“Sounds rather dull.”

“Mm.” Ryan’s thoughts were not on a crash in Vermont. After chugging the last of his beer, he swiveled my chair, leaned forward, and started kneading my neck and shoulders.

I set down my tea. For the first time in a while, began to relax.

Ryan’s hands moved lower, his thumbs working deep circles in the muscles paralleling my spine.

Full disclosure. I am a sucker for a good back rub. Or a bad back rub. Massage me properly, I will disclose the location of every nuke in the U.S. arsenal.

Ryan’s hand slid inside the waistband of my jeans.

“Twice in one night? How easy do you think I am?”

“We can debate that later.”

His fingers slipped lower.

Advantage Ryan.

10

Monday, October 11

Iawoke to the smell of coffee. And an empty bed.

A Post-it note graced the door of the sleek, state-of-the-art Sub-Zero stainless-steel fridge. Blushing, I crumbled and tossed Ryan’s art.

Birdie was glued to the living-room window, tail flicking each time a pigeon dropped into view on a downward swoop from the roof. Ryan was nowhere to be seen.

When we purchased the condo, its price alarmingly above our budget, Ryan and I decided to splurge further on a pair of in-house parking spots. Retired from the SQ, he no longer had access to a city ride and relied on the Jeep he’d owned for years. Having ponied up for a new car in Charlotte, I now kept my old Mazda in Montreal for use during my bimonthly visits.

What the hell? You only live once.

When I arrived in the garage, Ryan’s slot was empty. Off to see a man about a crash, I presumed.

Emerging from the underground, I wound my way toward the Hochelega-Maisonneuve district, a working-class hood just a bump east of Centreville. A ten-minute prowl through the maze ofnarrow streets brought me to a gap between cars lining one curb. With much strenuous wheel twisting and back-and-forth maneuvering, I wedged myself in, leaving a good twelve inches at each bumper.

Winded and a bit sweaty, I got out and checked the three signs listing restrictions for that side of the street on that weekday in that month for drivers lacking a resident’s permit or an edict of exemption from the pan-galactic tribunal on temporary vehicular storage. Don’t get me started on Montreal parking regs.

Reasonably satisfied that the spot was legal, Iwheep-wheepedthe locks and started walking. The day was chilly, the sky leaden, the air heavy with the smell of dead leaves and exhaust. Now and then, a hint of oil and dead fish was carried up from the river.

In minutes, I arrived at a T-shaped high-rise jutting inharmoniously from the warren of one- and two-story walk-ups surrounding it. The Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale occupies the top two floors, the Bureau du Coroner is on eleven, and the morgue is in the basement. Since the remaining footage belongs to the provincial police, the structure, though officially named the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome, is still referred to by old-timers as the SQ building.

I swiped my security card, passed through metal gates, and entered the restricted LSJML/Coroner elevator, then swiped again and ascended with a dozen others, some of the more perky mumbling “Bonjour” and “Comment ça va?” Hi. How are you?

It was all anyone could manage early on a Monday morning.

Four of us exited on the twelfth floor. After crossing the lobby, I swiped a second security card and passed into the lab’s working area. Through observation windows and open doors, I could see secretaries booting computers, techs flipping dials, scientists and analysts shrugging into lab coats.

I swiped one last time. Glass doors whooshed, admitting me to the medico-legal wing.

The board showed three of five pathologists present. The box beside Emily Santangelo’s name saidTémoignage: Joliette. Testimony in Joliette. Natalie Ayers was oncongé personnel. Personal leave.