of them were probably fully occupied with this massive joint operation they were on and didn’t have time for phone numbers.
Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the basement, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down. She watched without comment as I booted the computer, and typed the phone number into a browser.
No results. The browser suggested I check my spelling or try different words. “How do you spell a number, you ignorant twit?”
I tried another browser. Then another.
No matches. Same useful tips.
“What good are you!”
Snatching the handset again, I punched another number, requested an individual, and made an inquiry.
No. Wednesday’s call to the lab had not yet been traced. Why not? These things take time. Well, then, write down this number and see if you get a match.
I sailed the handset back onto the bed, crossed to the dresser, dug for gloves, and slammed the drawer.
While jamming my right hand into one glove, I let go of the other. I bent to pick it up, dropped it again, kicked it to the wall, retrieved it, and yanked it onto my left hand.
When I turned Anne was gazing up at me, arms still folded, an amused expression on her face.
“Is this our resident forensic specialist demonstrating the art of a tantrum?” Anne asked in a Mr. Rogers voice.
“You think
that
was a tantrum? Piss me off and I’ll show you a gorilla.”
“I haven’t seen you stage a nutty like that since you caught Pete screwing the travel agent.”
“It was a Realtor.” I had to smile. “And
she
definitely had a fat ass.”
“Let me guess. We aren’t pleased with our phone message?”
“No. We aren’t.”
I summarized the tale of Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s calls.
“
That
brought out the Diva of Dachau?”
I didn’t respond.
“The nice lady is probably out buying her weekly Metamucil. She has called twice. She will call a third time.” Again, the patient schoolmarm. “If not, you have the number and you will reach her later. Or you must have resources downtown that can identify the listing that goes with that number. Hell, some everyman directory assistance systems will give you the name and address if you have a number.”
I could not mask my agitation.
“Anne, the woman said she knew who was dead and why. If she’s legit she can break this investigation wide open. Of course, she may not be legit. I’d like to talk to her before I set Claudel off on a false trail You’re right, I need to make some more efforts to talk to her myself. She called me, not the police.”
“I do have one other question.”
I raised my hands in a go-ahead gesture.
“How do you plan to button your jacket?”
I yanked off both gloves and pegged them at her.
For the second time that week I pulled into a pay lot in the old quarter. The sky was gunmetal, the air heavy with unborn snow.
“Bundle up,” I told Anne, zipping my parka.
“Where are we going?”
“Hôtel de Ville.”
“We’re booking a room?” Muffled through angora scarving.
“City Hall. It’s a four-block walk.”
Perched atop place Jacques-Cartier, Montreal’s City Hall is a Victorian extravagance in copper and stone. Built between 1872 and 1878, the place looks as though its designer didn’t quite know when to call it a day. Mansard roof?
Très Parisien.
Columns? Of course. Porticos?
Bien sûr.
Eaves, dormer windows, balconies, cupola, clock? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.
Though devastated by fire in 1922, Hôtel de Ville remained structurally sound, was rejuvenated, and today is a favorite with both natives and visitors, one of Montreal’s most charming landmarks.
“One would not confuse this with the Clover City Hall,” Anne said as we climbed the front steps.
I pointed to a balcony over the front door. “See that?”
Anne nodded.
“Charles de Gaulle made his famous or infamous
Vive le Québec
Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the basement, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down. She watched without comment as I booted the computer, and typed the phone number into a browser.
No results. The browser suggested I check my spelling or try different words. “How do you spell a number, you ignorant twit?”
I tried another browser. Then another.
No matches. Same useful tips.
“What good are you!”
Snatching the handset again, I punched another number, requested an individual, and made an inquiry.
No. Wednesday’s call to the lab had not yet been traced. Why not? These things take time. Well, then, write down this number and see if you get a match.
I sailed the handset back onto the bed, crossed to the dresser, dug for gloves, and slammed the drawer.
While jamming my right hand into one glove, I let go of the other. I bent to pick it up, dropped it again, kicked it to the wall, retrieved it, and yanked it onto my left hand.
When I turned Anne was gazing up at me, arms still folded, an amused expression on her face.
“Is this our resident forensic specialist demonstrating the art of a tantrum?” Anne asked in a Mr. Rogers voice.
“You think
that
was a tantrum? Piss me off and I’ll show you a gorilla.”
“I haven’t seen you stage a nutty like that since you caught Pete screwing the travel agent.”
“It was a Realtor.” I had to smile. “And
she
definitely had a fat ass.”
“Let me guess. We aren’t pleased with our phone message?”
“No. We aren’t.”
I summarized the tale of Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s calls.
“
That
brought out the Diva of Dachau?”
I didn’t respond.
“The nice lady is probably out buying her weekly Metamucil. She has called twice. She will call a third time.” Again, the patient schoolmarm. “If not, you have the number and you will reach her later. Or you must have resources downtown that can identify the listing that goes with that number. Hell, some everyman directory assistance systems will give you the name and address if you have a number.”
I could not mask my agitation.
“Anne, the woman said she knew who was dead and why. If she’s legit she can break this investigation wide open. Of course, she may not be legit. I’d like to talk to her before I set Claudel off on a false trail You’re right, I need to make some more efforts to talk to her myself. She called me, not the police.”
“I do have one other question.”
I raised my hands in a go-ahead gesture.
“How do you plan to button your jacket?”
I yanked off both gloves and pegged them at her.
For the second time that week I pulled into a pay lot in the old quarter. The sky was gunmetal, the air heavy with unborn snow.
“Bundle up,” I told Anne, zipping my parka.
“Where are we going?”
“Hôtel de Ville.”
“We’re booking a room?” Muffled through angora scarving.
“City Hall. It’s a four-block walk.”
Perched atop place Jacques-Cartier, Montreal’s City Hall is a Victorian extravagance in copper and stone. Built between 1872 and 1878, the place looks as though its designer didn’t quite know when to call it a day. Mansard roof?
Très Parisien.
Columns? Of course. Porticos?
Bien sûr.
Eaves, dormer windows, balconies, cupola, clock? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.
Though devastated by fire in 1922, Hôtel de Ville remained structurally sound, was rejuvenated, and today is a favorite with both natives and visitors, one of Montreal’s most charming landmarks.
“One would not confuse this with the Clover City Hall,” Anne said as we climbed the front steps.
I pointed to a balcony over the front door. “See that?”
Anne nodded.
“Charles de Gaulle made his famous or infamous
Vive le Québec
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