Twenty—Four

I had several hours to kill before I could go in search of Monique. Although my stomach seemed to have resigned itself to its empty state, I figured I might as well fill it up. So I returned to the Market, to the Tex-Mex restaurant I’d passed on my way to the spa. I had a hankering for some chicken fajitas and maybe a margarita or two.

I tried to put sense to what I’d learned about Fleur’s movements. I had leads that had led to other leads and hopefully would pan out tonight. But so far no one had seen the pretty girl after the beginning of July. At least I knew that she had endeavoured to get a job shortly after her arrival. And that Eric had been looking out for her. Likely her father had let him know that she’d gone to Ottawa. However, knowing how adverse Jeff was to revealing private family matters, he probably hadn’t told Eric the real reason behind her leaving home.

I also wondered if Eric had passed on what he’d discovered to the Ottawa police, when it was finally established she was missing. I would expect so. But if that were the case, why hadn’t they followed up with the people he’d talked to? The only ones they seemed to have bothered with were the executive director of the Welcome Centre and Claire. Although why they would seek out Claire and not Paulette, the head of the Youth Program, wasn’t readily apparent, unless Claire had overheard them asking about Fleur and had volunteered the information. Regardless, whatever Claire knew about Fleur had died with her.

Little wonder Marie-Claude was so upset with them. If the cops had done their job when Fleur was first reported missing, she would in all probability be safe in Montreal enjoying the start of her nursing course.

I was also confused about something else I’d learned. Both Marie-Claude and Jeff had told me that he’d come to Ottawa several times to try to find their daughter. If so, why hadn’t he talked to the people I’d so easily found? Unless Eric had told him the results of his effort, prompting Jeff to decide there was nothing more to learn from these people.

And I couldn’t forget Eric’s sacred stone found in the Gatineau Park parking lot. Was it in any way connected to Fleur? Had something he’d learned about the missing girl here in Ottawa led him across the river to that dark, lonely place? And, more importantly, when had he dropped it? Before Becky was murdered or afterward? I didn’t want to consider the possibility of it being lost while she was being killed.

The two margaritas had gone down very smoothly, as had the fajitas. Although it had been many years since I’d had the tangy lime and tequila drink, my taste for it hadn’t diminished. Another would do me very nicely. I couldn’t think of a better way to kill the remaining hour I had before Monique was supposed to be at her corner. And since my stomach wasn’t completely sated, I added a plate of all-dressed nachos.

A couple of hours later, I stumbled out of the restaurant, feeling somewhat woozy. I sure couldn’t drink like I used to. A rather good-looking chap sitting at the bar — one of those tall, dark, handsome types — had offered me another margarita, and not wanting me to drink on my own, he had joined me. It had been more years than I cared to count since anyone had tried to pick me up, so I was feeling quite thrilled by the compliment, particularly since he appeared to be younger than me. I became so engrossed in our conversation and his admiring glances that I totally lost track of the time. It was ten past ten and another margarita before I glanced at my watch and realized with a sickening jolt where I was supposed to be. While I scrambled to pay my bill, I apologized profusely and hastened out of there, but not before exchanging email addresses. Who knew, maybe next time I was in Ottawa …

Once outside, it took me a few minutes to get oriented. I’d forgotten exactly where I was and where I had to go. But the crisp, cold night air managed to clear my confusion, while a passerby set me in the direction of Cumberland and Murray, which turned out to be only a few blocks away. Hopefully, Monique would still be standing on her corner waiting for a client, and if she wasn’t, I would do as Paulette had suggested and wait until she returned.

But it took me longer than anticipated. I took a wrong turn then several more minutes to realize my mistake. I’d also felt dizzy and had sat down on the curb until it passed. By the time I arrived at Monique’s corner, it was after ten thirty.

The skinny bleached blonde with thigh-high leather boots and mini skirt that barely covered her scrawny bum turned out not to be Monique. Apparently Monique’s station was the opposite corner, but she’d just left with a client and wouldn’t be back for another thirty minutes or so.

“But you ain’t gonna wait here, are ya?” The woman eyed me with suspicion. Under a streetlight’s harsh light, I realized that though she stared at me through world-weary eyes, she couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. I couldn’t help but wonder what could have gone so wrong in her short life to force her into such a demeaning and potentially dangerous business. No doubt drugs were part of it.

A passing car slowed and the male occupant gave this young woman a thorough once over before speeding up.

She cast me an angry glance. “These here are our corners, eh? Ya can’t take ’em.”

It took me a few seconds to realize what she was referring to. I laughed. “You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t provide you with any competition. I just want to talk to Monique, that’s all.”

“If ya gonna wait for her, ya can’t stand here. Omar’ll get mad.”

“Whose he?”

“My pimp. He’ll be coming around soon to check up on me.”

Another car slowed down, but the man, this one bald with several double chins, rather than nodding in her direction, rolled down his window and leered at me.

Yikes, she was right. I vehemently shook my head and backed away from the curb. He sped up through the light and stopped further along the road, where a woman with more curves than Pamela Anderson hopped into the passenger seat.

“Get the fuck outta here. You’re takin’ away my business,” the young prostitute hissed, scanning the passing parade of cars. She’d plastered an awkward come-hither smile on her face that looked more pitiful than sexy.

“Okay, I will, but before I go I just want to ask if you knew Becky Wapachee?”

“She the one that got killed, eh?”

“She’s a friend of Monique’s. Maybe you knew her too?”

A car glided to a stop beside us. A grey-haired man that appeared old enough to be my grandfather and her great-grandfather flicked his head for her to get into his vehicle without cracking a smile.

“Yeah, I knew Becky,” she yelled as she ran behind the car to the passenger side. “She got what she deserved.”

“Why do you say that?” I shouted back.

“She hung out with —” Her words were cut off by a sudden blast of a horn from across the street.

Before I had a chance to ask again, the door slammed shut and the car sped off.

I hoped Monique could finish the sentence. But after waiting more than a half-hour, most of that lurking as far out of the sightline of the trolling cars as possible — although I did have one unnerving encounter with a john who refused to take “no” for an answer — Monique failed to show up.

It was well after the time I was to meet the bistro waiter at O’Flaherty’s. I could only hope that Monique would be here when I returned.