Eleven

“WELL, FOR STARTERS, he plays with his penis all day long. I mean, is that normal?” Nicole LaFramboise looked Roméo directly in the eye, as though only a man could understand or comment on such a thing. He responded with a shrug. “I only had a girl—I don’t know. And if you’re asking with regard to my personal experience? No comment.”

Roméo and Nicole were drinking coffee in his precinct office in St. Jerome. As usual, all eyes on the other side of the window were trying not to stare, but certainly most were speculating about their conversation. It was a slow day at the precinct, and they were acutely aware of the past relationship of the two people in that room and were hoping for some drama that morning. Nicole was getting Roméo caught up on the latest atrocities her two-year-old had committed. “Last week, he somehow managed to get a pair of scissors, and cut off the tails from half his stuffed animals. And he loves them, I know he does. Am I raising un maudit psychopath?”

Roméo smiled. “All two-year-olds are basically psychopaths.”

“And yesterday? I walked into the living room, and there was a very large, smelly poop on the sofa. His diaper was on the floor. When I asked him what happened, he said his toutou, a big brown monkey, did it.” Roméo had to raise an eyebrow at that one. “I mean, I only left him in the living room with his toys for like, three minutes!” Roméo offered Nicole a second coffee from his brand-new espresso machine, a gift from Marie. It had changed his life. Nicole waved her hand at the offer. “I’m trying to keep it to two a day. I’ll be needing one later just to stay awake until five o’clock. I go to bed when the baby does, at like, seven p.m. It’s doing wonders for my social life, let me tell you.” Nicole laid her forehead on Roméo’s desk, and pretended to snore.

“I have to say, Nicole, that anyone who raises a child is a hero. Especially someone who raises one alone.” Roméo could see the tears starting to gather in Nicole’s eyes. He made himself busy with the coffee, so he didn’t have to witness it. She couldn’t stand crying in front of anyone.

Nicole switched to a more familiar tone, “Dis-moi. How the hell do people have two kids? I mean, I think I’d end up bringing back human sacrifice.”

Roméo spooned a bit of sugar into his cup. “Does the father help out at all? Does he still see the baby on some weekends?”

Nicole grimaced. “When he’s around. He missed last weekend because he’s off skiing with the new guidoune in…in Zermatt? I don’t even know where that is.”

“It’s in Switzerland. And I guarantee you that you’re getting the better deal here. It’s hard to see it sometimes, but he is the one missing what really matters.”

Nicole reached out to take Roméo’s hand, and then thought better of it. Instead she fiddled with her pen. “I know that. I do. Merci, Roméo.”

Roméo caught the eye of one of the new uniformed officers who was openly observing them. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. “So. Au travail. Let’s get to work.”

Nicole pulled the two huge files from her black briefcase. “Oui, boss.” She opened the first one and turned it around so Roméo could read it properly. “I’ve flagged two cases—I mean, if that meets with your approval.”

He nodded. “Yes, I had a look at these. I agree.”

Nicole started to go over the first one, “A ten-year-old boy, Dieudonné Masoud, disappeared on his way home from school in St. Eustache eighteen years ago. His body was found three months later in a field next to an abandoned farmhouse.”

Roméo looked at his photo, one obviously taken at school. The boy’s eyes shone brightly, and a broad grin animated his chubby face. Dieudonné. A gift from God. He wondered how people survive losing a child. They don’t really. They just stay alive.

Nicole continued, “Many different eye-witnesses gave conflicting testimony as to who he was last seen with, and the parents never gave up on finding out what happened to him.” Roméo leafed through the file quickly. Their appeals for help, and their repeated offers of a reward for information were heartbreaking.

The other case involved a seventeen-year-old girl, Chantal Lalonde-Fukushima, who vanished from a party in Laval, north of Montreal, in 1997. Her body washed up on the shores of the St. Lawrence weeks later. She had been raped. The cause of death was drowning, but her body was so battered by the rapids she had come through that it was impossible to determine anything else conclusively. There were many witnesses who came forward, but all their testimony had led nowhere.

“The girl’s mother has contacted our Cold Case squad already. She’s demanding that we open the case again.” Nicole handed Roméo a photo of the girl. It appeared to be some kind of modeling head shot. She was unusually beautiful and photogenic.

“Is the father alive?”

“Yes, but they are now divorced. Since….” Nicole checked a paper. “Since ‘ninety-nine. He seems to have accepted what happened and moved on. She has called several times since yesterday.”

Roméo nodded. “Let’s assign the Masoud case to Robert and his team. You and I will take the girl’s case. Let’s get started right away. We’ll re-interview the last people who saw her alive at that party. Interview the mother again. And the father. We’ll start there. Get Isabelle to go over the medical examiner’s report. On both cases.” Roméo glanced out his office window to the room full of cops. He nodded towards the one who had been watching them so intently. “Take chose—what’s his name—with you. He seems really keen and could get out of the office for a—”

Roméo was interrupted by the insistent buzz of his desk phone. He held a finger up to Nicole to excuse himself and answered it. She took the opportunity to stretch her legs a bit and check out his office. Besides the expensive new coffee machine, and a framed photograph of Marie holding—she had to admit—a gorgeous baby, nothing much had changed in Roméo’s office. Every surface was covered in files and papers, but neatly arranged. Organized clutter. Nicole knew that Roméo had received several citations and awards for exceptional service over the years, and not one was displayed anywhere. They were probably buried in a drawer or sitting somewhere in that awful apartment of his. Roméo returned the phone to its receiver.

“That was the SPVM. Precinct twelve. Downtown.”

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “The Montreal police? And? What do they want?” There was no love lost between the Montreal force and the Sûreté du Québec. Suspicion and loathing would more accurately describe it.

“An unidentified woman’s body was found Monday morning in the Atwater Tunnel. A suspected hit-and-run. A piece of paper was found in her pocket, with…my name and number on it.” Roméo stood up and started patting his pockets for keys, his phone, and phantom cigarettes. “They want me to come in to answer a few questions. Looks like I’m going to Montreal.”

Nicole scraped her chair away from the desk. “As in now?”

Roméo nodded. “Yes. I think I will go now. And will you hold down the fort here until I get back, Detective Sergeant LaFramboise?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector Leduc.” She wagged a finger at Roméo. “You’re riding right into the mouth of the enemy. Attention à toi, anh? Just watch your back.”