I plastered the last of my notices around St. Joe's and popped into the Renaud Bray bookstore. Most of the books were in French, but I just needed to calm down. I tested mechanical pencils with fat orange lead. I picked up notebooks shaped like cats. I found "le consommateur," this yellow-covered guide to shopping in Montreal that both Tucker and Tori had recommended, but I put it back down because I didn't want to be reminded of them.
At last, I started walking back to my apartment, ready to think about Reena. What was she really afraid of? Was it really Wendy who was nuts the whole time? Or, like Dr. Gatien had mentioned a week (a lifetime?) ago, was it some weird folie à deux?
What had Reena been about to confess?
When I passed Péloquin, I heard a woman yelling, "Dr. Zee! I mean, See! I mean, doctor!"
The voice sounded dreadfully familiar. For a second, I sped up.
I heard sandals slapping the sidewalk behind me. "Doctor Sze! Please!"
The "please" stopped me. Reluctantly, I spun on my heel.
Wendy advanced on me with a pleading look.
"Wendy! Aren't you talking to Nancy?" The psychiatrist on call made me bring Wendy to emerg. Nancy promised she'd give her some "crisis counseling."
Wendy shook her head. "Forget that. Did you do this?" She held one of the Michael Martinez posters in her hand.
I was so surprised, it took me a second to recover my voice. My heart banged in my chest "Do you know him?"
"He's my ex."
I gave her a look.
"He was! That was before—" She stopped herself. "Look. I used to go out with guys. It's okay to experiment." She sounded like she was quoting someone. "I mean, who cares. Do you want to know about Mike or not?"
Every time I saw this girl, she changed on me. Right now, she was trying to be helpful, and if she hadn't gone psycho on me twice already, I might have bought the smile. She even had dimples, deep slashes in both cheeks that shouted, trust me! I'm cute!
I was starting to think she was the real borderline, not Reena. I paused to think. Mrs. Lee would want any lead pursued and if Wendy was talking to me, she wouldn't be terrorizing her foster sister. "I do. But, like the ad says, we want the Michael Martinez who was in the borderline group therapy at the Douglas—"
"Yeah, yeah, he was in Reena's group. That's how I met him."
That silenced me. Could it be that easy? Put up a few ads and we'd find the sociopath from eight years ago?
She smoothed the ad over her leg and smiled at me again. "You're helping Reena, I don't mind helping you. How much is the reward, anyway?"
Mrs. Lee hadn't given me the specifics. I didn't really want Wendy bugging her, but I said, "You'll have to call the number and ask. It's like Crimestoppers. We pay for information that leads directly to him."
"I think I have his number. He's on Tumblr." When I looked blank, she said, "It's a social networking thing. Interested?"
She had me. She knew it. Her grin widened to reveal perfectly white, even teeth. She jerked her head at the Nickels diner across the street. "I'll tell you about him over a cup of coffee."
I followed her into the diner, where she ordered black coffee and wanted to pay for my Orangina. "My treat, 'cause I've been such a cunt," she said.
I tried not to flinch as I handed the cashier some money. I wasn't taking anything from Wendy.
She laughed and paid for her own. "You don't like that, eh? You'd probably call me, I don't know, something Latin. Or maybe you'd spell it out. B-i-t-c-h?"
Now I knew she was just yanking my chain. I dropped in a chair just outside the door, away from most of the crowd, and asked, "Do you really know Michael Martinez?"
She leaned back in her chair, spreading her knees like a guy. She cackled. "You can call him Mike, you know. Everybody does. And he doesn't go by Martinez anymore. It's Martin. It's this acting shit. He figures Martin is easier to remember and it works in English and in French. I told him, it's easier to forget, too. You want to stand out on your audition."
I waved all that away. "How did you get to know him?"
She rolled her eyes. "You want my c.v. or something? Just hanging out, I guess, with Reena and Jodi and, well, the rest of the crew. He was cute, I had this thing for older men, boom, bam, thank you, ma'am. Or I guess it should be thank you, man. Now it's ma'am." She laughed again. She reached in the pocket of her short-sleeved blouse and flipped open her cigarette pack. Her lighter was silver, not a disposable Bic. It had an angel molded on the side, which would have been cheesy except the angel's eyes were chips of red glass. She noticed me staring. "Nice, huh? It was a present. A lot nicer than a bra or a bucket of KFC, eh? So anyway, was that all you wanted to know?"
I shook myself. This information was falling into my lap and I should direct it, but I needed to gather my thoughts. "What did you think of him?"
"He had a big dick?" She rounded her lips over her cigarette and managed to make it look phallic. "No, seriously, it was about average. But he was a nice guy."
I rummaged through my brain for the antisocial traits. "He was charming?"
"Yeah, I guess. He knew how to talk his way into your pants, if that's what you mean." She tapped her cigarette into the ashtray. I tried not to inhale, but enough other people were smoking outside that her cancer stick hardly made any difference.
"Did he love you?" That just popped out of my mouth.
She paused in mid-tap. Her fingers rested on the ashtray. "Yeah, I think—yeah."
"What made you think he loved you?"
She started smoking again, short, hasty puffs. "What does that have to do with anything?" She was having trouble meeting my eyes, all of a sudden.
"I just want to know."
She rested both elbows on the table. "How much was that reward again?"
"You'll have to call the number."
"You didn't say anything about personal questions." She dug in her back pocket for the flyer. "Says right here, 'for significant information leading to his contact.'"
"That's right." But I didn't retract my question.
She traced the M of Michael with the index finger of her free hand. Then the i. Finally, she said to the paper, "Yeah, he loved me. He told me some shit he probably wouldn't have, otherwise. Happy?"
"Sure. You said he's on Tumblr?"
"Let me make sure I've still got it." She scrolled through her phone.
A woman at the next table giggled and pretended to hit her companion. They both laughed. A girl in tortoiseshell glasses bent over her textbook. A customer dropped some change and other people bent to help him pick it up, except a kid who grabbed a loonie coin and wouldn't give it back.
"Got it," said Wendy.
I reached for the phone, but she held it against her chest. "Why are you looking for him?"
"We think he might know something."
"About Laura Lee?"
The name on everyone's lips today. "Did you know her?"
She stubbed her cigarette out, mashing it in the ashtray with unnecessary force before lighting another one. Instead of smoking, though, she stared at the ugly angel on her lighter. "Not really."
I wasn't sure whether to believe her or not. I decided to go for the bird in hand. "Are you going to give me Mike's coordinates?" That's what the French say, coordonées means contact info, and it seems to have rubbed off on the anglophones, just like asking people to "close" the lights
Wendy said, more to the lighter than me, "I guess so."
"Have you seen him recently? We need current information." No way we'd pay for a phone number from 2003.
She shrugged.
Since she was the one who'd come to me and she seemed more than a little nuts, I sucked up the last of my juice and dropped a tip on the table. "Well, you've got the number if you decide to call."
"Wait!"
I was already standing. I looked down at her. Her knuckles blanched as she gripped the table, but as she noticed me watching, she made sure to let go and light a cigarette, nice and easy. "I'll tell you about Mike. What do you want to know?"
I played for time. "Why don't you just tell me about him?"
"Well, he was the best-looking guy I'd ever seen." She blew a plume of smoke toward my left shoulder. "I think it was his eyes. They way he'd look at you. He really saw you, you know? Not just thinking about himself and what kind of shit he could pull. When he wanted you, he paid attention. You could've passed a lighter under his hands and he'd just bat it away." She smiled to herself. "A lot of other guys who were that hot, they'd think they were the shit. But he never did. There was something, I don't know, kind of unsure about him that made me like him even more, you know what I mean? The way he'd check for me if we were at a party?"
I must have made a face, thinking of all the jealous exes out there. But she shook her head. "Not like that. He'd do his thing and I'd do mine. But once in a while, he'd check the room, looking for me. Just to make sure I was there. I got a kick out of it. He needed me. Me, piece of shit Wendy Redburn."
I felt my eyebrows press together in sympathy.
She snorted and blew smoke out of both nostrils. "Lose the lost-puppy look, okay? It's not that big a deal."
But it was. I'd been judging her by my standards, but she was a foster kid with a past I couldn't even guess at.
She had to smile. "God, you're more pathetic than me. So what else do you want to know? He was tall. Well, everyone was tall to me back then, but I'm guessing he was at least 5'10". Brown eyes, black hair. Nice hands..." She started smoking again, faster. "Ah, forget it. I'll just give you his number. You can call him yourself."