"You think the little perv hooked up girls to grow his collection?"

I jumped in. "Cormier's motive doesn't matter. If we're going to find out what happened to Sicard, or Quincy, or any of his other victims, it's the buyer we need. The creep who's producing this filth."

Ryan and Hippo exchanged glances.

"Bastarache," I said. "It's got to be him."

Hippo ran a hand across his chin.

"Could be she's right. Bastarache makes his living in the skin trade. Ma.s.sage parlors, strip joints, prost.i.tution."

"It's a short hop into p.o.r.n," I said. "Then kiddie p.o.r.n."

"Bastarache is a flesh bandit," Ryan said. "But we've got nothing to tie him to this."

"The contact sheet," I said.

"He'll deny knowing anything about it," Ryan said.

"Even if he does, it's still kiddie p.o.r.n."

Ryan shook his head. "It's too old."

"Evangeline worked for him."

"You're like an old record."

"What will it take?"

"A direct link."

Frustrated, I slumped into my chair and hit Play Play.

The camera zooms out. Sicard straightens, turns her back, playfully crooks one finger. Follow me.

The camera trails Sicard's languid stroll across the room.

Still holding the halter straps, Sicard lowers herself onto the mattress. Curls, catlike.

Watching, I wondered what dreams filled her head. Lighted runways? Glossy magazines and red carpet openings?

Sicard smiles conspiratorially. Allows one strap of the halter to fall. A man enters and moves to the bed. Sucking one finger, Sicard looks up and smiles. Rises to her knees, allowing the dress to slip to her waist.

It took until midafternoon. The folder was t.i.tled Vintage. Vintage. The footage was old. Hairstyles and clothing in some scenes suggested the fifties and sixties. The footage was old. Hairstyles and clothing in some scenes suggested the fifties and sixties.

Video file seven. The script was hardly original.

The girl is in her midteens, tall, with center-parted dark hair. She is wearing a black bustier, garter belt, and fish-net hose. She appears ill at ease.

The girl glances to her left. The camera follows as she crosses a room and sits on a bench below and to the right of a window. Again she looks to her left, as though seeking direction. Sunlight falls on her hair.

My eyes drifted to the window framing the girl. Scanned the drapes. The woodwork. The misty landscape beyond the gla.s.s.

It took a few moments to register.

Hitting Pause, Pause, I studied the screen. Studied the shape. The hazy contour below it. I studied the screen. Studied the shape. The hazy contour below it.

Somewhere, a million miles away, voices were talking.

I hit Play. Stop. Play. Play. Stop. Play.

Rewound. Did it again. And again.

"I've got him." Calm, though my heart was in my throat.

The voices stopped.

"I've got the wife-beating sonovab.i.t.c.h."

32.

H IPPO AND IPPO AND R RYAN JOINED ME.

"This video was shot at Bastarache's house in Tracadie." I pointed at the image frozen on the monitor. "You can see totem poles through the window."

Hippo leaned so close the toothpick jutting from his lips nearly grazed my cheek.

"Beside that funny-looking shed?"

"It's a gazebo."

"Why the tom-tom kitsch?"

"That's not the point."

Scowling, Hippo rolled the toothpick to the front of his mouth.

"You saw the poles and gazebo on Bastarache's property?" Ryan asked.

"In the backyard."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I may have also seen the carved bench the girl's sitting on."

Straightening, Hippo pointed the toothpick at Ryan and spoke around it.

"Video's old."

"Kid's not."

"And she's getting her ta-tas immortalized in Bastarache's crib."

"She is."

"Enough to net him?"

"Enough for me."

"Probable cause?"

"I think a judge will buy it."

"I call Quebec City while you chase a warrant?"

Ryan nodded.

When Hippo left, Ryan turned to me.

"Good job, hawk eye."

"Thanks."

"You think you can stick with this a little while longer?" Ryan chin-c.o.c.ked the monitor.

"Indubitably."

"Good word, that."

By four, Bastarache was in custody, and Ryan had warrants allowing searches of his apartment and bar in Quebec City. No go on Tracadie, since Bastarache wasn't living in that house.

Ryan found me in the conference room still plodding through s.m.u.t. Other than the times I'd stopped to check my home, office, and cell phones for input from Harry, I'd taken no breaks.

"Bastarache's lawyer was at the jail before the door clanged shut. Outraged. Can you imagine?"

"Is he aware that his client is a child p.o.r.nographer?"

"She. Isabelle Francoeur. According to Francoeur, Bastarache is about to be short-listed for the Order of Canada."

"Did he walk?"

"Francoeur's working on it. QC cops say they can hold him for twenty-four. Then it's charge him or kick him."

"What happens now?"

"Hippo paws through Bastarache's shorts while I engage him in verbal discourse."

"You're going to Quebec City?"

"Hippo's pulling the car around now."

"I want to go with you."

Ryan looked at me for a very long time, undoubtedly sensing my hidden agenda.

"If your friends are mentioned it's because I I bring them up." bring them up."

I started to protest, thought better of it. "It's your bust."

"What are their names?"

"Evangeline and Obeline."

"You are strictly an observer."

"I'll observe my a.s.s off."

Ten minutes later we were motoring northeast on Highway 40, paralleling the sh.o.r.e of the St. Lawrence River. Hippo was at the wheel. Ryan was riding shotgun. I was in back, lurching and bouncing and trying not to barf.

On the way, Ryan explained the plan. I could barely hear him over the sputtering static from the radio. At my request, Hippo turned it off.

The strategy. Ryan and I would go to la prison d'Orsainville, where Bastarache was being held. Hippo would continue on into the city to oversee the tossing of Bastarache's bar.

The drive from Montreal normally takes three hours. Hippo made it in a little over two. Throughout, I checked my phone. No Harry. I told myself she was always going AWOL. Nevertheless, my apprehension was growing. Why didn't she phone?

Ryan called ahead as we approached the city's outskirts. Hippo dropped us at the prison then gunned off. By the time we cleared security, Bastarache was already in an interrogation room. A guard stood by the door, looking like his feet hurt.

Perhaps I'd seen too many Sopranos Sopranos episodes. I was expecting mode de mobster. Oiled hair. Gold chains. Steroid-swollen muscles. I got a beluga in polyester with small piggy eyes. episodes. I was expecting mode de mobster. Oiled hair. Gold chains. Steroid-swollen muscles. I got a beluga in polyester with small piggy eyes.

The room held the usual four chairs and a table. Ryan and I took seats on one side. Bastarache filled the other. I was surprised not to see Francoeur.

Ryan introduced himself, explained that he was SQ and that he'd come from Montreal.

The piggy eyes slid my way.

"Would you prefer to wait for your attorney?" Ryan asked, refusing to a.s.suage Bastarache's curiosity. Good. Let him wonder about me.

"Frippe-moi l'chu." Roughly translated from chiac chiac, "kiss my a.s.s." "I own lounges. I run 'em clean. When will you a.s.sholes figure that out?"