A waitress appeared at our table. Her name was Johanne. Ryan and I asked for coffee. Karine ordered another hot chocolate.

"I'll do my best to keep this discreet," Ryan said when Johanne had gone. "Our interest isn't in you."

Karine relaxed a little. "Then what?"

"David Bastarache."

"What about him?"

Ryan drilled her with the butane blues. "You tell us."

"Bastarache owns bars." Again, Karine's eyes ran the room. "I danced in one of them. Le Chat Rouge in Moncton. That's where I met my husband."

"When's the last time you saw Bastarache?"

"Sometime before I quit. It was cool. Mr. Bastarache didn't have any beef with me."

"That it, Karine? Just dirty dancing?"

Johanne returned and distributed mugs and spoons. Karine waited her out.

"I know what you're getting at. But turning tricks wasn't my thing. All I did was strip."

"Never flashed a little t.i.t on film?"

Karine lifted her mug, set it down without drinking. I noticed a tremor in her hand.

"Tell us about Stanislas Cormier," Ryan said.

Karine's eyes crawled to me. "Who's she?"

"My partner. Stanislas Cormier?"

"You guys are thorough."

"Not as thorough as we could be."

"I was fifteen. I wanted to be a Spice Girl." She swirled her hot chocolate. "Wanted to live in Hollywood and appear in People People magazine." magazine."

"Go on."

"I went to Cormier to have a composite made. You know, glamour-shot stuff. I'd read an article saying that was the way to break into acting and modeling. What did I know? During the shoot we got to talking. Cormier offered to hook me up with an agent."

"If you agreed to some questionable poses."

"It seemed harmless."

"Was it?"

She shook her head.

"Go on."

"It's hard to talk about."

"Try."

Karine's eyes stayed on her mug. "A man called about a week after my sitting, said he had a small part for me in a film called Wamp Um Wamp Um. I was so excited I nearly wet my drawers. Thought I'd found a ticket to freedom from my n.a.z.i mother and father."

Karine shook her head sadly. Mourning what? I wondered. Her lost parents? Lost youth? Lost dreams of stardom?

"The man took me to a rat bag motel. I wore moccasins while a guy in a loincloth f.u.c.ked me. I got fifty bucks."

"Bastarache."

Karine looked up, surprised. "No. Pierre."

"Last name?"

"He never said and I never asked." She swallowed. "Pierre said I had talent. Said if I gave him an exclusive he'd kick-start my acting career."

"You believed this Pierre would make you a star?" I tried to keep the incredulity from my voice.

"Cormier insisted Pierre was a high-powered agent. What did I know? He spoke the lingo. Claimed to know all the right people. I trusted him."

Behind us, Johanne clattered china.

"Go on," Ryan said.

"After a few weeks, Pierre said I had to move out of my house. One night I told my parents I was going to study with friends. I went to a bar instead. When I left, Pierre picked me up and we drove to this big old house in the boonies. The place was a little run down, but better than what I was used to in Rosemere. A couple other girls were living there so it seemed OK. Pierre helped me cut and dye my hair. Said it made me look older. Image, you know."

I kept my hands and eyes very still.

"Took me six, maybe seven months to realize I'd been duped. When I tried to quit, the d.i.c.khead threatened me. Said if I talked to anyone or attempted to leave he'd see that I was seriously hurt and my face disfigured."

"How'd you finally break away?"

"Pierre's films all had goofy themes. Nasty Nunnery. Sorority s.l.u.t-house. Wiki Up. Nasty Nunnery. Sorority s.l.u.t-house. Wiki Up. He thought having a narrative gave his stuff cla.s.s. That's what he called it, a narrative. His flicks were s.h.i.t. He thought having a narrative gave his stuff cla.s.s. That's what he called it, a narrative. His flicks were s.h.i.t.

"We were in Moncton making a piece of c.r.a.p called Inside Acadians Inside Acadians. This other girl and I started hanging out in a bar on Highway 106 after the shoots. Le Chat Rouge. Mr. Bastarache was the owner, and he'd chat us up now and then. One night I had a lot to drink, started whining how unhappy I was. Next morning, Pierre tells me I'm off his payroll and working for Bastarache. Surprised the h.e.l.l out of me."

"You didn't ask why you'd been fired?" Ryan.

"That was Pierre's style. One day a girl was his darling, the next she was gone. I didn't care. I was glad to be out of the p.o.r.n."

"Did you know the police were searching for you in Montreal?"

"Not at first. By the time I found out, I thought it was too late. Pierre convinced me I'd be fined, then jailed when I couldn't pay. Pretty soon the media moved on to something else. I didn't see any point in putting myself out there."

"Here's the point."

Ryan curled his fingers in my direction. I gave him the envelope. He laid down photographs of Claudine Cloquet and the girl from the Dorval sh.o.r.eline.

Karine glanced at the faces. "I don't know them."

Phoebe Jane Quincy joined the lineup.

"Dear G.o.d, she's only a few years older than my daughter."

Ryan added the facial reconstruction of the girl from the Riviere des Mille iles.

Karine's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh no. No."

I didn't breathe. Didn't move a muscle.

"It's Claire Brideau."

"You knew her?"

"Claire was one of the kids living in Pierre's house. She was the one I hung with at Le Chat Rouge." Karine's nose had gone red and her chin was trembling. "She was with me that last night before I got sacked."

"Claire knew Bastarache?"

"It was usually Claire that he hit on. For some reason, that night he was talking to me." Her voice faltered. "Is she dead?"

"She was found floating facedown in 1999."

"Suffering Jesus!" Karine's chest heaved as she fought back tears. "Why the funny sketch? Was she messed up?"

I found the question odd. If Ryan shared my reaction, he didn't let on.

"She'd been floating awhile."

Karine's hands fumbled the latch on her purse.

"Where was Claire from?" Ryan asked.

"She never said." Pulling out a tissue, she dabbed her eyes.

"Claire made skin flicks for Pierre?"

Karine nodded, bunching the tissue in a fist below her nose.

"Do you know where Pierre is now?"

"I haven't seen or heard from him since 1999."

"Could you find his house if you had to?"

She shook her head. "It was too long ago. And I never drove. Never paid attention."

Dropping her forehead to the fist, she drew a long, ragged breath. I laid my hand gently on hers. Her shoulders trembled as tears slid down her cheeks.

Ryan caught my eye and tipped his head toward the door. I nodded. We'd gotten all we were going to get for now, and we knew where Karine Pitre could be found.

Ryan got up and crossed to the register.

"I never meant to make trouble." Gulped, as a sob rose up her throat. "I just wanted out. I believed no one would miss me."

"Your parents?" I asked.

Raising her head, she dabbed the wadded tissue from eye to eye. "We never got along."

"Perhaps they would like the chance to get along with their grandchildren." I made a move to slide from the booth.

Karine reached out and grabbed my wrist. "My husband doesn't know about the skin flicks."

I looked at her, unable to imagine what her life had been. What it was now.

"Maybe you should tell him," I said quietly.

Light flashed in her eyes. Fear? Defiance. Her grip tightened.

"Do you know who killed Claire?" she asked.

"You think someone killed her?"

Karine nodded, fingers clenched so tightly the tissue was a tiny white ball.

35.

"W HAT NOW?" HAT NOW?"

We were in Hippo's car, slipstreaming toward Le Pa.s.sage Noir. It was past midnight; I was running on less than five hours sleep, but I was pumped.

"I track Claire Brideau," Ryan said. "And a sleaze named Pierre."

"Cormier pimped Sicard to Pierre for his s.m.u.t films. Pierre turned her over to Bastarache to strip in his bar. That ought to be enough to charge Bastarache."

"Sicard wasn't a minor when she worked for Bastarache."

"She went from Cormier to Bastarache via this Pierre. Phoebe Quincy phoned Cormier. He's probably the one who took the Marilyn photo of her. That links Bastarache to Quincy, at least indirectly."