"Where were these collectives?"

"All over the place. Parc Extension. Cote des Neiges. St. Henri. Little Burgundy."

"How long had she been working for the MAS?"

"Maybe six, seven years. Before that she worked at the Montreal General. Had much better hours."

"Did she enjoy her work?"

"Oh yeah. She loved it." The words caught briefly in his throat.

"Were her hours irregular?"

"No, they were regular. She worked all the time. Mornings. Evenings. Weekends. There was always a problem and Francine was the one to fix it." His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched.

"Had you and your wife disagreed about her work?"

He fell silent for a moment. Then, "I wanted to see more of her. I wished she was still at the hospital."

"What do you do, Monsieur Champoux?"

"I'm an engineer. I build things. Only no one wants much built these days." He gave a mirthless smile and tipped his head to one side. "I was downsized." He used the English phrase.

"I'm sorry."

"Do you know where your wife was going the day she was killed?"

He shook his head. "We'd hardly seen each other that week. There was a fire in one of her kitchens and she'd been there day and night. She may have been going back there, or she may have been heading for another one. She didn't keep any kind of journal or log that I know of. They never found one in her office and I never saw one here. She'd been talking about getting her hair cut. h.e.l.l, she may have been going to do that."

He looked at me, his eyes tortured.

"Do you know what that feels like? I don't even know what my wife was planning to do on the day she died."

The circulating water of the tanks murmured softly in the background.

"Had she spoken about anything unusual? Odd phone calls? A stranger at the door?" I thought of Gabby. "Someone on the street?"

Another head shake.

"Would she have?"

"Probably, if we'd spoken. We really hadn't had time those last few days."

I tried a new tack.

"It was January. Cold. The doors and windows would have been closed. Was your wife in the habit of keeping them locked?"

"Yes. She never liked living here, didn't like being right on the street. I talked her into buying this place, but she preferred high-rise buildings with security systems or guards. We get some pretty seedy characters down here, and she was always on edge. That's why we were leaving. She liked the extra s.p.a.ce, and the little yard out back, but she never really got used to being here. Her work took her to some rough areas, and when she came home she wanted to feel safe. Untouchable. That's what she said. Untouchable. You know?"

Yes. Oh yes.

"When was the last time you saw your wife, Monsieur Champoux?"

He breathed deeply, exhaled. "She got killed on a Thursday. She'd worked late the night before, because of the fire, so I'd already gone to bed when she got home."

He dropped his head and talked again to the parquet. A patch of tiny vessels colored each of his cheeks.

"She came to bed full of her day, trying to tell me where she'd been and what she'd been doing. I didn't want to hear it."

I saw his chest rise and fall under the sweatshirt.

"The next day I got up early and left. Didn't even say good-bye."

We were quiet a moment.

"That's what I did and there's no way out. I don't get another shot." He raised his eyes and stared into the turquoise of the tanks. "I resented her working when I couldn't, so I froze her out. Now I live with it."

Before I could think of a response he turned to me, his face taut, his voice harder than it had been.

"I went to see my brother-in-law. He had some job leads for me. I was there all morning, then I fou- Then I came back here around noon. She was already dead. They checked all that out."

"Monsieur Champoux, I'm not suggesting y-"

"I don't see that this is going anywhere. We're just rehashing old words."

He rose. I was being dismissed.

"I'm sorry to bring up painful memories."

He regarded me without comment, then moved toward the hall. I followed.

"Thanks for your time, Monsieur Champoux." I handed him my card. "If there's anything you think of later, please give me a call."

He nodded. His face had the numbed look of a person swept into a calamity who can't forget that his last words and last acts toward the wife he loved were petty and far from a proper good-bye. Is there ever a proper good-bye?

As I left I could feel his eyes on my back. Through the heat I felt cold inside. I hurried to my car.

The interview with Champoux left me shaken. As I drove toward home, I asked myself a thousand questions.

What right had I to dredge up this man's pain?

I pictured Champoux's eyes.

Such sorrow. Brought on by my forced reminders?

No. I wasn't the architect of his house of regret. Champoux was a man living with remorse of his own construction.

Remorse for what? For harming his wife?

No. That was not his character.

Remorse for ignoring her. For leaving her thinking she was not important. Simple as that. On the eve of her death, he rejected conversation, turned his back and went to sleep. He didn't say good-bye in the morning. Now he never would.

I turned north onto St. Marc, pa.s.sing into the shadow of the overpa.s.s. Would my inquiries do anything but drag memories to the surface where they would again cause pain?

Could I really help where an army of professionals had failed, or was I just on a personal quest to show up Claudel?

"No!"

I banged the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.

No, dammit, I thought to myself. That is not my goal. No one but me is convinced that there is a single killer and that he will kill again. If I am to prevent more deaths, I have to dig up more facts.

I emerged from shadow into sunlight. Instead of turning east, toward home, I crossed Ste. Catherine, doubled back on Rue du Fort, and merged onto the 20 West. Locals called it the 2 and 20, but I'd yet to find anyone who could explain or locate the 2.

I edged out of the city, drumming my impatience on the steering wheel. It was three-thirty and traffic was already backed up at the Turcot Interchange. Bad timing.

Forty-five minutes later I found Genevieve Trottier weeding tomatoes behind the faded green house she had shared with her daughter. She looked up when I pulled onto the drive, and watched me cross the lawn.

"Oui?" Friendly, sitting back on her heels, squinting up at me.

She wore bright yellow shorts and a halter too big for her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Sweat glistened on her body and curled her hair tightly around her face. She was younger than I'd expected.

When I explained who I was and why I was there, the friendliness turned somber. She hesitated, put down her trowel, then rose, brushing dirt from her hands. The smell of tomatoes hung heavy around us.

"We'd better go inside," she said, dropping her eyes. Like Champoux she didn't question my right to ask.

She started across the yard and I followed, hating the conversation about to ensue. The knotted halter hung loose across the k.n.o.bs on her spine. Blades of gra.s.s stuck to the backs of her legs and rode the tops of her feet.

Her kitchen gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, its porcelain and wood surfaces testimony to years of care. Potted kalanchoe lined the windows, framed by yellow gingham. Yellow k.n.o.bs dotted the cabinets and drawers.

"I've made some lemonade," she said, her hands already moving to the task. Comfort in the familiar.

"Yes, thank you. That would be nice."

I sat at a scrubbed wooden table and watched her twist ice cubes from a plastic tray, drop them into gla.s.ses, and add the lemonade. She brought the drinks and slid in across from me, her eyes avoiding mine.

"It's hard for me to talk about Chantale," she said, studying her lemonade.

"I understand, and I am so sorry for your loss. How are you doing?"

"Some days it's easier than others."

She folded her hands and tensed, her thin shoulders rising under the halter.

"Have you come to tell me something?"

"I'm afraid not, Madame Trottier. And I don't really have any specific questions for you. I thought there might be something you've remembered, perhaps something you didn't think important earlier?"

Her eyes stayed on the lemonade. A dog barked outside.

"Has anything occurred to you since you last spoke with the detectives? Any detail about the day Chantale disappeared?"

No response. The air in the kitchen was hot and dense with humidity. It smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant.

"I know this is awful for you, but if we're to have any hope of finding your daughter's killer, we still need your help. Is there anything that's been bothering you? Anything you've been thinking about?"

"We fought."

Again. The guilt of nonclosure. The wish to take back words and subst.i.tute others.

"She wouldn't eat. She thought she was getting fat."

I knew all this from the report.

"She wasn't fat. You should have seen her. She was beautiful. She was only sixteen." Her eyes finally met mine. A single tear spilled over each lower lid, and trickled down each cheek. "Like the English song."

"I'm so sorry," I said, gently as I could. Through the screened window I could smell sun on geraniums. "Was Chantale unhappy about anything?"

Her fingers tightened around her gla.s.s.

"That's what's so hard. She was such an easy child. Always happy. Always full of life, bubbling with plans. Even my divorce didn't seem to upset her. She took it in stride and never missed a step."

Truth or retrospective fantasy? I remembered the Trottiers had divorced when Chantale was nine. Her father was living somewhere in the city.

"Can you tell me anything about those last few weeks? Had Chantale altered her routine in any way? Had any odd calls? Made any new friends?"

Her head moved slowly in continuous negation. No.

"Did she have trouble making friends?"

No.

"Were you uneasy about any of her friends?"

No.

"Did she have a boyfriend?"

No.

"Did she date?"

No.