I checked my printout.

"In 1980 the building was purchased by Richard Cyr. According to records, Cyr still owns it."

"What does Cyr have on the ground floor?"

"There are four separate businesses."

"Including a pizza parlor."

"Yes."

"Where does Monsieur Cyr live?"

Back to the printout.

"Notre-Dame-de-Grace."

"How far is that from Montreal?"

"It's a neighborhood just west of Centre-ville."

Anne's winegla.s.s froze in midair. As in my kitchen that morning, the other hand came up, palm skyward.

"There you go."

"That's three, Annie."

Exasperated look.

"Your next step. Give Cyr a call. Better yet. If he's that close, how 'bout a surprise drop-in? The Cagney and Lacey thing's been kind of a bust for me so far. Let's solve this case."

My eyes swung to the phone by my plate. The little screen offered nothing but my name and the time.

It was obvious neither Claudel nor Charbonneau was answering my page.

I raised my c.o.ke. Anne raised her wine.

"Archaeological research," I said, clinking my gla.s.s to hers.

"With one slight modification." Anne drained her chardonnay. "We're digging for for dirt instead of in it." dirt instead of in it."

[image]

Notre-Dame-de-Grace, or NDG, is a quiet residential neighborhood two circles out from Centre-ville. Not the Westmount of the well-heeled English, or the Outremont of their hotsy-totsy French counterparts, but nice. Middle-cla.s.s. A good place to raise kids and collies.

Richard Cyr lived in a redbrick duplex on Coronation, within spitting distance of the Loyola Campus of Concordia University. It took twenty minutes to get there, another five to size the place up.

Faded metal awning over a small front porch. Postage-stamp yards in front and back. Driveway leading nowhere. Blue Ford Falcon.

"Monsieur Cyr doesn't step and fetch to the call of the shovel," Anne noted.

In winter, Montreal homeowners either clear their own walks or hire a company or neighborhood kid for the task. Cyr did neither. The afternoon's snowfall was blanketing a sidewalk already two inches deep in packed snow and ice from earlier acc.u.mulations.

Anne and I had to watch our footing as we made our way to the steps and up onto the porch. When I pressed the bell, an elaborate chime sounded somewhere deep in the house.

A full minute later, no one had answered.

I rang again.

Nothing but chimes.

"Cyr must be physically impaired and the tightest miser on the planet," Anne observed, almost losing her footing.

"Maybe he spends his money on other things."

"There's a happy thought. This p.e.c.k.e.rhead's on his yacht in Barbados while we're trying not to kill ourselves navigating his front steps."

"Car's here," I observed.

Anne turned to look. "Guess he doesn't drop the bucks on glitzy wheels."

I was raising my hand for another go at the chimes, when the inner door opened. A man peered out through the aluminum and gla.s.s storm door.

The man did not look happy, but his expression was not what alarmed us.

Anne and I started easing back off the porch.

14.

THE MAN WATCHING US WAS SHORT AND WIRY, WITH YELLOWED white hair and an elaborate gray mustache. He wore grease-smeared gla.s.ses and gold chains around his neck. white hair and an elaborate gray mustache. He wore grease-smeared gla.s.ses and gold chains around his neck.

Nothing else. Just gla.s.ses and chains.

The man's scowl turned to self-satisfaction at the sight of Anne and me backpedaling unsteadily across his porch. Then the expression went fierce again.

"Je suis Catholique!"

My boots slithered and angled on the uneven ice.

Cyr grabbed his p.e.n.i.s and waggled it at us.

Beside me, Anne grabbed the railing and made a one-eighty toward the steps.

"Catholique!" the man shouted. the man shouted.

Catholic?

I stopped. I'd seen Harry use the same ploy. Dressed.

"We're not missionaries, Monsieur Cyr."

The scowl wavered, then reaffixed itself.

"And I'm not Pee-wee Herman." The name sounded strange in joual French.

I reached into my purse.

Cyr made a feint at the door. "Get lost!"

I pulled out one of my cards.

"And don't leave none of your d.a.m.n pamphlets, tabernouche!!" tabernouche!!"

"We're not with any church."

Realizing what was happening, Anne used the handrail to turn herself back toward the house.

Cyr repeated his penile threat, this time in Anne's direction.

"Oh, horror," Anne said, sotto voce. "a.s.sault with a dead weapon."

The grimy lenses froze on my companion. A smile did a slow crawl across the wrinkled lips.

Cyr waggled again.

Anne replied with the old standard. "What do you think, Tempe? Looks like a p.e.n.i.s, only smaller."

Cyr waggled.

Anne opened her mouth to counter.

I truncated the exchange. "Monsieur Cyr, I'm part of an investigation concerning property you own and I need to ask some questions about your building."

Cyr reoriented to me, fingers of one hand still wrapping his merchandise.

"You girls ain't storm trooping to save my d.a.m.n soul?"

"Sir, we're here to discuss the property you own."

"You with the city?"

I hesitated. "Yes." After all, I was with the province, and Cyr hadn't asked to see identification.

"Some p.i.s.sant tenant lodge a complaint?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"She with the city?" Cyr tipped his head at Anne.

"She's with me."

"She's a looker, that one."

"Yes. Sir, we really need to ask you some questions."

Cyr opened the storm door. Anne and I picked our way forward and stepped inside. When Cyr closed the inner door, the small foyer dimmed. The air felt hot and dry and smelled of smoke and decades of unventilated cooking.

"You're a looker, all right." Cyr winked up at Anne, who stood a good foot taller than he. He seemed to have forgotten that he was naked.

"You want to throw a blanket on ole Hopalong?" Anne suggested.

"I thought you was Watchtower," said Cyr in English. "Those folks ain't got the common sense G.o.d gave a parsnip. But they leave you alone if you're naked." It came out nek-kid. nek-kid. "Or tell 'em you're Catholic." It came out "Or tell 'em you're Catholic." It came out cat-lick. cat-lick.

Anne pointed at Cyr's genitalia.

Cyr led us through leaded gla.s.s doors and gestured to a living room on the right.

"Gimme a minute."

Cyr began climbing a central stairway, placing one foot on a riser, then joining it with the other, one blue-veined hand gripping the banister. His body looked frog-belly white against the dark wood paneling covering the stairwell, and his ascending derriere was hairy black.

Plastic crackled as Anne and I settled on opposite ends of a rose brocade sofa. I unzipped and removed my parka. Anne remained fully clothed.

"I never saw this on Cagney and Lacey. Cagney and Lacey."

I grinned in response. My eyes took a visual tour. Opposite the sofa, a La-Z-Boy and a plastic-coated armchair. Stage right, a fireplace, the bricks painted brown. Stage left, a small organ, a large TV with a shabby armchair pulled close to the screen. No plastic.

Everywhere, velvety quiet.

I wondered if the old man had added the vinyl slipcovers, or simply left them in place when the furniture was delivered.

I doubted there was a Mrs. Cyr. There were no figurines, photographs, or souvenirs of holidays past. Ashtrays overflowed. Stacks of Playboy Playboy and and National Geographic National Geographic filled the fireplace enclosure. filled the fireplace enclosure.

I noticed Anne was also checking the place out.

"This could all be yours," I said in a low voice. "I think Cyr's in love."

"I think ole Hopalong is harmless," Anne whispered back.

"You said you craved life in the fast lane."

"The little guy is is a biscuit." a biscuit."