"Is that a fact?"

"Pompous little s.h.i.ta.s.s."

"Detective Claudel?"

"Little p.r.i.c.k acted like I wasn't quite bright. I didn't tell him s.h.i.t."

"Tell me, Mr. Cyr. How do you think three people ended up buried in your bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"Something bad went down, it was before my time."

"How can you be so certain?"

"You ever meet Nicol Cataneo?" The old man's voice could have sharpened a razor.

I shook my head no.

"Watch yourself."

15.

THE STORM HAD ITS SLEEVES ROLLED UP, ITS COLLAR UNb.u.t.tONED, and its tie hanging loose. Going for a two-footer. and its tie hanging loose. Going for a two-footer.

Anne didn't say a word as we picked our way to the car. She watched impa.s.sively as I dialed into my voice mail.

No messages.

I tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent's number.

No answer.

I checked to see if her call to the lab on Wednesday had been traced, or if the number she'd left Thursday had been tied to a name or address.

Working on it.

"d.a.m.n!" Why didn't they at least give me the name on the listing for the number I'd given them? They could compare the earlier call when they finished their trace. Were they just putting me behind any and all requests from detectives?

Ramming the cellular into my purse, I dug a sc.r.a.per from the backseat, got out, cleared the windows, slid back behind the wheel, and slammed the door.

After starting the engine, I rocked the Mazda by shifting between forward and reverse. At the first hint of traction, I accelerated, and we fishtailed from the curb. White-knuckling, I turtled forward, squinting to see through the blanket of white.

We'd gone two blocks when Anne broke the silence.

"We could try old newspapers, pull up stories on missing girls."

"English or French?"

"Wouldn't disappearances be reported in both?"

"Not necessarily." My attention was focused on holding to the tracks created by previous traffic. "And Montreal has several French papers today, has had G.o.dzillions in both languages over the years."

The car's rear winged left. I steered into the spin and straightened.

"We could start with the English papers."

"What years? The building went up at the turn of the century."

The snow was winning out over the wipers. I maxed the defroster.

"The UV fluorescence tells me the bones are probably not older than the building. Beyond that, I can't narrow it."

"OK. We won't search newspaper archives."

"Without knowing language and time frame, we'd be at it all winter. Also, the girls were found here, but may not have gone missing here."

We crept another block.

"What about that b.u.t.ton?" Anne asked.

"What about that b.u.t.ton?" I snapped, again coaxing the rear wheels back behind the front.

Loosening her scarf, Anne leaned back in an att.i.tude that suggested I was now to be ignored.

"Sorry." I was playing Claudel to Anne's Tempe.

The silence lengthened. Clearly, it was going to be up to me to end it.

"I apologize. Driving in blizzards makes me tense. What was your b.u.t.ton idea?"

After a few more moments of "you're being an a.s.shole" muteness, Anne rephrased her suggestion.

"Maybe you could talk to another expert. Try to develop more information."

Gently pumping the brakes, I brought the car to a stop. Across Sherbrooke, an old woman walked an old dog. Both wore boots. Both had their eyes crimped against the snow.

I looked at Anne.

Maybe I could.

Depressing the gas pedal slowly, I crawled into the intersection and turned left.

Jesus, of course I could. I'd been ignoring the b.u.t.tons, accepting Claudel's opinion concerning their age. Maybe his McCord source was less than a quiz kid.

Suddenly, I was in a froth to get another opinion.

"Annie, you're a rock star."

"I shimmer."

"You up for a couple more stops before dinner?"

"Mush on."

Anne waited in the car while I dashed up to the lab, made a quick call, and grabbed the b.u.t.tons. When I rejoined her, she was listening to Zachary Richard on a local French station.

"What's he singing about?"

"Someone named Marjolaine."

"I think he misses her."

"So he says."

"Local talent?"

"Louisiana Cajun. Your part of the world."

Anne leaned back and closed her eyes. "That boy can sing about me any ole day."

It took twice the normal drive time to return to the old quarter. Though it was just past five, night was in full command. Streetlights were on, shops were closing, pedestrians were hurrying, heads bent, purses and packages pressed to their chests.

Leaving boulevard Rene-Levesque, I followed rue Berri to its southern end, then turned west and crept along rue de la Commune. To our right, the narrow lanes of Vieux-Montreal crisscrossed the hill. To our left lay le Marche Bonsecours, le Pavillon Jacques-Cartier, les Centre de Sciences de Montreal, beyond them the St. Lawrence, its water a black sheen like ebony ice.

"It's beautiful," Anne said. "In an arctic tundra sort of way."

"Cue the caribou."

In the ice-free months ships belly up to quays jutting from the river's edge, and cyclists, skateboarders, picnickers, and tourists throng the adjacent parklands and promenades. This evening the riverfront was still and dark.

At the head of place d'Youville, I turned onto a small side street, and parked opposite the old customs house. Anne followed as I trudged downhill, threading her way drunkenly in my tracks.

Glancing across the river, my gaze fell on the snow-misted outline of Habitat '67. Built for World Expo, the complex is a pile of geometric cubes that challenges the delicate art of balance. Born more of imagination than architectural pragmatism, Habitat's walkways and patios are a delight in summer, an invitation to hypothermia in winter.

Andrew Ryan lived in Habitat.

A mult.i.tude of questions sidetracked my concentration.

Where was Ryan? What was he feeling? What was I feeling? What had he meant? The need to talk. Agreed. But about what? Commitment? Compromise? Conclusion?

I pushed the questions aside. Ryan was working an operation and not thinking or feeling anything having to do with me.

At de la Commune, we entered a futuristic gray stone building, all corners and angles. High up, a banner draped one tower. ICI NAQUIT MONTReAL ICI NAQUIT MONTReAL. "Where Montreal Was Born."

"What is this place?" Anne stomped snow onto the green tile floor.

"Pointe-a-Calliere, Montreal's Museum of Archaeology and History."

A man's face rose from below a circular desk at the far end of the lobby. It was gaunt and pale, and needed a shave.

"Sorry." Rising, the man pointed to a sign. He was wearing an army surplus overcoat, and holding a boot in one hand. "The museum is closed."

"I have an appointment with Dr. Mousseau."

Surprise. "Your name, please?"

"Tempe Brennan."

The man punched a number, spoke a few words, then cradled the receiver.

"Dr. Mousseau is in the crypt. Do you know the way?"

"Yes, thank you."

Crossing the lobby, I led Anne past a small theater, down a set of iron stairs, and into a long, narrow, softly lit hall, its walls and floor made completely of stone.

"I feel like Alice tunnel-chasing the hatter," said Anne.

"This point of land was the site of Montreal's first settlement. The exhibit demonstrates how the city has grown and changed over the past three centuries."

Anne flapped her gloves at a truncated wall rising from the floor. "The original foundations?"

"No, but old." I pointed to the far end of the hall. "That walkway lies directly below place d'Youville, near where we parked. What's now street was once a sewage dump, before that a river."

"Tempe?" The voice rang hollowly off rock and mortar. The voice rang hollowly off rock and mortar. "Est-ce toi, Tempe?" "Est-ce toi, Tempe?"

"C'est moi."

"Ici." Over here. Over here.

"Who's Mousseau?" Anne whispered.

"The staff archaeologist."

"I'll bet the woman's got b.u.t.tons."

"More b.u.t.tons than a political primary."

Monique Mousseau was working at one of several dozen gla.s.s cases lining the corridors spidering off from the main chamber. At her side, a metal cart held a camera, a magnifying gla.s.s, a laptop, a loose-leaf binder, and several books.