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“You may not approach, madame. You must move on.” A small brass badge above his shirt pocket identified him asConst. Plante.
“I’m Dr. Brennan,” I said, pulling my ID from my pocket. “LSJML.”
“You work for the coroner?” Dubious does not do justice to Plante’s tone and expression.
I handed him the ID. “I am theanthropologue judiciaire.”
Plante studied the plastic rectangle for so long I thought he might be memorizing the contents. He looked from the photo to my face, back at the photo. Returning the ID, he nodded, still unsmiling.
“Have you seen the body?” I asked.
“Such as it is.”
“Is Monsieur Legalt still here?”
“Yes. But don’t expect much.”
With those puzzling statements, Plante turned and headed down the ramp.
3
As in many locations, questions of jurisdiction can be tricky in Montreal. The city lies on a small hunk of land in the middle of the St. Lawrence River. The Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal, the SPVM, handles policing on the island itself. Off the island, the job falls to local departments, or to the provincial force, La Sûreté du Québec, the SQ. Though coordination isn’t always great, the system works.
Bickerdike Basin sat squarely on the island. Thus, the SPVM and the less than genial Constable Plante.
Plante strode with a speed and determination that radiated his desire to wrap things up quickly. I followed, hauling my unwieldy recovery kit. The added poundage meant I had to struggle to keep pace. The heat—by then the temperature was in the mid-eighties—didn’t help.
To our right ran a high concrete wall topped by a bike path and Avenue Pierre-Dupuy. At intervals, heaped tires cluttered the wall’s base where it met the pavement. Between the heaps, here and there, parked vehicles brooded in the narrow strip of midday shade.
To our left lay the basin. We passed what looked like a floating boat launch, then a couple of barge-like vessels, a tug. Maybe a tug. As I’ve admitted, I’m less than an expert in nautical taxonomy.
Ahead, beyond Plante, a man smoked and paced beside a red-and-white cabin cruiser with two big outboards riding its stern. Even from a distance I could tell thatel capitanwasn’t big on elbow grease.
I assumed the pacing man was Ernest Legalt. Legalt’s body language suggested that he, like the constable and I, would rather be elsewhere.
We’d gone a hundred yards when Plante raised a hand to his mouth and blasted one short piercing whistle. Legalt pivoted our way, sun flashing blue off his aviator shades.
Plante reached Legalt well before me and spoke words I was still too far off to catch. Legalt took a seriously long drag of his smoke, flipped the butt into the basin, and exhaled slowly.
A minute later, I joined the two men, not panting, but breathing much harder than I would have preferred. Setting down the cumbersome case, I swept damp bangs from my forehead.
Legalt eyed me for a full three seconds. Failing to find my appearance reassuring, or wishing to hide the fact that he was nervous as hell, he dropped his eyes to his shoes, a pair of flip-flops that had probably once been purple.
I couldn’t blame the man for finding me lacking. Having dressed and coifed for a day with exhumed infant bones, I wore jeans and a tee that saidScience doesn’t care what you believe in. My hair was yanked into a structurally unsound topknot. The sprint at Plante’s heels had done nothing to improve the already slapdash look.
But Legalt wouldn’t be winning a beauty prize, either. My first impression: the guy looked like an escapee from a deep fryer. His skin was brick red, his hair the color of a week-old French fry, his body muscular in a ropey, sinewy way. His outfit—a dingy wife-beater over frayed jeans whose pocket linings hung below the point at which the legs had been scissored off—lived up to the low fashion bar that I’d set.
Before I could speak, Legalt jabbed a thumb toward the boat tied to a cleat beside us. Half a thumb. Everything past the proximal joint was missing.
“Bonjour. Comment ça va?” Hi. How are you?
Legalt did not return my greeting or query my health. “It’s aft.”
“You are Monsieur Legalt?” I phrased it as a question.
Tight nod. The aviators winked blue.
“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan.” I held out a hand. Legalt ignored it.
