Bones to Ashes

Ryan right-clicked the green Start button on the bottom tool bar, then clicked on Explore, followed by My Documents. A list of files and dates filled the screen. Correspondence. Expenses. Mail Order. My Albums. My Archives. My eBooks. My Music. My Pictures. My Videos. Upcoming Events.

“I checked every folder, every file. Tracked what Internet history I could. I’m no expert, but it looks like a whole lot of harmless crap.”

“Maybe Cormier’s clean.”

“Maybe.” Ryan didn’t sound convinced.

“Maybe the guy’s just what he appears to be.”

“Which is?”

“A low-end photographer with a high-end PC.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe Cormier’s such a Luddite he got talked into buying way more than he needs.”

Ryan ducked his chin.

“It does happen,” I said.

“Cave canem.”

“Beware of the dog? You mean caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware. Both are Latin proverbs, not quotes.”

The way-too-goddamn-blue eyes held mine.

Something sparked in my chest. Ryan’s lips tightened.

We both looked away.

“I called Division des crimes technologiques.” Ryan changed the subject. “Guy should be here any time.”

As though on cue, the techie walked in. Only it wasn’t a guy.

“Tabarnouche. Traffic’s the shits.” The woman was tall and thin, with lank blond hair that cried out for a stylist. “Already preparation for the festival’s gumming up the streets.”

The Festival international de jazz de Montréal takes place in late June and early July. Every year it paralyzes a major chunk of centre-ville.

The woman extended a hand to Ryan. “Solange Lesieur.”

Ryan and Lesieur shook.

The hand came to me. Lesieur’s grip could have fractured billiard balls.

“This the system?”

Without waiting for an answer, Lesieur seated herself, gloved, and began clicking keys. Ryan and I moved behind her for a better view of the monitor.

“I’ll be awhile.” Lesieur spoke without looking up.

Fair enough. I, too, refused to work with breath on my neck.

Chenevier was still tossing the bedroom. Pasteur had shifted to the bath. Sounds of his search drifted up the hall. The ceramic clunk of a toilet tank cover. The squeak of a medicine cabinet door. The rattle of tablets in a plastic tube.

While gloving, Ryan and I decided to start in the kitchen.

I’d finished going through the refrigerator, when Lesieur spoke.

Abandoning his utensil drawer, Ryan went to her.

I carried on in the kitchen.

Four stainless steel canisters lined one counter. I opened the smallest. Coffee beans. I ran a spoon through them, found nothing of interest.

“This system can accommodate multiple hard drives, boosting capacity to one point five terabytes.”

Ryan asked a question. Lesieur responded.

The second canister contained a brown sugar geodite. I poked at it. If anything was inside, we’d need a hydraulic drill to free it.

Lesieur and Ryan droned on in the next room. I took a moment to listen.

“A gigabyte equals one billion bytes. A terabyte equals one trillion bytes. That’s a friggin’ locomotive. But all this toad’s doing is surfing the Net, storing a few files?”

I refocused on the canisters. The third held white sugar. My spoon churned up no booty.

“He’s not an engineer. He’s not storing videos. Why’s he need all that capacity?” Lesieur.

“Guy’s a gamer?” Ryan.

“Nope.”

The largest canister was filled with flour. Too deep for the spoon.

“And what’s up with the scanner?” Lesieur.

“He’s not storing images?” Ryan.

“None that I’ve found.”

Removing a stack of bowls from an upper cabinet, I extracted the largest and put the others back.

Ryan said something. Lesieur responded. The exchange was lost to the rattling of china.

I grasped the canister in both hands and poured, focusing on the flour cascading over its rim. A white cloud billowed up, dusting my face and hands.

A sneeze threatened.

I set down the canister. Waited. The sneeze made no move.

I resumed pouring. Half. Three-quarters.

The flour was nearly gone when an object dropped into the bowl. Setting the canister on the counter, I studied the thing.

Dark. Flat. About the size of my thumb.

I felt a fizz of excitement.

Though sealed in plastic, the item was familiar.

22

I HURRIED TO THE BEDROOM, FLOUR-COATED HANDS HELD AWAY from my body.

“Find something?” Chenevier asked.

“In a canister. Better shoot it in situ then dust for latents.”

Chenevier followed me back to the kitchen. Scribbling an evidence label, he photographed the bowl from several angles. When he’d finished, I extracted the object, tapped it on the rim, and laid it on the counter.

Chenevier snapped more photos, then checked for prints on the object’s outer surface. There were none. Twirling a finger, he indicated that I should unroll the plastic. I did. He photographed every few inches.

Within minutes, a baggie, an eight-inch length of clear plastic wrap, and a thumb drive lay side by side on the Formica. None yielded prints.

“Got something,” I called into the living room.