Bones to Ashes

I jumped in. “Cormier’s motive doesn’t matter. If we’re going to find out what happened to Sicard, or Quincy, or any of his other victims, it’s the buyer we need. The creep who’s producing this filth.”

Ryan and Hippo exchanged glances.

“Bastarache,” I said. “It’s got to be him.”

Hippo ran a hand across his chin.

“Could be she’s right. Bastarache makes his living in the skin trade. Massage parlors, strip joints, prostitution.”

“It’s a short hop into porn,” I said. “Then kiddie porn.”

“Bastarache is a flesh bandit,” Ryan said. “But we’ve got nothing to tie him to this.”

“The contact sheet,” I said.

“He’ll deny knowing anything about it,” Ryan said.

“Even if he does, it’s still kiddie porn.”

Ryan shook his head. “It’s too old.”

“Évangéline worked for him.”

“You’re like an old record.”

“What will it take?”

“A direct link.”

Frustrated, I slumped into my chair and hit Play.

The camera zooms out. Sicard straightens, turns her back, playfully crooks one finger. Follow me.

The camera trails Sicard’s languid stroll across the room.

Still holding the halter straps, Sicard lowers herself onto the mattress. Curls, catlike.

Watching, I wondered what dreams filled her head. Lighted runways? Glossy magazines and red carpet openings?

Sicard smiles conspiratorially. Allows one strap of the halter to fall. A man enters and moves to the bed. Sucking one finger, Sicard looks up and smiles. Rises to her knees, allowing the dress to slip to her waist.

It took until midafternoon. The folder was titled Vintage. The footage was old. Hairstyles and clothing in some scenes suggested the fifties and sixties.

Video file seven. The script was hardly original.

The girl is in her midteens, tall, with center-parted dark hair. She is wearing a black bustier, garter belt, and fish-net hose. She appears ill at ease.

The girl glances to her left. The camera follows as she crosses a room and sits on a bench below and to the right of a window. Again she looks to her left, as though seeking direction. Sunlight falls on her hair.

My eyes drifted to the window framing the girl. Scanned the drapes. The woodwork. The misty landscape beyond the glass.

It took a few moments to register.

Hitting Pause, I studied the screen. Studied the shape. The hazy contour below it.

Somewhere, a million miles away, voices were talking.

I hit Play. Stop. Play.

Rewound. Did it again. And again.

“I’ve got him.” Calm, though my heart was in my throat.

The voices stopped.

“I’ve got the wife-beating sonovabitch.”

32

H IPPO AND RYAN JOINED ME.

“This video was shot at Bastarache’s house in Tracadie.” I pointed at the image frozen on the monitor. “You can see totem poles through the window.”

Hippo leaned so close the toothpick jutting from his lips nearly grazed my cheek.

“Beside that funny-looking shed?”

“It’s a gazebo.”

“Why the tom-tom kitsch?”

“That’s not the point.”

Scowling, Hippo rolled the toothpick to the front of his mouth.

“You saw the poles and gazebo on Bastarache’s property?” Ryan asked.

“In the backyard.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I may have also seen the carved bench the girl’s sitting on.”

Straightening, Hippo pointed the toothpick at Ryan and spoke around it.

“Video’s old.”

“Kid’s not.”

“And she’s getting her ta-tas immortalized in Bastarache’s crib.”

“She is.”

“Enough to net him?”

“Enough for me.”

“Probable cause?”

“I think a judge will buy it.”

“I call Quebec City while you chase a warrant?”

Ryan nodded.

When Hippo left, Ryan turned to me.

“Good job, hawk eye.”

“Thanks.”

“You think you can stick with this a little while longer?” Ryan chin-cocked the monitor.

“Indubitably.”

“Good word, that.”

By four, Bastarache was in custody, and Ryan had warrants allowing searches of his apartment and bar in Quebec City. No go on Tracadie, since Bastarache wasn’t living in that house.

Ryan found me in the conference room still plodding through smut. Other than the times I’d stopped to check my home, office, and cell phones for input from Harry, I’d taken no breaks.

“Bastarache’s lawyer was at the jail before the door clanged shut. Outraged. Can you imagine?”

“Is he aware that his client is a child pornographer?”