CÉLINE AND I FOLLOWED RYAN THROUGH THE ILLUMINATED SORTIE into a dim back hall. Deschênes watched our approach, heavy-lidded and bored. To his right was a small dressing room, door ajar. Through a smoky haze I could see the bartender and the kimono girls amid mirrors and makeup and sequined things that must have been costumes.

A faux-wood-paneled room was on the left. Hippo was in it sorting through papers at a desk.

Céline joined her coworkers. Ryan and I joined Hippo.

“Anything?” Ryan asked.

“Doesn’t look like he’s used this office for a while. Bills and receipts are all at least two years old.”

“I got something.”

Both men looked at me.

“The blond dancer, Céline, said Kelly Sicard worked at Bastarache’s place in Moncton under the name Kitty Stanley. Billed herself as Kitty Chaton. Married a florist from Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré.”

“When?”

“Céline is a bit hazy on dates.”

“Shouldn’t be tough to track the guy down,” Ryan said.

Hippo was already digging out his phone. “I’m on it.”

A side door in the office gave onto stairs. Ryan and I climbed them into a loft-style flat.

The place was one big square with sleeping, eating, and living spaces demarcated by furniture groupings. The kitchen was separated by an island and bar stools. The parlor was a sofa-chair-lounger affair of chrome and black leather. The combo faced a flat-panel TV on a glass and steel stand. The boudoir consisted of a queen bed, a very large wooden desk, a side table, and a wardrobe. The area was bounded by an L of black metal filing cabinets. A corner bath was sectioned off with walls and a door.

Two CSU techs were doing what CSU techs do. Dusting for prints. Rifling closets. Looking for anything suspicious or illegal. It appeared they hadn’t found much.

“I want you to listen to this.”

Ryan led me to the desk and hit a button on the phone. A mechanical voice reported no new messages, thirty-three old ones, and admonished that the mailbox was full. Ryan hit “1” as instructed for old voice mail.

Twenty-nine callers had answered an ad about a Lexus. A woman had phoned twice to reschedule a housecleaning service. A man named Léon wanted Bastarache to go fishing.

The last voice was female, the French clearly chiac.

“It is not a good day. I need the prescription. Ob—”

The tape cut off.

“Was she saying Obéline?” Ryan asked.

“I think so.” I felt totally jazzed. “Play it back.”

Ryan did. Twice.

“It sounds like Obéline, but I can’t be sure. Why didn’t the jerk empty his mailbox?”

“Check this out,” Ryan said. “The phone has caller ID. Unless blocked by the dialer, names or numbers are displayed, along with the time and date the connection was made. If blocked, the call comes up ‘private number.’” Ryan began scrolling through the list, pausing on private-number records. “Notice the times and dates.”

“A ‘private number’ phones at roughly seven each evening,” I said.

“The truncated message was the last one to enter the mailbox. It came up ‘private,’ and was left at seven-oh-eight last night.”

“Obéline may be alive,” I said, realizing the implication. “And checking in every evening.”

“Exactly. But why?”

“If it is Obéline, why the staged suicide?” I asked. “And where is she?”

“Shrewd questions, Dr. Brennan. We’ll get a trace.”

I noticed the CSU tech working the kitchen. “Are they finding anything to tie Bastarache to Quincy or Sicard? Or to Cormier?”

“Doesn’t look like Bastarache spent much time living in this place.”

“That jives. Céline said she hardly ever saw him. So where’s he living?”

“The shrewdness never ends.” Ryan smiled.

It slayed me. Ryan’s smile always does.

I began to wander, opening closets, cupboards, and drawers already dusted for prints. Ryan was right. In addition to frozen shrimp and a carton of badly crystallized Ben & Jerry’s, the refrigerator contained olives, clamato juice, a half-eaten jar of pickled herring, a dried-out lemon, and some fuzzy green chunks that were probably cheese. Save for aspirin, Gillette Foamy, and a Bic, the medicine cabinet was bare.

We’d been in the flat twenty minutes when Hippo bounded up the stairs.

“Got Sicard. Married name’s Karine Pitre. Hubby’s still hawking lilies and tulips in Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré.”

“Sonovabitch,” Ryan said.

“She’ll be at a café on Route 138 at eleven.”

Ryan and I must have looked surprised.

“Lady’s got kids. Prefers to discuss her good times in show biz away from the fam.”

Le Café Sainte-Anne was a typical Quebec truck stop. Counter. Vinyl booths. Sun-faded curtains. Tired waitress. At that time of night the place was pretty much empty.

Though she was older, and the amber hair was short, Kelly was recognizable from her pictures. Same blue eyes and Brooke Shields brows. She was in a back booth, a half cup of hot chocolate on the table before her. She wasn’t smiling.

Ryan flashed his badge. Kelly nodded without bothering to look.

Ryan and I sat. He began in French.

“A lot of people have been looking for you, Kelly.”

“It’s Karine now. Karine Pitre.” She answered in English, barely above a whisper.

“We’re not interested in jamming you up.”

“Yeah? My past makes the papers, it won’t be real easy setting up play dates.”

“You know what they say about reaping and sowing.”

“I was young and stupid. I’ve been out of that life for almost eight years. My daughters know nothing about it.” As she spoke her eyes scanned the café. I could tell she was jumpy and on edge.

A waitress appeared at our table. Her name was Johanne. Ryan and I asked for coffee. Karine ordered another hot chocolate.

“I’ll do my best to keep this discreet,” Ryan said when Johanne had gone. “Our interest isn’t in you.”

Karine relaxed a little. “Then what?”

“David Bastarache.”

“What about him?”

Ryan drilled her with the butane blues. “You tell us.”

“Bastarache owns bars.” Again, Karine’s eyes ran the room. “I danced in one of them. Le Chat Rouge in Moncton. That’s where I met my husband.”

“When’s the last time you saw Bastarache?”

“Sometime before I quit. It was cool. Mr. Bastarache didn’t have any beef with me.”

“That it, Karine? Just dirty dancing?”

Johanne returned and distributed mugs and spoons. Karine waited her out.

“I know what you’re getting at. But turning tricks wasn’t my thing. All I did was strip.”

“Never flashed a little tit on film?”

Karine lifted her mug, set it down without drinking. I noticed a tremor in her hand.

“Tell us about Stanislas Cormier,” Ryan said.

Karine’s eyes crawled to me. “Who’s she?”

“My partner. Stanislas Cormier?”

“You guys are thorough.”

“Not as thorough as we could be.”

“I was fifteen. I wanted to be a Spice Girl.” She swirled her hot chocolate. “Wanted to live in Hollywood and appear in People magazine.”

“Go on.”

“I went to Cormier to have a composite made. You know, glamour-shot stuff. I’d read an article saying that was the way to break into acting and modeling. What did I know? During the shoot we got to talking. Cormier offered to hook me up with an agent.”

“If you agreed to some questionable poses.”

“It seemed harmless.”

“Was it?”

She shook her head.

“Go on.”

“It’s hard to talk about.”

“Try.”

Karine’s eyes stayed on her mug. “A man called about a week after my sitting, said he had a small part for me in a film called Wamp Um. I was so excited I nearly wet my drawers. Thought I’d found a ticket to freedom from my Nazi mother and father.”

Karine shook her head sadly. Mourning what? I wondered. Her lost parents? Lost youth? Lost dreams of stardom?

“The man took me to a rat bag motel. I wore moccasins while a guy in a loincloth fucked me. I got fifty bucks.”

“Bastarache.”

Karine looked up, surprised. “No. Pierre.”

“Last name?”

“He never said and I never asked.” She swallowed. “Pierre said I had talent. Said if I gave him an exclusive he’d kick-start my acting career.”

“You believed this Pierre would make you a star?” I tried to keep the incredulity from my voice.

“Cormier insisted Pierre was a high-powered agent. What did I know? He spoke the lingo. Claimed to know all the right people. I trusted him.”

Behind us, Johanne clattered china.

“Go on,” Ryan said.

“After a few weeks, Pierre said I had to move out of my house. One night I told my parents I was going to study with friends. I went to a bar instead. When I left, Pierre picked me up and we drove to this big old house in the boonies. The place was a little run down, but better than what I was used to in Rosemère. A couple other girls were living there so it seemed OK. Pierre helped me cut and dye my hair. Said it made me look older. Image, you know.”

I kept my hands and eyes very still.

“Took me six, maybe seven months to realize I’d been duped. When I tried to quit, the dickhead threatened me. Said if I talked to anyone or attempted to leave he’d see that I was seriously hurt and my face disfigured.”

“How’d you finally break away?”

“Pierre’s films all had goofy themes. Nasty Nunnery. Sorority Slut-house. Wiki Up. He thought having a narrative gave his stuff class. That’s what he called it, a narrative. His flicks were shit.

“We were in Moncton making a piece of crap called Inside Acadians. This other girl and I started hanging out in a bar on Highway 106 after the shoots. Le Chat Rouge. Mr. Bastarache was the owner, and he’d chat us up now and then. One night I had a lot to drink, started whining how unhappy I was. Next morning, Pierre tells me I’m off his payroll and working for Bastarache. Surprised the hell out of me.”

“You didn’t ask why you’d been fired?” Ryan.

“That was Pierre’s style. One day a girl was his darling, the next she was gone. I didn’t care. I was glad to be out of the porn.”

“Did you know the police were searching for you in Montreal?”

“Not at first. By the time I found out, I thought it was too late. Pierre convinced me I’d be fined, then jailed when I couldn’t pay. Pretty soon the media moved on to something else. I didn’t see any point in putting myself out there.”

“Here’s the point.”

Ryan curled his fingers in my direction. I gave him the envelope. He laid down photographs of Claudine Cloquet and the girl from the Dorval shoreline.

Karine glanced at the faces. “I don’t know them.”

Phoebe Jane Quincy joined the lineup.

“Dear God, she’s only a few years older than my daughter.”

Ryan added the facial reconstruction of the girl from the Rivière des Mille Îles.

Karine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no. No.”

I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move a muscle.

“It’s Claire Brideau.”

“You knew her?”

“Claire was one of the kids living in Pierre’s house. She was the one I hung with at Le Chat Rouge.” Karine’s nose had gone red and her chin was trembling. “She was with me that last night before I got sacked.”

“Claire knew Bastarache?”

“It was usually Claire that he hit on. For some reason, that night he was talking to me.” Her voice faltered. “Is she dead?”

“She was found floating facedown in 1999.”

“Suffering Jesus!” Karine’s chest heaved as she fought back tears. “Why the funny sketch? Was she messed up?”

I found the question odd. If Ryan shared my reaction, he didn’t let on.

“She’d been floating awhile.”

Karine’s hands fumbled the latch on her purse.

“Where was Claire from?” Ryan asked.

“She never said.” Pulling out a tissue, she dabbed her eyes.

“Claire made skin flicks for Pierre?”

Karine nodded, bunching the tissue in a fist below her nose.

“Do you know where Pierre is now?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since 1999.”

“Could you find his house if you had to?”

She shook her head. “It was too long ago. And I never drove. Never paid attention.”

Dropping her forehead to the fist, she drew a long, ragged breath. I laid my hand gently on hers. Her shoulders trembled as tears slid down her cheeks.

Ryan caught my eye and tipped his head toward the door. I nodded. We’d gotten all we were going to get for now, and we knew where Karine Pitre could be found.

Ryan got up and crossed to the register.

“I never meant to make trouble.” Gulped, as a sob rose up her throat. “I just wanted out. I believed no one would miss me.”

“Your parents?” I asked.

Raising her head, she dabbed the wadded tissue from eye to eye. “We never got along.”

“Perhaps they would like the chance to get along with their grandchildren.” I made a move to slide from the booth.

Karine reached out and grabbed my wrist. “My husband doesn’t know about the skin flicks.”

I looked at her, unable to imagine what her life had been. What it was now.

“Maybe you should tell him,” I said quietly.

Light flashed in her eyes. Fear? Defiance. Her grip tightened.

“Do you know who killed Claire?” she asked.

“You think someone killed her?”

Karine nodded, fingers clenched so tightly the tissue was a tiny white ball.