I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE MORNING NEWS. JULY 5. I’D SLIPPED through Independence Day and not even noticed. No apple pie. No “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Not a single sparkler. Somehow the thought depressed me. Every American anywhere on the globe should stand up and strut on the Fourth. I had allowed myself to become a Canadian spectator of American culture. I made plans to go to the ball park at the next opportunity and cheer for whichever American team was in town.

I showered, made coffee and toast, and scanned the Gazette. Endless talk of separation. What would happen to the economy? To aboriginals? To English speakers? The want ads embodied the fear. Everyone selling, no one buying. Maybe I should go home. What was I accomplishing here?

Brennan. Stow it. You’re surly because you have to take the car in.

It was true. I hate errands. I hate the minutiae of making do in a techno-nation-state in the closing years of the second millennium. Passport. Driver’s license. Work permit. Income tax. Rabies shot. Dry cleaning. Dental appointment. Pap smear. My pattern: put it off until unavoidable. Today the car had to be serviced.

I am a daughter of America in my attitude toward the automobile. I feel incomplete without one, cut off and vulnerable. How will I escape an invasion? What if I want to leave the party early, or stay after the Métro stops? Go to the country? Haul a dresser? Gotta have wheels. But I am not a worshiper. I want a car that will start when I turn the key, get me where I want to go, keep doing it for at least a decade, and not require a lot of pampering.

Still no sounds from Gabby’s room. Must be nice. I packed my gear and left.

The car was in the shop and I was on the Métro by nine. The morning rush was over, the railcar relatively empty. Bored, I grazed through the ads. See a play at Le Théâtre St. Denis. Improve your job skills at Le Collège O’Sullivan. Buy jeans at Guess, Chanel perfume at La Baie, color at Benetton.

My eyes drifted to the Métro map. Colored lines crossed like the wiring on a motherboard, white dots marked the stops.

I traced my route eastward along the green line from Guy-Concordia to Papineau. The orange line looped around the mountain, north-south on its eastern slope, east-west below the green line, then north-south again on the west side of the city. Yellow dived below the river, emerging on Île Ste. Hélène and at Longueuil on the south shore. At Berri-UQAM the orange and yellow lines crossed the green. Big dot. Major switching point.

The train hummed as it slithered through its underground tunnel. I counted my stops. Seven dots.

Compulsive, Brennan. Want to wash your hands?

My eyes moved north along the orange line, visualizing the changing landscape of the city. Berri-UQAM. Sherbrooke. Mount Royal. Eventually, Jean-Talon near St. Édouard. Isabelle Gagnon had lived in that neighborhood.

Oh?

I looked for Margaret Adkins’s neighborhood. Green line. Which station? Pie IX. I counted from Berri-UQAM. Six stops east.

How many was Gagnon? Back to orange. Six.

Tiny hairs tingled at the back of my neck.

Morisette-Champoux. Georges-Vanier Métro. Orange. Six stops west from Berri-UQAM.

Jesus.

Trottier? No. The Métro doesn’t go to Ste. Anne-de-Bellevue.

Damas? Parc Extension. Close to the Laurier and Rosemont stations. Third and fourth stops from Berri-UQAM.

I stared at the map. Three victims lived exactly six stops from the Berri-UQAM station. Coincidence?

“Papineau,” said a mechanical voice.

I grabbed my things and bolted onto the platform.

Ten minutes later I heard the phone as I unlocked my office door.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“What the hell are you doing, Brennan?”

“Good morning, Ryan. What can I help you with?”

“Claudel’s trying to nail my butt to the wall because of you. Says you’ve been running around bothering victims’ families.”

He waited for me to say something but I didn’t.

“Brennan, I’ve been defending you because I respect you. But I can see what’s shaping up here. Your prying could really hang me up on this case.”

“I asked a few questions. That’s not illegal.” I did nothing to defuse his anger.

“You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t coordinate. You just went off knocking on doors.” I could hear breath being drawn through nostrils. They sounded clenched.

“I called first.” Not quite true for Geneviève Trottier.

“You’re not an investigator.”

“They agreed to see me.”

“You’re confusing yourself with Mickey Spillane. It’s not your job.”

“A well-read detective.”

“Christ, Brennan, you are pissing me off!”

Squad room noise.

“Look.” Controlled. “Don’t get me wrong. I think you’re solid. But this isn’t a game. These people deserve better.” His words were hard as granite.

“Yes.”

“Trottier is my case.”

“What exactly is being done on your case?”

“Bren—”

“And what about the others? Where are they going?”

I was on a roll.

“These investigations aren’t exactly heading everyone’s agenda right now, Ryan. Francine Morisette-Champoux was killed over eighteen months ago. It’s been eight months since Trottier. I have this bizarre notion that whoever killed these women ought to be reeled in and locked up. So I take an interest. I ask a few questions. What happens? I’m told to butt out. And because Mr. Claudel thinks I’m about as helpful as a boil, these cases will drop lower and lower until they’re off the charts and out of everyone’s minds. Again.”

“I didn’t tell you to butt out.”

“What are you saying, Ryan?”

“I understand Claudel wants your ass in a sling. You want to fry his balls. I might too if he’d stonewalled me. I just don’t want you two screwing up my case.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He took a long time to answer.

“I’m not saying I don’t want your input. I just want the priorities in this investigation perfectly clear.”

For a long time no one spoke. Anger rushed the line in both directions.

“I think I’ve found something.”

“What?” He hadn’t expected that.

“I may have a connection.”

“What do you mean?” A little of the edge was gone from his voice.

I wasn’t sure what I meant. Maybe I just wanted to derail him.

“Meet me for lunch.”

“This better be good, Brennan.” Pause. “I’ll see you at Antoine’s at noon.”

Fortunately I had no new cases, so I was able to get right to work. So far nothing had fit together. Maybe the Métro was the tie.

I opened the computer and pulled up the file to check addresses. Yes. I had the right stops. I dug out a map and plotted the stations, just as Ryan and I had done with the victims’ homes. The three pins formed a triangle, with Berri-UQAM in the center. Morisette-Champoux, Gagnon, and Adkins had each lived within six stops of the station. St. Jacques’s apartment was a short walk away.

Could that be it? Catch a train at Berri-UQAM. Pick a victim who gets off six stops away. Hadn’t I read about that type of behavior? Fixate on a color. A number. A series of actions. Follow a pattern. Never deviate. Be in control. Wasn’t careful planning characteristic of serial killers? Could our boy take it one step further? Could he be a serial killer with some sort of compulsive behavior pattern into which the killings fit?

But what about Trottier and Damas? They didn’t fit. It couldn’t be that simple. I stared at the map, willing an answer to materialize. The feeling that something lurked just over the wall of my conscious nagged stronger than ever. What? I hardly heard the tap.

“Dr. Brennan?”

Lucie Dumont stood in my doorway. That’s all it took. The wall was breached.

“Alsa!”

I’d forgotten all about the little monkey.

My outburst startled Lucie. She jerked, almost dropping her printout.

“Shall I come back?”

I was already digging for Lucie’s earlier printout. Yes. Of course. The bus terminal. It’s practically next to the Berri-UQAM station. I plotted Alsa. Her pin went right in the center of the triangle.

Was that it? The monkey? Did she tie in? If so, how? Another victim? An experiment? Alsa died two years before Grace Damas. Hadn’t I read about that pattern also? Teenage peeping and fantasy escalating to animal torture and, finally, human rape and murder? Wasn’t that Dahmer’s chilling progression?

I sighed and sat back. If that was the bulletin my subconscious was trying to post, Ryan wouldn’t be impressed.

Out the door and down to the central files. Lucie had vanished. I’d apologize later. I was doing that a lot lately. Back to my desk.

The Damas folder held little save my report. I opened the jacket marked Adkins and leafed through. The contents were beginning to look archival, I’d handled them so often. Nothing clicked. On to Gagnon. Morisette-Champoux. Trottier.

I spent an hour pouring over the files. Gran’s puzzle pieces again. Jumbled bits of information. Feed them in, let your mind rotate and arrange. It was the arranging that wasn’t going well. Coffee time.

I brought it back, along with the morning’s Journal. Sip and read. Regroup. The news varied little from the English language Gazette, the editorials enormously. What did Hugh MacLennan call it? The Two Solitudes.

I sat back. There it was again. The subliminal itch. I had the pieces, but wasn’t making the fit.

Okay, Brennan. Be systematic. The feeling started today. What have you been doing? Not much. Read the paper. Took the car in. Rode the Métro. Reviewed files.

Alsa? My mind wasn’t satisfied. There’s more.

Car?

Nothing.

Paper?

Maybe.

I leafed back through it. Same stories. Same editorials. Same want ads.

I stopped.

Want ads. Where had I seen want ads? Stacks of them.

St. Jacques’s room.

I went through them slowly. Jobs. Lost and found. Garage sales. Pets. Real estate.

Real estate? Real estate!

I pulled the Adkins folder and withdrew the pictures. Yes. There it was. The tilting, rusty sign, barely visible in the untended yard. À Vendre. Someone was selling a condo in Margaret Adkins’s building.

So?

Think.

Champoux. What had he said? She didn’t like it there. That’s why we were leaving. Something like that.

I reached for the phone. No answer.

What about Gagnon? Didn’t the brother rent? Perhaps the landlord was selling the building.

I checked the photos. No sign. Damn.

I tried Champoux again. Still no answer.

I dialed Geneviève Trottier. It was answered on the second ring.

“Bonjour.” Cheerful.

“Madame Trottier?”

“Oui.” Curious.

“This is Dr. Brennan. We spoke yesterday.”

“Oui.” Fearful.

“I have one question, if I may?”

“Oui.” Resigned.

“Did you have your home on the market when Chantale disappeared?”

“Pardonnez-moi?”

“Were you trying to sell your home in October of last year?”

“Who told you that?”

“No one. I was just curious.”

“No. No. I have lived here since my husband and I separated. I have no intention of leaving. Chantale... I... it was our home.”

“Thank you, Madame Trottier. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” Again I’d violated the accord she’d reached with her memories.

This is going nowhere. Maybe it’s a stupid idea.

I tried Champoux. A male voice answered as I was about to hang up.

“Oui.”

“Monsieur Champoux?”

“Un instant.”

“Oui.” A second male voice.

“Monsieur Champoux?”

“Oui.”

I explained who I was and posed my question. Yes, they had been trying to sell the property. It was listed with ReMax. When his wife was killed he took it off the market. Yes, he thought ads had run, but he couldn’t be sure. I thanked him and hung up.

Two out of five. Could be. Maybe St. Jacques used want ads.

I called recovery. The materials from the Berger Street apartment were in property.

I glanced at my watch—eleven forty-five. Time to meet Ryan. He wouldn’t bite. I needed more.

Once again I spread the Gagnon photos and studied them, one by one. This time I saw it. Grabbing a magnifying glass, I moved the lens until the object came into focus. I leaned closer, adjusting and readjusting to be sure.

“Hot damn.”

I scooped the pictures into their envelope, stuffed them into my briefcase, and almost ran to the restaurant.

Le Paradis Tropique is directly across from the SQ building. The food is lousy, the service slow, but the tiny restaurant is always crowded at noon, due largely to the effervescence of its owner, Antoine Janvier. Today’s greeting was typical.

“Ah, madame, you are hoppy today? Yes! I am so glad to see you. It has been a very long time.” His ebony face showed mock disapproval.

“Yes, Antoine, I’ve been very busy.” True, but Caribbean food would never be my daily fare.

“Ah, so hard, you work too hard. But today I have some nice fish. Fresh. Barely dead. The ocean is still dripping from his back. You will eat him and feel better. I have a beautiful table for you. The best in the house. Your friends, they are here.”

Friends? Who else?

“Come. Come. Come.”

There must have been a hundred people inside, sweating and eating under brightly colored umbrellas. I followed Antoine through the maze of tables to a raised platform in the far corner. Ryan sat silhouetted against a fake window hung with yellow and lavender curtains tied back to show a painted sunset. A ceiling fan revolved slowly above his head as he talked to a man in a linen sports jacket. Though his back was to me, I recognized the razor cut and perfect creases.

“Brennan.” Ryan half rose from his chair. Catching my expression, his eyes narrowed in warning. Bear with me.

“Detective Lieutenant Ryan.” Okay. But this better be good.

Claudel remained seated and nodded.

I took the seat next to Ryan. Antoine’s wife appeared and, after the pleasantries, the detectives ordered beer. I asked for Diet Coke.

“So. What’s this breakthrough?” No one could do condescending like Claudel.

“Why don’t we order first?” Ryan the peacemaker.

Ryan and I exchanged thoughts on the weather. We agreed it was warm. When Janine returned I asked for the fish special. Jamaican plates for the detectives. I was beginning to feel the outsider.

“So. What have you come up with?” Ryan the moderator.

“The Métro.”

“The Métro?”

“That narrows it to four million people. Two if we stick to males.”

“Let her talk, Luc.”

“What about the Métro?”

“Francine Morisette-Champoux lived six stops from the Berri-UQAM station.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Ryan shot him a look that could have cut glass.

“So did Isabelle Gagnon. And Margaret Adkins.”

“Hm.”

Claudel said nothing.

“Trottier is too far out.”

“Yes. And Damas is too close.”

“The St. Jacques apartment is a few blocks away.”

We ate in silence for a while. The fish was dry, the fries and dirty rice were greasy. Hard combination to get just right.

“It may be more complicated than simply the Métro stops.”

“Oh?”

“Francine Morisette-Champoux and her husband had their home on the market. Listed with ReMax.”

No one said anything.

“There was a sign outside Margaret Adkins’s building. ReMax.”

They waited for me to go on. I didn’t. I reached into my purse, extracted the Gagnon photos, and placed one on the table. Claudel forked a fried plantain.

Ryan picked up the photo, studied it, then looked at me quizzically. I handed him the magnifying glass and pointed to an object barely visible at the far left edge of the photo. He examined it for a long time, then, saying nothing, he extended the picture and lens across the table.

Claudel wiped his hands, wadded the paper napkin, and tossed it onto his plate. Taking the photo, he repeated Ryan’s actions. When he recognized the object his jaw muscles bunched. For a long time he stared at it, saying nothing.

“Neighbor?” Ryan asked.

“Looks like it.”

“ReMax?”

“I think so. You can just see the R and part of the E. We can get the print blown up.”

“Should be easy to track. The listing would only be four months old. Hell, in this economy it’s probably still active.” Ryan was already making notes.

“What about Damas?”

“I don’t know.” Wouldn’t want to bother a victim’s family. I didn’t say it.

“Trottier?”

“No. I talked to Chantale’s mother. She wasn’t selling. Never listed the property.”

“Could be the father.”

We both turned to Claudel. He was looking at me, and this time his voice held no condescension.

“What?” Ryan.

“She spent a lot of time at the father’s place. Could be he was selling.” Endorsement?

“I’ll check.” More notes.

“She was going there the day she was killed,” I said.

“She stayed there a couple of days every week.” Patronizing, but not contemptuous. Progress.

“Where does he live?”

“Westmount. Billion-dollar condo on Barat, off Sherbrooke.”

I tried to place that. Just over the border from Centre-ville. Not far from my condo.

“Just above the Forum?”

“Right.”

“What Métro station?”

“Must be Atwater. It’s just a couple of blocks up from there.”

Ryan looked at his watch, waved to catch Janine’s attention, then pantomimed a signature in the air. We paid, receiving handfuls of candy from Antoine.

The minute I reached my office I pulled out the map, located the Atwater station, and counted the stops to Berri-UQAM. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The phone rang as I was reaching for it.