Outside the SQ, the air felt heavy and humid. A breeze off the St. Lawrence was providing only small relief. The brewery stench had dissipated, but the smell of the river was now strong. As I walked to the car a seagull screeched overhead, protesting or celebrating the premature tickle of summer.

Policing is complicated in Quebec. The SQ is responsible for all parts of the province not under the jurisdiction of municipal forces, of which there are many in the Montreal suburbs. The island itself is protected by the Police de la Communauté Urbaine de Montreal, or CUM.

The CUM is divided into four sections: Operations North, South, East, and West. Not creative, but geographically correct. Each section has a headquarters housing investigative, intervention, and analysis divisions. Each also hosts a detention center.

Suspects arrested for crimes other than murder and sexual assault await arraignment at one of these four sectional jails. For shoplifting at the MusiGo store in Le Faubourg on rue Ste-Catherine, Chantale Specter and Lucy Gerardi were taken to Op South.

Op South, which includes my neighborhood, is as varied as a chunk of urban geography can be. Though predominantly French and English, it is also Greek, Italian, Lebanese, Chinese, Spanish, Parsi, and a dozen other dialects. It is McGill University and Wanda's strip club, the Sun Life Building and Hurley's Pub, the Cathédrale Marie-Reine-du-Monde and the Crescent Street condom shop.

Op South is home to separatists and federalists, to drug dealers and bankers, to wealthy widows and penniless students. It is a playground for hockey fans and for singles looking to mingle, a workplace for suburban commuters, a bedroom for vagrants who drink from brown bags and sleep on the walks. Over the years I've been involved in numerous murder investigations originating within its borders.

Reversing my morning route, I headed west through the tunnel, took the Atwater exit, shot north on St-Marc, turned right on Ste-Catherine, right again on Guy. At one point I was meters from home, wishing I could make that cutoff instead of continuing to my scheduled rendezvous.

As I drove, I thought about the parents of Chantale and Lucy. Señor Gerardi, arrogant and overbearing. His cowed wife. Mrs. Specter, with her colorized eyes and painted nails. The absent Mr. Specter. They were the fortunate ones. Their daughters were alive.

I imagined Señora Eduardo, still frantic, wondering what had befallen Patricia. I envisioned the De la Aldas, despondent over Claudia's death, perhaps burdened with guilt that they couldn't prevent it.

I pulled into the lot and parked between two cruisers. Claude was leaning against the quarter panel of the Specter Mercedes, arms and ankles crossed. He nodded as I passed.

Entering the station at the main door, I stepped to the counter, showed ID, and explained the purpose of my visit. The guard studied the photo, checked me for a match, then ran her finger down a list. Satisfied, she looked back up.

'The lawyer and the mother have gone ahead. Leave your things.'

I slipped my purse from my shoulder and handed it across the counter. The guard secured it in a locker, scribbled something in a ledger, and turned it toward me.

As I entered the time and my name, she picked up a phone and spoke a few words. In moments a second guard appeared through a green metal door to my left. Guard number two swept me with a handheld metal detector, indicated that I should follow. Our movements were tracked by overhead cameras as he led me down a flourescent-lit corridor.

The drunk tank lay straight ahead, its occupants lounging, sleeping, or clinging to the bars. Beyond the tank, another green metal door. Beyond the door, the cell block. Across from the tank, a counter. Behind the counter, a wooden grid, hat-check station for incoming prisoners. Standard jailhouse design.

We passed several doors marked ENTREVUE DÉTENU. From previous visits I knew that each opened into a tiny cubicle with wall phone, bolted stool, counter, and window looking into a mirror-image visitor cubicle. Conversations took place across plateglass and phone line.

Conversations with detainees who were not ambassadorial offspring.

Bypassing the prisoner interview rooms, the guard stopped at a door marked ENTREVUE AVOCAT and gestured me to enter. I'd never been to the lawyers' side, and wondered what to expect. Red leather chairs? Brandy snifters? Prints of people playing golf in Scotland?

Though larger, the room was as stark as those allotted to prisoners' girlfriends and families. Aside from a phone, a metal table and chairs were the only furnishings.

Around the table sat Mrs. Specter, her daughter, and a man I assumed to be the family lawyer. He was tall, with a girth almost as great as his height. A fringe of gray hair ringed his head and curled up the collar of his two-K suit. His face and crown were high-gloss pink.

Mrs. Specter had switched to her summer color chart. She wore an ecru linen suit, off-white panty hose, and open-toed pumps. A gold band studded with delicate seed pearls held back the copper curls. Seeing me, she gave a taut, flickery smile, then her face receded behind its perfect Estée Lauder mask.

'Dr. Brennan, I would like you to meet Ihor Lywyckij,' she said.

Lywyckij half rose and extended a hand. The man's face, once muscular, had been softened by years of rich food and liquor. I smiled into it as we shook. His meaty grip registered a four.

'Tempe Brennan.'

'Delighted.'

'Mr. Lywyckij will be representing Chantale.'

'Ooh, yeah. Don't send me to the big house.' Chantale's voice oozed sarcasm.

I turned to her. The ambassador's daughter sat with legs splayed, eyes down, hands jammed into the pockets of a sleeveless denim jacket.

'You must be Chantale.'

'No. I'm Snow Fucking White.'

'Chantale!'

Mrs. Specter laid a hand on her daughter's head. Chantale shrugged it off.

'This is bullshit. I'm innocent.'

Chantale looked as innocent as the Boston Strangler. The blonde hair was now shoe-polish black. Below the jacket she wore a pink lace bustier. A black Spandex miniskirt, black tights, black engineer boots, and black makeup completed the ensemble.

I took a chair opposite the wrongly accused.

'The security guard found five CDs in your backpack, Miss Specter.' Lywyckij.

'Fuck you.'

'Chantale!' This time Mrs. Specter's hand went to her own forehead.

'I'm here to help you, miss. I can't do that if you fight me.' Lywyckij sounded like Mr. Rogers.

'You're here to send me to some fucking concentration camp.'

When Chantale looked up, I felt as if I was gazing into pure hatred.

'And what the hell's she doing here.' She jerked an elbow in my direction.

Mrs. Specter jumped in before I could answer.

'We're all concerned, darling. If you're having a problem with drugs, we want to find the best solution for you. Dr. Brennan might be able to help with that.'

'You want to lock me away somewhere so I won't embarrass you.' She kicked at a table leg, and the blazing eyes went back to her boots.

'Chant—'

Lywyckij placed a hand on Mrs. Specter's shoulder, raised his other to quiet her.

'What is it you want, Chantale?'

'I want to get out of here.'

'I will arrange that.'

'You will?' For the first time her voice seemed to match her age.

'You have no prior convictions in Canada, and shoplifting is a minor offense. Given the circumstances, I'm sure I can persuade the judge to release you into your mother's care if you promise to abide by his, and her, conditions.'

Chantale said nothing.

'Do you understand what that means?'

No response.

'If you disobey your mother, you'll be in violation.'

Another chop to the table leg.

'Do you understand, Chantale?'

'Yeah, yeah.'

'Can you comply with the conditions that will be imposed?'

'I'm not a fucking moron.'

Mrs. Specter flinched but held her tongue.

'What about Lucy?'

Lywyckij lowered his palm and brushed nonexistent dust from the tabletop.

'Miss Gerardi's situation is more problematical. Your friend is here illegally. She has no papers permitting her to be in Canada. That issue will need to be addressed.'

'I'm not going anywhere without Lucy.'

'We will work something out.'

Lywyckij laced his fingers. They looked like intertwined pink sausages.

For a few moments no one spoke. Chantale continued to whack the table leg.

'Now' Lywyckij leaned onto his forearms. 'Perhaps we should talk about the drug problem.'

Silence.

'Chantale, darling, you mus—'

Again Lywyckij hushed his client with a raised hand.

More silence. More table whacking.

I shifted my gaze between mother and daughter. It was like moving from Glamour to Metal Edge. Finally, another elbow in my direction.

'She some kind of social worker?'

'The lady is a friend of your moth—' Lywyckij began.

'I asked my mother.'

'Dr. Brennan accompanied me from Guatemala City.' Mrs. Specter's voice sounded small.

'She help you blow your nose on liftoff?'

I had promised myself I wouldn't let Chantale get under my skin, but by now I was fighting the urge to reach across the table and grab the little demon by the throat. The hell with kid gloves.

'I work with the police here.'

Chantale didn't let that pass.

'What police?'

'All of them. And your street act won't impress anyone.'

Chantale shrugged.

'Your lawyer is giving you good advice.' I didn't attempt to pronounce the man's name.

'My mother's lawyer has the IQ of a turnip.'

Lywyckij's face darkened until it looked like a large, ripe plum.

'You're riding for a fall, Chantale,' I said.

'Yeah, well, it's my ticket.'

'I must have full knowledge of—' Lywyckij began.

Chantale cut him off again.

'What do you mean, "work with the police"?' My vague allusion hadn't escaped her. The ambassador's daughter wasn't stupid.

'I'm with the medico-legal lab,' I said.

'The coroner?'

'That works.'

'They do stiffs in G City?'

'I was invited into a murder investigation down there.'

I debated leaving it at that, decided on a dose of reality.

'Both victims were women your age.'

At last the vampire eyes met mine.

'Claudia de la Alda,' I said.

I watched for signs of recognition. Nothing.

'Her home was not far from yours.'

'Ain't coincidence grand.'

'Claudia worked at the Ixchel Museum.'

Another shrug.

'The second victim hasn't been identified. We found her in a septic tank in Zone One.'

'Rough neighborhood.'

Chantale and I were in a stare-off now, testing wills.

'Let's try another name,' I said.

'Tinkerbell?'

'Patricia Eduardo.'

Corneal hardball. Her eyes didn't waver.

'Patricia worked at the Hospital Centro Médico.'

'Bedpan bingo. Not my game.'

'She's been missing since last October.'

'People take off.'

'They do.'

Whack. The table jumped.

'Your name came up in the investigation.'

'No way,' she snorted.

Whack.

'Like, why?'

'Too many grand coincidences.'

'Is this some kind of joke?'

Chantale's eyes flicked to Lywyckij. He turned his palms up. They came back to me.

'This is bullshit.'

'The Guatemalan police don't think so. They want information.'

'I don't care if they want a cure for the clap. I don't know what you're talking about.' She was staring at me with high beams.

'You're the same age, lived blocks apart, hung out in the same neighborhoods. They find one link, one ladies' room where you and Claudia de la Alda both took a pee, they can have you hauled back down there and put through a grinder.'

Not true, of course, and Lywyckij knew it. The lawyer said nothing.

'There's no way you can force me to go back to Guatemala.' Chantale's voice sounded a little less confident.

'You're seventeen. That makes you a minor.'

'We won't let that happen. Lywyckij jumped aboard as Nice Cop.

'You may have no choice.' I continued as Mean Cop.

Chantale wasn't buying the act. She pulled her hands from her pockets and held them up, wrists pressed together.

'O.K. It was me. I killed them. And I'm dealing heroin at the junior high.'

'No one is accusing you of murder,' I said.

'I know. It's a reality bite for a wayward teen.' She shot forward, widened her eyes, and waggled her head like a dashboard dog. 'Bad things happen to bad girls.'

'Something like that,' I replied evenly. 'You know, of course, that nothing will prevent Lucy's return to Guatemala.'

Chantale stood so suddenly her chair crashed to the floor.

Mrs. Specter's hand flew to her chest.

The guard shot through the door, hand on the butt of his gun. 'Everything all right?'

Lywyckij lumbered to his feet. 'We're finished.' He turned to Chantale. 'Your mother has brought something for you to wear when you appear before the judge.'

Chantale rolled her eyes. Globs of mascara clung to the lashes, like raindrops on a spiderweb.

'We should have you out of here in two or three hours,' he continued. 'We will deal with the drug issue later.'

When the guard had escorted Chantale from the room, Lywyckij turned to Mrs. Specter.

'Do you think you can control her?'

'Of course.'

'She might take off.'

'These dreadful surroundings make Chantale defensive. She'll be fine once she's home with her father and me.'

I could see Lywyckij had his doubts. I definitely had mine.

'When is the ambassador arriving?'

'Just as soon as he can.' The plastic smile slipped into place.

Lyrics popped into my head. A song about a handy smile. We'd sung it in Brownies when I was eight years old.

I have something in my pocket that belongs across my face

I keep it very close to me in a most convenient place...

'What of Miss Gerardi?' Lywyckij's question snapped me back.

'What of her?' A return question from the ambassador's wife, not indicating great concern.

'Will I be representing her?'

'Chantale's difficulties probably stem from that girl's influence. Obtaining documents. Hitchhiking with strangers. Crossing the continent on buses. My daughter would never do those things on her own.'

'I'm not so sure,' I said.

The emerald eyes swung to me, surprised.

'How could you know such a thing?'

'Call it gut instinct.' Not backing off.

A pause by Mrs. Specter, then a pronouncement.

'In any event, it is best that we not meddle in the affairs of Guatemalan citizens. Lucy's father is a wealthy man. He will take care of her.'

That wealthy man was now here in Montreal and trailing a guard as we entered the corridor. His companion was outfitted like Lywyckij in expensive suit, Italian shoes, leather briefcase.

Gerardi turned as we passed, and his eyes met mine.

I'd empathized with the little girl at the schoolyard fence. That reaction was nothing compared with the pity I now felt for Lucy Gerardi. Whatever had brought her to Canada was not about to be forgiven.