Книга Monday Mourning — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

”

“Having a bad day, sunshine?” The amusement in Ryan’s voice irked me. His failure to explain last night’s hasty departure irked me. My desire for an explanation irked me.

What was Anne’s philosophy? Never explain, never complain.

Right on, Annie.

“This week has not been a picnic,” I said, still staring at my desk phone. The little square remained frustratingly dark.

“Claudel’s a good cop,” Ryan said. “Sometimes he needs more convincing than we intuitively brighter types.”

“His mind is made up.”

“Change it.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

A moment of silence. Ryan broke it.

“How old do you think these bones are?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure all three girls died at the same time.”

“Dental work?”

“None that I’ve noticed.”

More silence.

“Gut feeling?”

“The burials haven’t been in the basement that long.”

“Meaning?”

“We should be taking them seriously.”

Again, Ryan ignored my churlishness.

“On what do you base your gut feeling?”

I’d been asking myself that question for three days.

“Experience.”

I didn’t mention my recent mysterious informant. Or the brainless indifference with which I’d treated her.

“Well, sunshine—”

“Yes, cupcake.” I cut him off.

Pause.

“You must find evidence to convince Claudel that he’s wrong.” Patient, a teacher reprimanding a kindergartner.

Long pause, filled with my irritated breathing. Again, Ryan spoke first.

“I’m guessing tonight is not good for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I understand how tired and frustrated you are.

When we’d disconnected, I sat listening to the hum of the empty building.

There was no denying it. I’d been in Montreal three full days. And nights. Ryan had been his usual amiable and charming self.

And almost totally unavailable.

I didn’t need a burning bush. Officer Studmuffin was moving on.

And I was stuck with Detective Dickhead.

I tottered toward tears, yanked myself back.

I’d lived without Ryan. I would do so again.

I’d coexisted with Claudel. I would do so again.

But was the problem with Ryan of my own making? Why had I been so short with him just now?

Outside, the wind gusted. Downstairs, three young women lay silent on stainless steel.

I glanced at the phone. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent wasn’t hitting her redial button.

“Screw bubbles,” I said, rocketing from my chair.

“And screw you, Andrew Ryan. Wherever you are.