?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 M #233;tro 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 M #233;tro. 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. #192; 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 Genevi #232;ve 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.