Earlier the corporal had reported that so far, the canvas had turned up only one person who recalled ever seeing Alma Rogers. The aged widow Robertina Hurteau lived in the building opposite and kept watch on the block through her living room blinds.

The old woman described her across-the-way neighbor as ordinaire. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Rogers enter or leave the apartment. She’d occasionally seen her with a man but never a baby. The man was barbu.

What about a dog? I wondered. Or was it a cat? Had anyone asked? The missing pet bothered me. Where was it? Had Roberts/Rogers taken it with her? Had she abandoned or killed it as she had her own offspring?

Three dead babies and I was worried about a missing pet. Go figure.

You’re out there somewhere, I thought. Amy Roberts, Alma Rogers. Traveling unnoticed. In a car? On a bus or train? Alone? With the father of your poor dead children? One of them? How many fathers were there?

I hoped Ryan was getting new information.

Demers and Gioretti were packing their gear. As I watched idly, a green Kia pulled to the curb behind their truck. The driver’s door swung open, and a man hauled himself out. He wore jeans and a tank that revealed way too much flesh. His hair was lank, his face flushed and splotchy above an unkept beard.

Arm-draping the car door, the man scanned the vehicles lining the street. Then he turned and slid back behind the wheel.

My weary brain coughed up a translation.

Barbu.

Bearded.

I turned to call out.

Ryan was already sprinting up the sidewalk.

RYAN HIT THE KIA AS THE DRIVER SLAMMED THE DOOR. Reaching through the open window, Ryan snatched the key from the ignition.

Halfway up the block, I heard “What the fuck?”

Bédard arrived as Ryan badged the guy.

“What the fuck?”

The driver was Anglophone. With a limited vocabulary.

“Move!” Ryan yanked the handle.

“What the—”

“Now!”

Sandaled feet swung out, followed by a beluga body.

As Bédard drew his Glock, Ryan spun Beluga, pushed him to the Kia, kicked his legs wide, and frisked him.

“What? You’re not going to buy me a few drinks first?”

Ryan didn’t laugh at Beluga’s wit.

A rear jeans pocket produced a canvas wallet. Satisfied that his suspect was unarmed, Ryan stepped back and began checking its contents. Bédard stood with his feet spread, gun double-grip pointed at Beluga.

“Turn around, but keep the hands up.”

Beluga did as ordered.

“Ralph Trees?” Ryan looked up from a plastic card I assumed to be a license to its bearer’s face.

Beluga stood in sullen silence, hands above his head. Hair crawled from his armpits down the sides of his rib cage.

“You Ralph Trees?”

Still, Beluga said nothing.

Ryan reached back and unclipped cuffs from his belt.

“What the shit?” Beluga splayed beefy fingers. “OK. OK. But it’s Rocky, not Ralph.”