Ryan read from the flyer. “‘Got it here? Want it there? We move fast.’ Pure poetry.”

Trees missed the sarcasm. “Yeah. Phil’s good with writing and shit.”

“Phil looks like a skunk.”

“Hey, he can’t help it. He was born that way.”

Ryan skimmed the work order, then handed both papers to me. Curious about his comment, I glanced at the flyer.

A happy driver I assumed to be Phil sat smiling and waving behind the wheel of a truck. His hair was black and combed straight back from his face. A white crescent streaked from his forehead toward the crown of his head.

Bédard rejoined us. Shook his head.

Ryan spread his feet and stared at Trees as though weighing options. Then, “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’ll go with Corporal Bédard. You’ll write down contact information for yourself and your brother-in-law and anyone else who can vouch for your sorry ass. You can write, can’t you, Rocky?”

“You’re the funny guy.”

“Downright hilarious when I’m searching a glove compartment.”

“OK. OK.” Two placating palms came up.

“You will record everything you remember about Alva Rodriguez. Right down to the last time she flushed the toilet. You got it?”

Trees nodded.

Ryan raised his brows at me.

“Does Alva have a dog or cat?” I asked.

“A dog.”

“What kind?”

“Just a dog.” The oaf looked confused by the question.

“Big? Small? Long-eared? Brown? White?”

“A little gray yappy thing. Shits all over the place.”

“What’s the dog’s name?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“If Alva left, would she take the dog with her?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Ryan shot me a quizzical look but said nothing. Then to Trees, “Go, Rocky. And dig real deep.”

While Trees followed Bédard to his unit, Ryan walked me to my car.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“The guy couldn’t find his own ass with GPS. Brain’s probably fried.”

“You think he’s using?”

Ryan pulled his “you’ve got to be kidding” face.

“I thought he sounded genuinely shocked at the mention of the babies.”

“Maybe,” Ryan said. “But I’m going to be on that prick like fleas on a hound.”

“Anything new on Roberts?”

“Demers doubts he got any useful prints. Those he lifted will take time to process. If Roberts isn’t in the system, that’s a dead end anyway. The landlord paid the utilities. There’s no phone. No computer. No paper trail of any kind. If Mama’s in the wind, it could take a while to find her.”

“And the baby can’t help us.”

Turned out I was dead wrong.

THE NEXT MORNING I SPENT TWENTY MINUTES SNAKING UP and down the narrow streets of Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, a working-class neighborhood a bump east of centre-ville. I passed iron staircase–fronted two-flats, convenience stores, a school, a small park. But no curbside usable at eight A.M. on a Tuesday in June.

Don’t get me started. One needs a degree in civil engineering to understand when and where it is legal to park in Montreal, and the luck of a lotto winner to find footage that qualifies.