“Let’s,” said Ollie.

“How about we start with why you’re here,” said Ryan.

“Two reasons. First, there’s an outstanding warrant on Ruben. You say she’s here in Quebec. Second, Ruben is an HRP reported missing from my turf. As a member of the Project KARE task force, I have to follow leads on MPs who fit that profile.”

Without waiting for a response, Ollie snapped open the brass clasps on his briefcase, withdrew a folder, and flipped its cover. I noticed that the file held two thin pages.

Worrisome thought. Had Annaliese Ruben’s disappearance been investigated at all? Cared about?

“The report was filed as a front-desk walk-in,” Ollie began. “Reporting party was Susan Forex, street name Foxy.”

“Odd move for a hooker,” Ryan said.

“Foxy’s an odd chick.”

“You know her?”

“I do. But Foxy’s bellying up wasn’t all that strange. The ladies in Edmonton are scared shitless.”

“Rock and a hard spot. Cops or crazies.”

Ollie gestured agreement. “A rookie named Gerard took Forex’s statement. Forex claimed Ruben was boarding at her house. According to the summary, Ruben had a date to see a john she described as a big spender. The meet was to be at the Days Inn downtown.”

Ollie was plucking relevant information out of the file.

“Ruben never came home. Four months later, Forex decided to report her missing.”

“Took her a while to get worried,” Ryan said.

“How long were they roommates?” I asked.

“Maybe half a year.”

“Did anyone follow up?”

“Wasn’t much to follow. Street people change addresses like the rest of us change socks. And most won’t give the cops squat. A prossie named Monique Santofer was also living with Forex at the time. Both were questioned, a few others. No one knew spit.”

Ryan and I said nothing. We both knew the reality.

After those queries, the file had probably circulated within the detective bureau, created no blip on anyone’s screen. From there, it had gone to a centralized missing persons division where far too few detectives were responsible for the impossibly large number of persons reported missing each year. Eventually, it had become buried in a stack of others like it.

But somehow, thankfully, it had found its way to Project KARE.

“Why do you think Forex made the effort?” I asked.

“Edmonton is a killing field for these women. Many are so scared they’re voluntarily giving DNA samples so their bodies can be identified if they’re killed.”

“The numbers are that high?”

“At least twenty women have been murdered since 1983. More are missing, maybe dead. And you know that asshole Pickton’s not far from anyone’s mind.”

Ollie was referring to Robert William “Willie” Pickton, a Port Coquitlam, British Columbia pig farmer convicted in 2007 of killing six women and charged in the deaths of twenty more. Many of Pickton’s victims were prostitutes and drug users from Vancouver’s downtown east side.

I didn’t work the case, but colleagues did. Excavation began when remains were discovered on Pickton’s property in 2002. The media went batshit, and a court-ordered ban on publication and broadcasting was imposed. Rumors ran wild. Bodies allegedly were left to decompose, fed to the pigs, ground up and mixed with pork from the farm.