"I'm not complaining, but when I was growing up, you were the only one who listened. Harry was" -- he turned his palms up and curled his fingers, as if groping for the proper words -- "wel , Harry was Harry. But you listened. And you talked to me. You were the only one who did. Now you're treating me like some kind of dimwit."

He had a point. When Kit had shown interest, I'd been evasive and distant, avoiding disclosure of any meaningful information. I live alone and don't discuss casework with anyone not part of the lab. I automatical y deflect questions that may arise in a social setting. Then this morning, out of the blue, I'd asked for an accounting of his activities.

"What you say is both fair and unfair I have put off answers I could have given, but I also am obligated not to discuss open cases or ongoing investigations. That is a requirement of my job and not a matter of personal discretion. Do you real y want to know what I've been doing?"

Shrug. "Whatever."

I looked at my watch.

"Why don't you shower while I clean up here. Then we'l take a walk on the mountain and I'l lay some things out. Al right?"

"Al right." Barely audible.

But my decision was far from al right.

Chapter 25

Locals cal it "The Mountain", but the smal elevation is a far cry from the craggy spires of the Rockies, or the lush peaks of my Carolina Smokies. Mont-Royal is the vestige of an ancient volcano, smoothed by aeons to gentle curves. It lies at the heart of the city like the body of a giant slumbering bean Though lacking in height and geologic drama, the mountain gives more than its name to Montreal. It is the spinal cord on which the city is strung. McGil University lies on its eastern slope, with the predominantly English-speaking suburb of Westmount directly opposite. L'Université de Montréal and the largely French neighborhood of Outremont claim the northern flanks. Directly below lies Centre-vil e, a polyglot fusion of the industrial, financial, residential, and frivolous.

The mountain is promontories, parks, and cemeteries. It is wooded trails and old mossy rocks. It is tourists, lovers, joggers, and picnickers during the precious summer months; snowshoers, skaters, and tobogganers in winter. For me, as for every Montrealer, the mountain is sanctuary from the urban tumult at its feet.

By early afternoon the temperature was windbreaker warm, the sky immaculate. Kit and I walked across de Maisonneuve, and turned uphil on Drummond. To the right of a tal round building with a sweeping curvilinear base that looks like the prow on a cement frigate, we ascended a wooden staircase to avenue des Pins. Pine Avenue.

"What is that building?" asked Kit.

"McIntyre Medical. It's part of McGil ."

"Looks like the Capitol Records Building in L.A."

"Hmm."

Halfway up the stairs, the air grew thick with the sharp, musky smel of skunk.