"What about them?"

The voice became stronger.

"I feel it is my moral responsibility."

I said nothing, staring at the bones on the gurney and thinking about moral responsibilities.

"My moral duty to fol ow through. At least with a telephone cal .

Before I leave. It's the least I can do. People just don't take time anymore.

No one bothers. No one wants to get involved."

In the hal , I heard voices, doors slamming, then quiet. The autopsy techs had left for the day. I leaned back, tired, but anxious to finish the conversation and get back to work.

"What is it you would like to tel me?"

"I've lived a long time in Montreal. I know what went on in that building."

"What building?"

"The one where those bones were hidden."

« 37 »

The woman now had my ful attention.

"The pizza parlor?"

"Now it is."

"Yes?"

At that moment a bel shril ed, like those regulating movement in old school buildings.

The line went dead.

« 38 »

I

JIGGLED THE BUTTON, TRYING TO GET THE SWITCHBOARD OPKRator's attention.

Nothing.

Damn!

Slamming the receiver, I raced for the elevator.

Susanne, the LSJML receptionist, lives in a smal town halfway between Montreal and the Ontario border. Her daily commute involves a metro, a train, and timing more delicate than a space station linkup. At closing, Susanne is off like a shot. I hoped by some miracle to catch her in flight.

Lighted digits indicated the elevator was on thirteen.

Come on. Come on.

It took a month for the car to descend, another for the trip upstairs. On twelve, I bolted through the opening doors.

Susanne's desk was deserted.

Praying that the informant had phoned back, and that the cal had been rol ed by the automatic night service to my voice mail, I rushed to my office.

The red light was flashing.

Yes!

A mechanical voice announced five messages.

My friend Anne in South Carolina.

Al o Police. Again.

« 39 »

The Gazette. Again.

A newcomer from CFCF news.

Ryan.

Mixed emotions. Curiosity that Anne had cal ed. Relief that Ryan had tried to contact me. Frustration that my mysterious tipster had not. Fear that I'd lost the woman forever.

What was her name? Gal ant? Bal ant? Talent? Why hadn't I asked that she spel it?

Flopping into my chair, I stared at the phone, wil ing the little square to light up and tel me a cal had come into the system. I drummed the desktop. Pul ed the phone cord. Al owed the spirals to curl back into place.

Why wasn't the woman trying to reconnect? She had the number.

Wait. Hadn't she referred to an earlier cal ? Did she think I'd blown her off? That I'd hung up on her? Had she given up?

I opened the desk drawer. Rooted lor a pen. Closed the drawer.

Hadn't the cal er mentioned something about leaving? Leaving home? The city? The province? For the day? For good?