"Neighbor?" Ryan asked.

"Looks like it."

"ReMax?"

"I think so. You can just see the R and part of the E. We can get the print blown up."

"Should be easy to track. The listing would only be four months old. h.e.l.l, in this economy it's probably still active." Ryan was already making notes.

"What about Damas?"

"I don't know." Wouldn't want to bother a victim's family. I didn't say it.

"Trottier?"

"No. I talked to Chantale's mother. She wasn't selling. Never listed the property."

"Could be the father."

We both turned to Claudel. He was looking at me, and this time his voice held no condescension.

"What?" Ryan.

"She spent a lot of time at the father's place. Could be he was selling." Endors.e.m.e.nt?

"I'll check." More notes.

"She was going there the day she was killed," I said.

"She stayed there a couple of days every week." Patronizing, but not contemptuous. Progress.

"Where does he live?"

"Westmount. Billion-dollar condo on Barat, off Sherbrooke."

I tried to place that. Just over the border from Centre-ville. Not far from my condo.

"Just above the Forum?"

"Right."

"What Metro station?"

"Must be At.w.a.ter. It's just a couple of blocks up from there."

Ryan looked at his watch, waved to catch Janine's attention, then pantomimed a signature in the air. We paid, receiving handfuls of candy from Antoine.

The minute I reached my office I pulled out the map, located the At.w.a.ter station, and counted the stops to Berri-UQAM. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The phone rang as I was reaching for it.

28.

ROBERT T TROTTIER'S CONDO HAD BEEN LISTED FOR A YEAR AND A half. half.

"Guess things are slow in that price range."

"I wouldn't know, Ryan. I've never been there."

"I've seen it on television."

"ReMax?"

"Royal Lepage."

"Ads?"

"He thinks so. We're checking."

"Sign outside?"

"Yes."

"Damas?" I asked.

She, her husband, and three kids lived with his parents. The senior Damases had owned their home since dirt was invented. Would die in it.

I thought about that for a while.

"What did Grace Damas do?"

"Raised kids. Crocheted doilies for the church. Hopped around in part-time jobs. You ready for this? Once worked in a boucherie."

"Perfect." Who butchered the butcher?

"The husband?"

"Clean. Drives a truck." Pause. "Like his father before him."

Silence.

"Think it means anything?"

"The Metro or the listings?"

"Either."

"h.e.l.l, Brennan, I don't know." More silence. "Give me a scenario."

I'd been trying to concoct one.

"Okay. St. Jacques reads the real estate ads, picks an address. Then he stakes it out until he spots his victim. He stalks her, waits for his opportunity. Then the ambush."

"How does the Metro figure in?"

Think. "It's a sport to him. He's the hunter, she's the prey. The hidey-hole on Berger is his blind. He flushes her with the want ads, tracks her, then moves in for the kill. He only uses certain hunting areas."

"The sixth stop out."

"Got a better idea?"

"Why real estate notices?"

"Why? Vulnerable target, a woman home alone. Figures if she's selling she'll be there to show the property. Maybe he calls. The ad would give him an entree."

"Why six?"

"I don't know. The guy's nuts."

Brilliant, Brennan.

"Must know the city pretty d.a.m.n well."

We chewed on that.

"Metro worker?"

"Cabby?"

"Utilities?"

"Cop?"

There was an interval of tense silence.

"Brennan, I wouldn-"

"No."

"What about Trottier and Damas? They don't fit."

"No."

Silence.

"Gagnon was found in Centre-ville, Damas in St. Lambert, Trottier in St. Jerome. If our boy's a commuter, how does he handle that?"

"I don't know, Ryan. But it's four for five on both the ads and the Metro stops. Look at St. Jacques, or whoever this rodent is. His hole is right at Berri-UQAM, and he collected want ads. It's worth some follow-up."

"Yep."

"Might start with the St. Jacques collection, see what the guy saved."

"Yep."

Another thought occurred to me.

"What about profiling? We've got enough to give it a try now."

"Very trendy."

"Could help."

I could read his thoughts across the line.

"Claudel doesn't have to know. I could poke around unofficially, find out if it's worth pursuing. We've got crime scenes for Morisette-Champoux and Adkins, manner of death and body disposal for the others. I think they can work with that."

"Quantico?"

"Yeah."

He snorted. "Right. They're so backed up they won't return your call until the turn of the century."

"I know someone there."

"I'm sure you do." Sigh. "Why not. But just an inquiry at this point. Don't go committing us to anything. The request will have to come from Claudel or me."

A minute later I was dialing a Virginia area code. I asked for John Samuel Dobzhansky and waited. Mr. Dobzhansky was unavailable. I left a message.

I tried Parker Bailey. Another secretary, another message.

I called Gabby to find out her dinner plans. My own voice asked for a message.

Called Katy. Message.

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?

I spent the rest of the afternoon on correspondence and student recommendations, listening for the phone. I wanted to talk to Dobzhansky. I wanted to talk to Bailey. A clock ticked inside my head, making it hard to concentrate. Countdown. How long until the next victim? At five I gave up and went home.

The condo was silent. No Birdie. No Gabby.