The drive was St. Jean Baptiste Day all over again. The tense silence. The smell of air-conditioned sweat. The fear in my gut. Only Claudel's surliness was absent. He and Charbonneau were meeting us there.

And the traffic was different. On our trip to Rue Berger we had fought holiday crowds. Today we breezed through empty streets, arriving at the suspect's place in less than twenty minutes. When we turned the corner I could see Bertrand, Charbonneau, and Claudel in an unmarked car, Bertrand's unit parked behind. The crime scene van was at the end of the block, Gilbert behind the wheel, a tech slumped against the pa.s.senger side window.

The three detectives got out as we walked toward them. The street was as I remembered it, though daylight showed it to be even plainer and more worn than it had appeared in the dark. My shirt was pasted to my clammy skin.

"Where's the stakeout team?" Ryan asked by way of greeting.

"They circled round back." Charbonneau.

"He in there?"

"No activity since they got here around midnight. He could be asleep inside."

"There's a back entrance?"

Charbonneau nodded. "Been covered all night. We've got units at each end of the block, and there's one on Martineau." He jerked a thumb toward the opposite side of the street. "If lover boy's in there, he's not going anywhere."

Ryan turned to Bertrand. "Got the paper?"

Bertrand nodded. "It's 1436 Seguin. Number 201. Come on down." He mimicked the game show invitation.

We stood a moment, sizing up the building as one would an adversary, preparing ourselves for a.s.sault and capture. Two black kids rounded the corner and started up the block, rap music blaring from an enormous boom box. They wore Air Jordans and pants big enough to house a nuclear family. Their T-shirts bore totems of violence, one a skull with melting eyeb.a.l.l.s, the other the grim reaper with beach umbrella. Death on Vacation. The taller boy had shaved his scalp, leaving only an oval cap on top. The other had dreadlocks.

A mental flash of Gabby's dreadlocks. A stab of pain.

Later. Not now. I yanked my attention back to the moment.

We watched the boys enter a nearby building, heard the rap truncated as a door closed behind them. Ryan looked in both directions, then back at us.

"We set?"

"Let's get the sonofab.i.t.c.h." Claudel.

"Luc, you and Michel cover the back. If he bolts, squash him."

Claudel squinted, tipped his head as though to speak, then shook it, exhaling sharply through his nose. He and Charbonneau moved off, turned back at Ryan's voice.

"We do this by the books." His eyes were hard. "No mistakes."

The c.u.m detectives crossed the street and disappeared around the graystone.

Ryan turned to me.

"Ready?"

I nodded.

"This could be the guy."

"Yes, Ryan, I know that."

"You all right?"

"Jesus, Ryan . . ."

"Let's go."

I felt a bubble of fear swell in my chest as we mounted the iron stairs. The outer door was unlocked. We entered a small lobby with a grimy tile floor. Mailboxes lined the right wall, circulars lay on the floor beneath them. Bertrand tried the inner door. It was also open.

"Great security," said Bertrand.

We crossed into a poorly lit corridor shrouded in heat and the smell of cooking grease. A threadbare carpet ran toward the back of the building and up a staircase to the right, secured at three-foot intervals by thin metal strips. Over it someone had laid a vinyl runner, at one time clear, now opaque with age and grime.

We climbed to the second floor, our feet making faint tapping sounds on the vinyl-201 was first on the right. Ryan and Bertrand placed themselves on either side of the dark wooden door, backs to the wall, jackets unb.u.t.toned, hands resting loosely on their weapons.

Ryan motioned me beside him. I flattened myself against the wall, felt the rough plaster pluck at my hair. I took a deep breath, drawing in mildew and dust. I could smell Ryan's sweat.

Ryan nodded to Bertrand. The anxiety bubble swelled up into my throat.

Bertrand knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

No response.

Ryan and Bertrand tensed. My breath was coming fast.

"Police. Open up."

Down the hall a door opened quietly. Eyes peered through a crack the width of a security chain.

Bertrand knocked harder, five sharp raps in the sweltering silence. Silence.

Then. "Monsieur Tanguay n'est pas ici."

Our heads whipped toward the sound of the voice. It was soft and high-pitched, and came from across the corridor.

Ryan gave Bertrand a stay-here gesture and we crossed. The eyes watched, their irises magnified behind thick lenses. They were barely four feet off the floor, and angled higher and higher as we approached.

The eyes shifted from Ryan to me and back, seeking the least threatening place to land. Ryan squatted to meet them at their level.

"Bonjour," he said.

"Hi."

"Comment ca va?"

"ca va."

The child waited. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl.

"Is your mother home?"

Head shake.

"Father?"

"No."

"Anyone?"

"Who are you?"

Good, kid. Don't tell a stranger anything.

"Police." Ryan showed him his badge. The eyes grew even larger.

"Can I hold it?"

Ryan pa.s.sed the badge through the crack. The child studied it solemnly, handed it back.

"Are you looking for Monsieur Tanguay?"

"Yes, we are."

"Why?"

"We want to ask him some questions. Do you know Monsieur Tanguay?"

The child nodded, offered nothing.

"What's your name?"

"Mathieu." Boy.

"When will your mother be home, Mathieu?"

"I live with my grammama."

Ryan shifted his weight and a joint cracked loudly. He dropped one knee to the floor, propped an elbow on the other, rested chin on knuckles, and looked at Mathieu.

"How old are you, Mathieu?"

"Six."

"How long have you lived here?"

The child looked puzzled, as though other possibilities had never occurred to him.

"Always."

"Do you know Monsieur Tanguay?"

Mathieu nodded.

"How long has he lived here?"

Shrug.

"When will your grammama be home?"

"She cleans for people." Pause. "Sat.u.r.day." Mathieu rolled his eyes and nibbled his lower lip. "Just a minute." He disappeared into the apartment, reappeared in less than a minute. "Three-thirty."

"Sh . . . Shoot," said Ryan, uncoiling from his hunched position. He spoke to me, his voice tense, just above a whisper. "That a.s.shole may be in there and we've got an unattended kid here."

Mathieu watched like a barn cat with a cornered rat, his eyes never leaving Ryan's face.

"Monsieur Tanguay's not here."

"Are you sure?" Ryan crouched again.

"He's gone away."

"Where?"

Another shrug. A chubby finger pushed his gla.s.ses up the bridge of his nose.

"How do you know he's away?"

"I'm taking care of his fish." A smile the size of the Mississippi lit his face. "He's got tetras, and angelfish, and white clouds." He used the English names. "They're fantastic!" Fantastique! Fantastique! Such a perfect word. Its English counterpart never quite matches it. Such a perfect word. Its English counterpart never quite matches it.

"When will Monsieur Tanguay be back?"

Shrug.

"Did Grammama write it on the calendar?" I asked.

The child regarded me, surprised, then disappeared as he had before.

"What calendar?" Ryan asked, looking up.

"They must keep one. He went to check something when he wasn't sure when Grammama would be home today."

Mathieu returned. "Nope."

Ryan stood. "Now what?"