YAN GOT HIS WAY BECAUSE I WAS TOO WEARY TO ARGUE. AND TOO hungry. That realization dawned as I was changing into the sweats I keep at the lab.

When asked my preference, I replied with the first foodstuff that popped to mind. Fish.

Ryan suggested Molivos. I agreed. It was a short walk to my condo from there.

Fifteen minutes after disconnecting we were slip-sliding along Avenue de Lorimier toward the Ville Marie Tunnel. The wipers were metronoming the windshield. Not a blizzard, but heavy enough snow.

While Ryan focused on driving, I checked e-mail on my BlackBerry.

Amazon wanted to sell me books. Abe’s of Maine wanted to sell me appliances. Boston Proper wanted to sell me clothes. Delete. Delete. Delete.

The Humane Society wanted me to donate more money. Fair enough. Save.

A colleague wanted me to speak at a conference in Turkey. Save for polite refusal.

Katy reported that Pete and Summer had left for a week in the Turks and Caicos. She asked when I’d return to Charlotte. I replied that I’d definitely be there in time for our trip to Belize on the twenty-first.

I’d also received two offers of products guaranteed to please my genitalia, and three proposals to make millions through African banks.

As I slid the device into its holder, Ryan exited the tunnel onto Atwater. At rue Sainte-Catherine he turned right, then left onto Guy. The few pedestrians hurried with shoulders hunched, heads bowed. Sidewalks, sills, and steps were already blanketed, and car roofs and street signs wore fuzzy white caps.

Ryan parked in a stretch legal only on alternate Wednesdays from April through August between the hours of two fourteen and four twenty-seven a.m. For firemen and Freemasons. Or something like that.

Voilà, le parking, Montréal-style.

Ryan and I jaywalked across Guy, then hurried downhill. Inside the restaurant, a man with pockmarked skin and a wandering eye ushered us to a table for two.

“Two days, two tavernas.” Ryan grinned. “Do I see a pattern?”

It was true. Same wooden furnishings. Same fishing nets. Same murals showing ruins or toga-clad deities. Here the tablecloths were blue-and-white checked.

“This place is fish,” I said. “Chicago was lamb.”

“I had the seafood combo.”

“You failed to exercise good judgment.”

“We should go to Greece.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mykonos has some primo nude beaches.” Exaggerated wink.

“In your dreams, Ryan.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Wandering Eye brought menus and inquired about beverages. Ryan asked for a Moosehead. I went with Perrier and lime. When the drinks came I ordered Mediterranean bass. Ryan chose snapper.

“Tell me about the Villejoin investigation,” I said, wanting to avoid the perilous terrain of personal issues. Or shared nudity.

Ryan’s smile morphed to a frown. He took a pull of beer and set down his mug.

“Anne-Isabelle was eighty-six. Christelle was eighty-three. Both were spinsters.”

“Unmarried,” I corrected.

“Right. They had lived with their parents in Pointe-Calumet. Serge Villejoin died in ’sixty-nine, Corine in ’seventy-seven. At that time the property went to the sisters.”

I couldn’t imagine an entire life played out in one house. Did I find such stability depressing or reassuring? I was too exhausted to gauge.

“Both worked as nurses’ assistants. Anne-Isabelle retired in ’ninety-three, Christelle in ’ninety-six. After that the ladies pretty much stayed home, puttering in their garden, raising cats, crocheting gewgaws for church bazaars.”

“What church?”

“Sainte-Marie du Lac in Pointe-Calumet.”

Our fish arrived. We squeezed lemon, helped ourselves to beans and veggies, then ate in silence. Ryan broke it.

“A bazaar took place on May four, 2008. That was a Saturday. Normally the sisters would have walked the two blocks to the church, but they had a box of items for donation, so a neighbor offered to pick them up.” Reaching back, Ryan pulled a small spiral notebook from his jacket and checked a name. “Yves Renaud. Forty-seven. A nurse at the Jewish General.”

I waited while Ryan took several forkfuls of fish.

“According to Renaud’s statement, he arrived at the Villejoin house around noon. He found it odd that two cats were wandering loose in the yard, since the animals were strictly indoor pets. He called out, got no answer, knocked, peeked through a window, yadda, yadda. Finally he tried the front door and found it unlocked.”

“Were the women security conscious?”

“Renaud didn’t know.”

“Did they have an alarm system?”

“No. Renaud entered the foyer, called out again, heard nothing. He was about to leave when a third cat strolled by with blood on its nose. Suspicious, he looked around. The vic was on the kitchen floor with a pulverized face.”

I noticed the subtle shift. Anne-Isabelle was now the vic. It was a distancing technique employed by cops. No names. I could tell the case disturbed Ryan greatly.

“Did you view the photos?” I asked gently.

Ryan nodded then wagged his head, as though movement could dislodge the horrific images.

“The room looked like a scene from a slasher movie.”

“Recover a weapon?”

Ryan snorted his disgust. “The bastard beat her to death with her own cane.”

“The perp brought nothing with him. That could suggest lack of premeditation.”

“But a savage level of anger, which was triggered by something. Every bone in the woman’s face was broken. So were the jaw, the right collarbone, most ribs, and both lower-right arm bones. But you probably know that. This was carnage beyond just killing.”

We fell silent, thoughts pointed at the same ugly question. What monster could savage an eighty-year-old woman?

“I assume there was follow-up on Renaud?”

“LaManche did the post. Based on stomach contents and state of decomp, he put time of death at twenty-four to thirty hours. Renaud worked that Friday from seven until four. Coworkers and patients put him at the Jewish all day.”

Ryan refocused on snapper. Through a window behind him, I watched flakes swirl light coning from a streetlamp on Guy.

When Ryan’s fish was only bone, he laid down his utensils and leaned back. “The younger sister simply vanished.”

“She didn’t just vanish. Something was done to her. I remember the search. The publicity was massive.”

“And fruitless. No one on the block had heard or seen a thing. Canvassing turned up zip. Ditto for phone checks. The vics had no credit cards and weren’t computer savvy, so those avenues didn’t exist. One neighbor thought he remembered Christelle talking about some distant cousins up in the Beauce. Those folks were never found. Local kids shoveled the snow, cut the grass, that sort of thing. The women’s only known associates were either people in the immediate vicinity or members of the parish. Every last one alibied out.”

“Wasn’t there something about a bank card?”

“That was the only lead. On five May, around eighteen thirty hours, a withdrawal was made from Christelle’s savings account at the Bank of Montreal.”

“Made where?”

Ryan referred to the spiral. “An ATM at four-two-five-oh Ontario East.”

“That’s out east, near the Olympic stadium.” Miles from Pointe-Calumet. “Did the sisters have a car?”

“No.”

“Was the transaction caught on video?”

“No. The camera was down for three hours that night.”

I thought a minute. “If LaManche is right about PMI, Anne-Isabelle was already dead by six p.m.”

“Yes.” Tight. “We missed the perp’s photo due to a technical glitch.”

“Did Anne-Isabelle have an account?”

“Both sisters used the same one.”

Ryan drained the last of his beer. For a moment his thumb played over sweat fogging the outside of his mug. When his eyes met mine they were hard with resolve.

“I’m going to get this prick.”

A fleck of foam hung on Ryan’s lip. I fought an urge to wipe it away.

“I know you will,” I said.

By eight a.m. there were sixty-seven centimeters blanketing the ground. Twenty-six inches. On any scale, that’s a lot of snow.

Montreal is a champ at handling storms, but this time the city was brought to its knees. Between crowing about broken records, newscasters reported that only a handful of buses and metros were running. The airport was down. Church services were canceled. Businesses that normally operated on Sunday were closed.

Later it would become clear that most of the populace rose, looked out their windows, and crawled back into bed. God or the boss would understand.

I wasn’t quite so complacent. I wanted to get to the lab to complete my analysis of the Oka bones.

After a breakfast of coffee, Grape-Nuts, and yogurt, I pulled on boots, donned my Kanuk, muffler, and mitts, and headed out, hoping to make it to the underground two blocks away.

No plow had ventured onto my street. No early riser had shoveled the walks. Why bother? The snow was thigh high and still coming down, the flakes tiny now, icy bullets that stung my face and bounced off my jacket.

On Sainte-Catherine, vehicles lining the curbs looked like lumpy white hedgerows. No buses. No cars. No pigeons. No people. Nothing moved. The hood was as deserted as Times Square in Vanilla Sky.

I arrived at the metro panting and perspiring inside my parka. A handwritten sign was taped to the grimy glass of the ticket booth.

Coupure de courant non programmée. Problème électrique. Unscheduled outage. Electrical problem. Below the words, the author had drawn a smiley face with a downturned mouth.

“Picture friggin’ perfect.” I was talking to myself again.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my building. As I turned into the corridor leading to my condo, I noticed a ziplock tucked behind the door knob.

Pulling off a mitt, I dislodged and checked the contents of the bag. Five small blobs, dry, crumbly, dark brown-black.

I unsealed the plastic and sniffed.

Excrement.

“Asshole!” The word echoed down the empty hall.

My neighbor Sparky had pulled this before. Once it was soiled litter, once a dead sparrow.

I definitely needed to vent.

After flushing the turds, I dialed my sister, Harry, in Houston.

I told her about Sparky’s latest stunt.

She repeated my expletive, adding a modifier.

I told her about the snow.

“Doesn’t ole blue eyes have a Jeep?”

“I can’t crawl to Ryan every time I have a problem.”

“Jeeps run in snow.”

“So do Ski-Doos, but I’m not phoning Snowmobile Patrol.”

“Is that a real thing?”

“Whatever. What are you doing?”

“Weeding my garden. It’s so hot here the trees are bribing the dogs. Got to get at it early.”

That made me feel worse. I said nothing.

“What else is new?” Harry asked.

I told her about Chicago, Cukura Kundze, and Ryan’s sudden appearance at Vecamamma’s house. Then I described the mysterious phone call to the late Edward Allen Jurmain.

“What kind of dipshit would pull something like that?”

“I intend to find out. It has to be somebody very nearby.”

“That why your knickers are in a twist to work on a Sunday?”

Mentioning no names, I told her about the Villejoin sisters. She didn’t interrupt. My sister can be impetuous, at times aggravating, but she’s a crackerjack listener.

When I finished, Harry took a moment to respond.

“Gran was eighty-one when she died.”

“She was.”

“You working this thing with Ryan?”

“Yes.”

“When you catch the bastard, do me a favor?”

I waited.

“Fry his balls.”

I couldn’t disagree with baby sister’s suggestion.