RANTICALLY, I JABBED AT A PEN ON MY DRESSER. ANNE DARTED and handed it to me.

“Dr. Brennan. I feel I must give this one last try or I will not be able to live with myself.”

I logged details of the voice. Old. Female.

“I called the day before yesterday about the story in Le Journal.”

A pause. As before, I heard chirping in the background, vaguely familiar chirping.

“I believe I know who is dead and why.” Shot through with desolation and doubt.

“Come on,” I urged under my breath. “Who are you?”

“You have my name.”

“No. I don’t!”

Anne’s head snapped up in surprise at my outcry.

“You may reach me at 514-937—”

“Atta girl!”

Anne watched as I scribbled the number, clicked off, and dialed.

Somewhere on the island a phone rang ten, eleven, twelve times.

I cut the connection and repunched the digits.

A dozen more unanswered rings.

“Damn!”

I clicked off and tossed the handset onto the bed, my whole body taut with frustration. I rose and paced the room, then snatched up the handset and dialed again.

No answer.

“Pick up your goddamn phone!”

What to do? Call Claudel or Charbonneau and give him the number? Call Ryan? All three of them were probably fully occupied with this massive joint operation they were on and didn’t have time for phone numbers.

Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the basement, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down. She watched without comment as I booted the computer, and typed the phone number into a browser.

No results. The browser suggested I check my spelling or try different words. “How do you spell a number, you ignorant twit?”

I tried another browser. Then another.

No matches. Same useful tips.

“What good are you!”

Snatching the handset again, I punched another number, requested an individual, and made an inquiry.

No. Wednesday’s call to the lab had not yet been traced. Why not? These things take time. Well, then, write down this number and see if you get a match.

I sailed the handset back onto the bed, crossed to the dresser, dug for gloves, and slammed the drawer.

While jamming my right hand into one glove, I let go of the other. I bent to pick it up, dropped it again, kicked it to the wall, retrieved it, and yanked it onto my left hand.

When I turned Anne was gazing up at me, arms still folded, an amused expression on her face.

“Is this our resident forensic specialist demonstrating the art of a tantrum?” Anne asked in a Mr. Rogers voice.

“You think that was a tantrum? Piss me off and I’ll show you a gorilla.”

“I haven’t seen you stage a nutty like that since you caught Pete screwing the travel agent.”

“It was a Realtor.” I had to smile. “And she definitely had a fat ass.”

“Let me guess. We aren’t pleased with our phone message?”

“No. We aren’t.”

I summarized the tale of Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s calls.

“That brought out the Diva of Dachau?”

I didn’t respond.

“The nice lady is probably out buying her weekly Metamucil. She has called twice. She will call a third time.” Again, the patient schoolmarm. “If not, you have the number and you will reach her later. Or you must have resources downtown that can identify the listing that goes with that number. Hell, some everyman directory assistance systems will give you the name and address if you have a number.”

I could not mask my agitation.

“Anne, the woman said she knew who was dead and why. If she’s legit she can break this investigation wide open. Of course, she may not be legit. I’d like to talk to her before I set Claudel off on a false trail You’re right, I need to make some more efforts to talk to her myself. She called me, not the police.”

“I do have one other question.”

I raised my hands in a go-ahead gesture.

“How do you plan to button your jacket?”

I yanked off both gloves and pegged them at her.

For the second time that week I pulled into a pay lot in the old quarter. The sky was gunmetal, the air heavy with unborn snow.

“Bundle up,” I told Anne, zipping my parka.

“Where are we going?”

“Hôtel de Ville.”

“We’re booking a room?” Muffled through angora scarving.

“City Hall. It’s a four-block walk.”

Perched atop place Jacques-Cartier, Montreal’s City Hall is a Victorian extravagance in copper and stone. Built between 1872 and 1878, the place looks as though its designer didn’t quite know when to call it a day. Mansard roof? Très Parisien. Columns? Of course. Porticos? Bien sûr. Eaves, dormer windows, balconies, cupola, clock? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.

Though devastated by fire in 1922, Hôtel de Ville remained structurally sound, was rejuvenated, and today is a favorite with both natives and visitors, one of Montreal’s most charming landmarks.

“One would not confuse this with the Clover City Hall,” Anne said as we climbed the front steps.

I pointed to a balcony over the front door. “See that?”

Anne nodded.

“Charles de Gaulle made his famous or infamous Vive le Québec Libre speech from that balcony.”

“When?”

“Sixty-seven.”

“And?”

“The separatists liked it.”

Despite its modern status as a tourist attraction, Hôtel de Ville remains the city’s main administrative center. And the repository of the information I was seeking. I hoped.

Anne and I entered to the smell of radiator heat and wet wool. Across the lobby, a kiosk offered Renseignements. Information.

A woman looked up when I approached. She was about twenty, with towering blonde hair that added inches to her height.

The woman stifled a yawn as I explained what I wanted. Before I’d finished, she pointed to a wallboard listing offices and locations, her bony arm clattering with plastic bracelets.

“Accès Montréal,” she said.

“Merci,” I said.

“I think she could have been less interested,” Anne said, trailing me to the office directory. “But not without a heavy dose of Lithium.”

In the Access Montreal office we encountered an older, heavier, and decidedly friendlier version of Ms. Information. The woman greeted us in typical Montreal Franglais.

“Bonjour. Hi.”

I explained my objective in French.

The woman dropped chained glasses to her bosom and replied in English.

“If you have a civic address, I can look up the cadastral and lot numbers.”

I must have looked confused.

“The cadastral number describes the parcel of land. The important one is the lot number. With that you can research the history of the property at the Registre Foncier du Québec office in the Bureau d’Enregistrement.”

“Is that located here?”

“Palais de Justice. Second floor. Room 2.175.”

I jotted the address of the pizza parlor building and handed it across the counter.

“Shouldn’t be long.”

It wasn’t. In ten minutes the woman returned with the numbers. I thanked her, and Anne and I set off.

Montreal’s three courthouses lie just west of its City Hall. As we scurried along rue Notre-Dame, Anne’s eyes probed gallery, café, and boutique windows. She hung back to pat a horse, gushed over the beauty of the Château Ramezay, laughed at cars snowbanked in by plows.

Architecturally, City Hall and the modern courthouse have little in common aside from the fact that each is a building. Anne did not comment on the charm of the latter.

Before entering, I pulled out my cellular and tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.

Nope.

As on the day of my testimony, the courthouse was busy with lawyers, judges, journalists, security guards, and worried-looking people. The lobby was controlled confusion, each face looking like it would rather be elsewhere.

Anne and I rode an elevator to the second floor and went directly to room 2.175. When my turn came, I explained my mission, this time to a short, bald clerk shaped like a cookie jar.

“There’s a fee,” Cookie Jar said.

“How much?”

He told me.

I forked over the money. Cookie Jar handed me a receipt.

“That allows you to research all day.”

I presented my lot and cadastral numbers.

Cookie Jar studied the paper. Then he looked up, a pudgy finger jabbing black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“These numbers go pretty far back. Anything prior to 1974 can’t be researched online. Depending on how often the property changed hands, this could take time.”

“But I can find out who owned the building?”

Cookie Jar nodded. “Every deed transfer is recorded with the provincial government.” He held up the paper. “What’s at this location now?”

“The building has residential units upstairs, small businesses below. The address that interests me is a pizza-by-the-slice joint.”

Cookie Jar shook his head. “If the property is commercial, you won’t learn what businesses have occupied it unless the owner has included such information.”

“How could I find that out?”

“Tax records maybe. Or business permits.”

“But I can determine who the owners have been?”

Cookie Jar nodded. In some irrational way, looking at him made me think of Don Ho and tiny bubbles.

“That’s a start,” I said.

Cookie Jar pointed to the one unoccupied computer in the room. “If you need something prior to 1974, I’ll explain how to use the books.”

I crossed to the terminal, took off my jacket, and hung it on the chair back. Anne followed.

Slinging my purse strap over the jacket, I turned to her.

“There’s no reason for you to sit and watch me punch a keyboard and dig through old books.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Right. The diversions for which you flew twelve hundred miles are not found in this registry.”

“Beats cooking and freezing casseroles for surgeries and funerals.”

“Wouldn’t you rather shop?”

“Fuck shopping.”

Anne was in the Mariana Trench of doldrums. Sitting here watching me was not going to cheer her.

“Go to the basilica. Scout out a place to eat. When I’ve finished, I’ll phone your cell.”

“You won’t get frustrated and throw another hissy?”

I put a hand on her shoulder.

“Go forth and shop with the mighty. Your work here is done.”

Three hours later, I was still at it.

The online research had taken forty minutes, thirty-seven figuring out what I was doing, three printing out information on the building’s current owner.

Digging backward through the tomes of bound deeds had taken somewhere in the vicinity of an eon.

Cookie Jar had been polite and helpful, patiently taking my money and photocopying the record of each transaction as I found it.

In the course of my research, I discovered several things.

Claudel was correct about the building’s age. Prior to construction, the land had been part of the CNN train yards. Since then, the property had changed hands several times.

I was studying my collection of photocopies when one name leaped out.

I knew that name.

Why?

A local politician? A singer?

I stared at the name, willing a synapse.

A television personality? A case I’d worked? Someone I knew?

The date of transfer was before my time in Montreal. So why the subliminal ring-a-ding?

Then, recognition.

“Sweet mother of Mary!”

Jamming the printouts and photocopies into my purse, I grabbed my jacket, and bolted.