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From 1982 until 1987 the pizza parlor space had been occupied by a butcher shop named Boucherie Lehaim. Cyr had written the name Abraham Cohen, then made a notation “sp?”

The White Pages listed a zillion Cohens in and around Montreal. They too suggested alternate spellings, including Coen, Cohen, Cohn, Kohen, and Kohn.

Great.

The Yellow Pages listed a Boucherie Lehaim in Hampstead.

No one answered the Boucherie’s phone.

Back to Cyr’s list.

Patrick Ockleman and Ilya Fabian had been Cyr’s tenants from 1987 to 1988. The old man had penned the words “queer” and “travel” next to their names.

I found nothing in any directory for the name Ockleman.

Ilya Fabian was listed at an Amherst address in the Gay Village. The phone was answered on the first ring.

I introduced myself and asked if I was speaking with Ilya Fabian.

I was.

I asked if the gentleman was the same Ilya Fabian who had operated a travel agency on Ste-Catherine in the late eighties.

“Yes.” Wary.

I asked if Ockleman and his partner had used or visited the basement of the property during their tenancy.

“You said you’re with the coroner?” Wariness now edged with distaste.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh my God. Was someone dead down there? Was there a body in that cellar?”

What to tell him?

“I’m investigating bones found buried below the floor.”

“Oh my Gawd!”

“The material is probably quite old.”

“Oh my Gawd! Like The Exorcist. No, no. What was that movie with the little girl? The one where they built the house over the cemetery? Yes! Poltergeist.”

“Mr. Fabian—”

“I’m not surprised about that basement. Patrick and I took one look at that wretched, stinking, filthy cesspool and never set foot in it again. Made my skin crawl every time I thought about all that creeping and breeding going on below my feet.” Fabian gave “creeping” and “breeding” at least four e’s each. “That basement was alive with vermin.” Four i’s to “alive.” “And now you’re telling me there were corpses down there?”

“Did you ever use the cellar for storage?”

“God forbid.” In my mind I saw a theatrical shudder.

Bit squeamish for a tour operator, I thought.

“Did your agency specialize in any particular world area, Mr. Fabian?”

“Patrick and I arranged gay travel packages to sacred places.” Sniff. “The era was a bear market for spiritual journeys. We folded in eighteen months.”

“Patrick Ockleman?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Mr. Ockleman now?”

“Dead.”

I waited for Fabian to elaborate. He didn’t.

“May I ask how and when your partner died?”

“He was run over by a bus, of all things. A tour bus.” Whiny. “In Stowe, Vermont, four years ago. Wheels squashed his head like an overripe—”

“Thank you, Mr. Fabian. If follow-up is needed we’ll be back in touch.”

I disconnected. Fabian and Ockleman seemed unlikely candidates for serial killers, but I underlined the number and made a few notes.

The next name listed was S. Ménard. Beside it Cyr had written “pawnshop” and the dates 1989 to 1998.

I found four pages of Ménards in the Montreal phone book, seventy-eight listed with the initial S.

After forty-two calls I decided Ménard was a job for a detective.

Next.

Phan Loc Truong’s nail salon had occupied Cyr’s property from 1998 until 1999.

Not as discouraging as Ménard, but the White Pages alone listed 227 Truongs. No Phan Loc. Two P’s.

Neither of the P’s listed was a Phan Loc. Neither knew a Phan Loc who had operated a nail salon.

I started working my way through the rest of the Truongs. Many spoke little English or French. Many had affiliations to nail salons, but none knew anything about the shop once located in Richard Cyr’s building.

I was dialing my twenty-ninth Truong when a voice interrupted me.

“Find anything?”

Anne was standing in the doorway. The room had gone dark without my noticing.

“A lot of ladies willing to do my nails.”

Discouraged, I turned off the computer.

Together Anne and I cooked steaks, potatoes, and asparagus. As we ate, I told her about my fruitless afternoon.

After dinner we watched two Inspector Clouseau movies while Birdie dozed between us. None of us laughed much. We all turned in early.

Around noon on Sunday I tried the Boucherie Lehaim again.

No go.

At two P.M. my call was answered.

“Shalom.” Voice like a baritone oboe.

I introduced myself.

The man said his name was Harry Cohen.

“Is this the same Boucherie Lehaim that was located on Ste-Catherine during the eighties?”

“It is. The shop belonged to my father then.”

“Abraham?”

“Yes. We moved in eighty-seven.”

“May I ask why?”

“We cater to a strictly kosher crowd. This neighborhood seemed a better fit.”

“I know this may sound like an odd question, Mr. Cohen, but can you remember anything about the basement of that building?”

“The cellar was accessed through our shop. We kept nothing there, and I don’t remember anyone ever entering or leaving it.”

“Might other tenants have used the basement for storage?”

“We would not have permitted that kind of use of our space, and the only way down was through a trapdoor in our bathroom. My father kept that door padlocked at all times.”