“This is great.” He swallowed and reached for his iced tea. “Yes, that was one of them. And no, I’m not going.”
I was suddenly ravenous.
The next call came as we were finishing cleanup. Kit answered, but I could hear nothing over the chugging and sloshing of the dishwasher. In a few minutes he reappeared at the kitchen door.
“It’s Lyle. I guess I told him I like swap meets, so he’s inviting us to an estate sale tomorrow.”
“An estate sale?”
“Well, it’s a flea market in some place called Hudson. He thought if I called it an estate sale you might be more inclined to go.”
The doublespeak had little impact on my response. While I would have enjoyed a trek to Hudson, it was not worth the price of an afternoon with Crease.
“You go ahead, Kit. It’s really very pretty out there. Horse country. I should stay and finish some things I’ve been putting off.”
“Like what?”
“Actually, I think I’m having my hair cut tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
He returned to the living room and I finished wiping the counters. I couldn’t believe I was feeling relief that my nephew would be with Lyle Crease. The guy was as smarmy as a snake-oil salesman from Matamoros.
And what was Crease’s interest in a nineteen-year-old kid? I had no doubt that Kit could handle the little twerp, but I vowed to call Isabelle and ask a few questions.
Easy does it, I told myself. Brush your hair and go see the fiddlers.
Hurley’s is the closest thing to an Irish pub that Montreal has to offer. Though I don’t imbibe, my Gaelic genes still enjoy the atmosphere.
The place was as big a hit with Kit as it had been with his mother. But then, it’s hard to be gloomy with a fiddle and mandolin belting out reels, and dancers jigging up and down like Nijinsky with a neurological disorder. We stayed until well past midnight.
• • •
When Lyle Crease showed up the next morning I was idly flipping through the photos Kit and I had left on the table the night before.
“How’s it going?” Crease asked, as I let him into the entrance hall. He wore khakis, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a windbreaker with CTV News printed on the left breast. His hair looked like molded plastic.
“Good. And yourself?” We spoke English.
“Can’t complain.”
“Kit said he’d be just a minute. He overslept a bit.”
“No problem.” Crease chuckled, then gave me a knowing grin.
I did not return it.
“Can I offer you some coffee?”
“Oh no, thanks. I’ve already had three cups this morning.” He showed miles of capped teeth. “It’s a gorgeous day out there. Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“No, no. I have things I have to do. But thanks. Really.”
“Maybe next time.”
When Moses does another bush, I thought.
We stood for a moment, unsure where to go from there. Crease’s eyes roamed the hall, then came to rest on a framed photo of Katy.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
He walked over and picked it up.
“She’s lovely. Is she a student?”
“Yes.”
He replaced the portrait and his eyes moved on to the dining room.
“That’s quite a bouquet. You must have a serious admirer.”
Nice try.
“May I?”
I nodded, though Crease was as welcome in my home as the Exorcist demon. He crossed to the flowers and sniffed.
“I love daisies.” His eyes drifted to Kate’s photos. “I see you’re doing some research.”
“Would you like to sit down?” I indicated the living room sofa.
Crease helped himself to a picture, replaced it, chose another.
“I understand you’re involved in the Cherokee Desjardins investigation,” he said without looking up.
“Only peripherally,” I said, and moved quickly to stack the photos.
He gave a deep sigh. “The whole world’s going crazy.”
“Perhaps,” I noted, reaching out my hand for him to surrender the picture of the Silvestre funeral.
“Please,” I said, gesturing toward the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Crease sat and crossed his legs.
“I understand Dorsey’s been charged and moved to Rivière-des-Prairies?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Think he did it?”
This guy never gave up.
“I’m really not involved in the investigation.”
“How about the Osprey girl. Anything breaking on that front?”
How about your face, I thought.
At that moment my nephew appeared, looking pure urban cowboy in his Levi’s, boots, and ninety-gallon hat. I popped to my feet.
“I’m sure you two want to get there early before the good stuff’s gone.”
“What good stuff?” asked Kit.
“The bass fishing lures and Elvis T-shirts.”
“I’m actually looking for a plastic Madonna.”
“Try the cathedral.”
“The other Madonna.”
“Be careful,” I said, pointing a finger at him.
“Careful is my middle name. Christopher Careful Howard, C.C. to my close friends.” He tapped two fingers to the brim of his hat.
“Right.”
As Crease said good-bye he placed a hand on my shoulder, ran it down my arm, and squeezed just above my elbow.
“You take care,” he said with a meaningful look.
What I took was a long shower.
Later, scrubbed and smelling of sandalwood, I checked my e-mail. There was nothing earth-shattering. I offered suggestions for problems submitted by students, sent an opinion to a pathologist inquiring about an oddly shaped skull, and replied to my three nieces in Chicago. Daughters of Pete’s sisters, the teenagers were avid computer buffs, and kept me informed of happenings within my estranged husband’s extended Latvian family.
Finally, I thanked a colleague at the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology who’d forwarded a particularly amusing photo. The case involved a pig and a high-rise building.
At one-thirty I logged off and tried Isabelle. Predictably, she was not in.
Looking for an excuse to be outside, I set out to buy jumbo shrimp at the poissonnerie. I’d gone less than a block when I was stopped dead, distracted by photos at Coiffure Simone.
I stared at the woman in the black and white. She looked good. Stylish, but neat. Professional, but jaunty.
Jesus, Brennan. You sound like copy for a shampoo ad. Next you’ll be telling yourself you’re worth it.
I had told Kit I’d scheduled a haircut.
I studied the poster, estimating the amount of maintenance the style would require. I thought it could pass my ten-minute rule.
I started to move on, caught my reflection in the glass. What I saw was light-years from poster lady.
How long had it been since I’d tried a new do?
Years.
And the salon was offering a special Sunday discount.
Five dollars off. Right. You’ll save about three-fifty U.S.
A new haircut could boost your spirits.
It could be a disaster.
Hair grows back.
That last came straight from my mother.
I pushed open the door and went in.
• • •
Hours later I was eating dinner with the Discovery channel. On the screen, male kangaroos kickboxed over control of the mob. On the hearth, Birdie eyed me silently, curious, but keeping his distance.
“Hair grows back, Bird.”
I dipped a shrimp and popped it into my mouth, wishing it would happen before Kit got home.
“And I could use your support,” I informed him.
If the new look was to have buoyed my spirits, the experiment had been a catastrophe. Since returning home I’d been thinking of ways to a
void public contact. Thanks to developments in telecommunication I had many options. I’d use telephone, fax, and e-mail. And lots of hats.
By ten I was feeling as low as I had on Friday evening. I was overworked, underappreciated, and my never-was lover turned out to prefer the robbers over the cops. My boss had collapsed, my nephew was out with the sleaze of the year, and I now looked like I’d been attacked by a Weed Eater.
Then the phone rang and things got terribly, terribly worse.
“Claudel ici.”
“Yes,” I answered, too surprised to switch to French.
“I thought you should know. George Dorsey was attacked about two hours ago.”
“Attacked by whom?”
“He’s dead, Ms. Brennan. Murdered because of your meddling.”
“Me?”
I was speaking to a dial tone.
The rest of the evening I was too distracted to focus on coherent thought. I barely acknowledged Kit’s return and report that he had had a really good time.
“Murdered because of your meddling.” That was unfair. Dorsey had asked to see me. What if he had asked for Claudel or Charbonneau or Quickwater? This was a prison murder of someone who was a threat to others. Those things happen. I didn’t cause it. Claudel was unfair. I tossed and turned all night and repeated “unfair.”
THE NEXT MORNING I WAS AT WORK BY SEVEN-THIRTY. OTHERS wouldn’t arrive for an hour, and the building was graveyard quiet. I cherished the calm and planned to take full advantage of it.
I let myself into my office, slipped on a lab coat, and crossed to the anthropology lab. Unlocking the door to the storage room, I pulled out the box containing Savannah’s remains. I intended to get straight to work and let the Claudel matter arise in whatever manner he chose to raise it.
I laid the skull and femora on the table, and began the painstaking process of reinspecting every millimeter of bone under magnification and strong light. Though doubtful, I hoped to find something I’d missed. Perhaps a tiny nick or scrape that would tell me how the bones had been separated from the rest of the body.
I was still at it when someone knocked at the door. When I looked up Claudel stood framed in the glass. As usual his spine was ramrod straight, his hair as perfect as a studio shot of Douglas Fairbanks.
“Nice tie,” I said, opening the door.
It was. Pale violet, probably designer silk. A good choice with the tweed jacket.
“Merci,” he mumbled with all the warmth of a pit bull.
I laid down the femur, clicked off the fiber-optic light, and stepped to the sink.
“What happened to Dorsey?” I asked as I washed my hands.
“A Philips screwdriver happened to him,” he replied. “The guard was outside reading while Dorsey showered. Probably catching up on his professional journals.”
I pictured the man with the little rat teeth.
“The guard heard a change in the noise of the water, so he took a look-see. Dorsey was facedown in the drain with twenty-eight holes in his upper body.”
“Jesus.”
“But Dorsey didn’t die right away,” Claudel continued. “He shared a few thoughts on the ride to the hospital. That’s why I felt I should come by.”
I reached for a paper towel, surprised that Claudel was being so open.
“The paramedic didn’t get it all, but he caught one thing.”
Claudel lifted his chin a little.
“Brennan.”
My hands froze.
“That’s it?”
“He said he was busy keeping Dorsey alive. But he noticed the name because of his dog.”
“His dog?”
“He’s got an Irish setter named Brennan.”
“It’s a common name.”
“Maybe in Galway, but not here. You did talk to Dorsey about Cherokee Desjardins, did you not?”
“Yes, but nobody knows that.”
“Except everyone at Op South.”
“We were in a private interrogation room.”
Claudel was silent. I pictured the corridor, with the holding tank just ten feet away.
“I suppose I could have been spotted.”
“Yes. These things have a way of getting back.”
“Getting back to whom?”
“Dorsey was a Heathens hang-around. The boys wouldn’t be happy if they thought he was launching a self-preservation movement.”
I felt tension rise up my neck at the thought I might have triggered the attack.
“I don’t think Dorsey killed Cherokee,” I said, bunching up the towel and tossing it into the trash.
“You don’t.”
“No.”
“I suppose Dorsey claimed he was innocent as the Easter Bunny.”
“Yes. But there’s more.”
He gave me an uncertain look, then folded his arms across his chest.
“All right. Let’s hear it.”
I told him about the blood spatter.
“Does that sound like a biker hit?”
“Things go wrong.”
“Bludgeoning? Don’t hit men usually come in shooting?”
“The last biker pulled from the river was hammered to death. So was his bodyguard.”
“I’ve been thinking about that void pattern behind Cherokee’s head. What if he was killed for whatever was removed?”
“There were a lot of people milling around that scene. Someone could have knocked the thing out of position. Or maybe the neighbor snatched it.”
“It was covered with blood.”
“I’ll talk to her anyway.” Finite at the best of times, Claudel’s patience was clearly evaporating.
“And why would Cherokee let someone in?” I pressed on.
“Maybe the hit man was a buddy from the old days.”
That made sense.
“Has ballistics gotten anything?”
He shook his head.
“Who’s heading the Spider Marcotte investigation?”
“That and the little girl fell to Kuricek.”
Sipowicz.
“Any progress?”
Claudel raised both palms.
“Dorsey hinted he had something he’d trade on that.”
“These degenerates will say anything to save themselves.”
He dropped his eyes and picked a nonexistent fleck from his sleeve.
“There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“Oh?”
At that moment we heard the door open in the adjacent lab, announcing the arrival of the technicians.
“May we . . . ?” He tipped his head toward my office.
Curious, I led him across the hall and slipped behind my desk. When he’d settled across from me Claudel withdrew a picture from his inside pocket and placed it on the blotter.
It differed little from Kate’s biker photos. The vintage was more recent, the quality better. And one other thing.
Kit stood among the group of leather-jacketed men centered in the image.
I looked a question at Claudel.
“That was taken last week at an establishment called La Taverne des Rapides.” He looked away. “That’s your nephew, right?”
“So? I don’t see any patches,” I said curtly.
“They’re Rock Machine.”
He placed a second photo in front of me. I was getting very tired of celluloid bikers.
Again I saw Kit, this time straddling a Harley, engaged in conversation with two other cyclists. His companions were clean-cut but wore the standard bandannas, boots, and sleeveless denim jackets. On each back I could see a heavily armed figure in a large sombrero. The upper rockers said Bandidos, the lower, Houston.
“That was taken at a swap meet at the Galveston County fairgrounds.”
“What are you suggesting?” My voice came out high and stretched.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just showing you pictures.”
“I see.”
Claudel frowned, then crossed his ankles and regard
ed me intently.
I folded my hands to disguise the shaking.
“My nephew lives in Texas. Recently his father bought him a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and he’s become enamored with the two-wheeled culture. That’s it.”
“Riding in the wind is not what bikers live for these days.”
“I know that. I’m sure these were chance encounters, but I will speak to him.”
I handed back the photos.
“The Houston PD has a jacket on Christopher Howard.”
If I could have laid hands on Harry at that moment I would have committed a felony.
“He’s been arrested?”
“Four months ago. Possession.”
No wonder his father had hauled him up to the north woods.
“I know what advice is worth on the open market,” Claudel went on. “But be careful.”
“Be careful of what?”
He looked at me a long moment, no doubt deciding whether to confide.
“The paramedic actually picked out two words.”
The phone rang but I ignored it.
“Brennan’s kid.”
I felt someone light a match in my chest. Could they know about Katy? Kit? I looked away, not wanting Claudel to see my fear.
“Meaning?”
Claudel shrugged.
“Was it a threat? A warning?”
“The paramedic says he doesn’t listen to patients while he’s working on them.”
I studied the wall.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but Constable Quickwater and I think—”
“Oh, yeah. Quickwater. He’s a lot of laughs.” I cut him off, my sarcasm triggered by anger and fear.
“He’s a good investigator.”
“He’s an asshole. Every time I talk to him he acts like he’s deaf.”
“He is.”
“What?”
“Quickwater is deaf.”
I searched for a response, but couldn’t come up with a single word.
“Actually, he’s deafened. There’s a difference.”
“Deafened how?”
“He took a cast-iron pipe in the back of the head while breaking up an alley fight. Then they shot him with a stun gun until the batteries died.”
“When?”
“About two years ago.”
“That destroyed his hearing?”
“So far.”
“Will it come back?”