Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 12

I went to the kitchen and sniffed Kit's package. Definitely fish. Adding an outer wrapper of plastic, I stashed it in the refrigerator pending further instructions. Then I made coffee and settled with the paper at the dining room table.

That's when the weekend went off course.

DEATH TOLL REACHES 120: 120:.

BODIES OF TWO MORE BIKERS IDENTIFIED.

The story was on the third page of the front section. I'd expected some coverage. What I hadn't expected was the photo. The image was grainy, shot from a distance with a powerful telephoto lens, but the subject was recognizable.

I was kneeling by a grave with skull in hand. As usual the caption identified me as ". . . an American forensic anthropologist working for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale."

The shot was so poorly focused I was unsure if it had been snapped at the Vipers' clubhouse, or if it was an old file photo taken at another site. My appearance and equipment vary little from dig to dig, and there was nothing in the frame to identify a specific location.

The article was accompanied by three other photos: the usual head shots of the victims, and a view of the entrance to the Vipers' clubhouse. It described the exhumation of Gately and Martineau, and recounted the story of their disappearance. There was a brief recap of the biker war, and an explanation of the revised body count.

O.K. Those facts might have been released through official channels. What followed was what shocked me.

The text went on to discuss a baffling third victim, accurately describing the partial remains found in the other pit. It concluded by stating that, to date, the young woman's ident.i.ty remained a mystery.

How the h.e.l.l had they gotten that?

I felt the beginnings of agitation. While I am not fond of media attention, I am particularly uneasy when it threatens to jeopardize one of my cases. Who would have released the information?

I took a long, deep breath and got up to reheat my coffee.

O.K. Someone leaked information. So what?

So that shouldn't happen, that's what.

I punched the quick-timer b.u.t.ton on the microwave.

True. But will it compromise the case?

I thought about that.

The beeper sounded and I removed my mug.

No. In fact, the article could trigger a useful tip. Someone might come forward with a name.

So no harm done. But had there been an official decision to release that information? Probably not or I would have known about it.

Someone had talked to the press and that was unacceptable. Who knew about the girl's bones? Quickwater? Claudel? A member of the Ident section? A lab technician? Dr. Russell?

You're not going to figure it out this weekend.

True again.

Intending to deal with the question on Monday, I circled my mind back to reading, shopping. And Isabelle's party.

Kit.

Oh.

I went to the phone and dialed Isabelle's number.

"Bonjour."

"It's me, Isabelle."

"Tempe, don't you even think about canceling on me." I could hear The Rite of Spring The Rite of Spring playing in the background, and knew she must be cooking. Isabelle always cooks to Stravinsky. playing in the background, and knew she must be cooking. Isabelle always cooks to Stravinsky.

"Well, something has come up-"

"The only thing that would excuse you tonight would be a fatal fall from a seven forty-seven. Yours."

"My nephew showed up this morning and he's going to be staying with me awhile."

"Oui?"

"I don't feel right about leaving him alone on his first day here."

"But of course not. You will bring this nephew with you tonight."

"He's nineteen."

"Extraordinaire. I think I was once that age. I believe it was the sixties. I had to go through the sixties to get to the seventies. I remember taking LSD and wearing a great many bad outfits. I will see you and this young man at seven-thirty."

I agreed and rang off.

Right. Now to convince my nephew to spend Sat.u.r.day night eating lamb chops and snails with a gaggle of seniors.

As it turned out that wasn't a problem. Kit emerged around three-fifteen, rumpled and starving. He finished the leftover chicken and asked if he could do some laundry. When I mentioned the supper he readily agreed.

I made a note to call Harry. Kit's conviviality was not what I'd expected based on my daughter Katy's teenage years. But Kit was a stranger in town and probably had nowhere else to hang out.

I spent the next few hours finishing a reference letter for a student, cleaning my bedroom, and explaining detergents and fabric settings to my nephew. Around six I zipped to Le Faubourg for a bottle of wine and a small bouquet.

Isabelle lives on ile-des-Surs, a small chunk of land in the St. Lawrence owned for generations by the gray nuns, but recently colonized by an order of Yuppies. A "mixed use" community, the island's condos, town houses, private homes, and high-rise apartments are tastefully integrated with tennis clubs, strip malls, bicycle paths, and carefully tended green s.p.a.ces. The island is connected to the south sh.o.r.e via the Champlain Bridge, and to Montreal by two small bridges.

Isabelle's condo is on the top floor of a two-building complex at the far northern tip. Following the failure of her third marriage, she signed divorce papers, sold her home and all its contents, and sallied forth to the clean-slate ile-des-Surs. The only belongings she brought along were her treasured CDs and photo alb.u.ms.

Wanting something in keeping with her new "what the h.e.l.l" mind-set, Isabelle had chosen a safari theme. Her decorator had blended natural fabrics that looked like they'd been approved by the World Wildlife Fund with simulated leopard and tiger skin. The walls were hung with animal prints, and a collection of African carvings dotted a gla.s.s-topped coffee table, the legs of which resembled elephant feet. The king-sized bed in the master suite was swathed in a canopy of mosquito netting.

Kit was enthralled, or at least appeared to be. As Isabelle gave us a tour he asked question after question about the origin of each of her possessions. I wasn't sure of the depth of his interest, but was pleased at his social ac.u.men.

It was not the decor but the view that captivated me. One guest was still expected, so after Kit and I had been issued drinks and had met the other attendees, I stepped onto the balcony to take it in.

A light rain was falling, and across the river the skyline twinkled in every color imaginable. The mountain loomed over the buildings of Centre-ville, ma.s.sive and black. I could see the lights of the cross high up on its flank.

From inside I heard the doorbell sound, then Isabelle called my name. I took one last look and went inside.

The final diner had just arrived and was handing his trench coat to Isabelle. When I saw his face my jaw dropped in surprise.

14.

"VOUS!"

It was not one of my more adroit openers. I shot Isabelle a "just wait till later" look, which she ignored.

"Oui. You are surprised, Tempe?" She beamed. "I said you two had met in an informal way. Now I will officially introduce you."

The journalist extended his hand. This time it held no mike, and his look was friendly, not the stunned surprise I remembered from our encounter outside the Vipers' clubhouse.

"Tempe, this is Lyle Crease. I'm sure you've seen him on television."

I could place the face now. He was an investigative reporter with CTV.

"And, Lyle, I know I don't have to tell you Dr. Brennan's name. We call her Tempe. That's with the long 'e' at the end. People do have trouble with that."

When I allowed Crease to take my hand, he leaned close and kissed me first on the right cheek, then on the left, in traditional Quebec fashion. I stepped back and mumbled something I hoped he'd interpret as cool but polite.

Isabelle introduced Crease to the others, and he shook hands with the men and kissed the ladies. Then she raised her champagne gla.s.s in Kit's direction.

"I think in honor of this handsome young Texan, tonight we should all practice our English."

Gla.s.ses shot up as everyone cheerfully agreed. Kit looked enormously relieved.

"May I help you with dinner?" I asked in frosty English, eager to get Isabelle alone to share some thoughts with her.

"No, no. Everything is ready. Please, everyone, come to the table. There are little cards beside each plate."

s.h.i.t.

Isabelle retreated to the kitchen while the rest of us gathered around to ascertain the seating arrangement. As I'd suspected, I was next to Crease. Kit was on my right.

There were seven in all. An elderly actor sat on Kit's other side. I'd met him on a previous occasion, but couldn't remember his name and hadn't caught it when introduced. I was unfamiliar with the other two guests. It turned out they were a couple, the wife an antiques dealer, the husband a film producer.

We made small talk as Isabelle shuttled plates from the kitchen. The actor had just finished a run as Polonius in a French production of Hamlet Hamlet at the Theatre du Rideau Vert. Crease recounted his most recent a.s.signment. The story concerned a sixteen-year-old hacker who had broken into an U.S. Army network, then phoned the RCMP wanting to be caught. at the Theatre du Rideau Vert. Crease recounted his most recent a.s.signment. The story concerned a sixteen-year-old hacker who had broken into an U.S. Army network, then phoned the RCMP wanting to be caught.

"The kid wanted recognition," said the actor.

"He could have tried out for football," my nephew offered.

Not bad, Kit.

"And what have you two been up to?" Isabelle asked the couple as she circled the table pouring wine.

When she came to Kit she paused and looked at me. I nodded. What the h.e.l.l. He was legal in Quebec and I was driving. Kit accepted with enthusiasm.

The producer's name was Claude-Henri Brault. He'd just returned from a three-month shoot in Ireland. His wife, Marie-Claire, ran a shop in Old Montreal and had spent the time buying antiques in Provence. She rambled on about the kingdom of Arles, the Angevin dynasty, and at least a dozen Louis, describing how each had changed the face of the furniture industry. Between bites of veal I stole peeks at Lyle Crease. His hair and teeth were flawless, his creases as sharp as I remembered. The only imperfection I spotted was a sprinkling of dandruff across his collar.

And Lyle was a good listener. He kept his eyes on Marie-Claire, nodding intermittently, as though the aesthetics of fabric and cabinet design were the only thing that presently mattered.

When Marie-Claire paused for breath Isabelle stepped in, redirecting the conversation like an air-traffic controller with several flights on her screen. Though I had to admire her skill, I didn't appreciate the direction she chose.

"Tempe has been working on these dreadful gang murders. Can you tell us something about them?"

"The bikers?" asked Claude-Henri.

"Yes." I wanted to glare at Isabelle, but decided it would be rude. I also wanted to strangle her, which would be still ruder.

"Were you involved in the discovery I read about in today's paper?"

"Yes. But as Isabelle knows"-I smiled icicles in her direction-"I can't-"

"What are you doing with bikers, Aunt Tempe?"

Kit's interest had wandered during the furniture design lesson, but he perked up at the new topic.

"You know that I work for the provincial medico-legal lab."

He nodded.

"Last week the director asked me to look at some murder cases." I mentioned nothing about my role with Operation Carcajou.

"How many?"

"Quite a few."

"More than the Bee Gees?" he persisted.

"Five."

"Five people iced in one week?" Kit's eyes were huge. Everyone else at the table had gone quiet.

"Two of them were killed in 1987. We recovered their bodies this week."

"That's what I read about," said Claude-Henri, pointing a fork in my direction. "C'est ca. That was you in the photograph."