Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 19

"As you know, Monsieur Claudel, I am the lab's liaison to Carcajou. You have a professional obligation to share ideas and information with me, like it or not, and I expect nothing less."

With that I strode down the hall and descended into sunlight.

20.

THOUGH WE DROVE THROUGH BRIGHT SUNSHINE, MY THOUGHTS were dark. When I had volunteered for the Carcajou unit it had been to help solve the Emily Anne shooting, not to join the murder-of-the-day club. I rode in back, my mind shifting between Yves "Cherokee" Desjardins and Savannah Claire Osprey, victims as different as Charlie Manson and the Sugarplum Fairy. were dark. When I had volunteered for the Carcajou unit it had been to help solve the Emily Anne shooting, not to join the murder-of-the-day club. I rode in back, my mind shifting between Yves "Cherokee" Desjardins and Savannah Claire Osprey, victims as different as Charlie Manson and the Sugarplum Fairy.

But Savannah hadn't danced off with Ariel or Puck, and I couldn't shake the image of the spider-legged girl in the baggy swimsuit. I kept wondering about the poisonous web into which she'd been drawn.

I was also haunted by the horror we'd just left. Though the dynamic duo in the front seat were convinced Cherokee's killing was a biker hit, something about the scene seemed out of sync. It was not my call, but my uneasiness remained, p.r.i.c.kling my brain.

Savannah and Cherokee. Cherokee and Savannah. And Ronald and Donald Vaillancourt, Robert Gately and Felix Martineau. And Emily Anne Toussaint, the little girl who danced, and skated, and loved waffles. These lives seemed unconnected, the only tie a posthumous one, created by homicide files.

No one spoke. Now and then the radio sputtered as it scanned channels, diligent in its attention to police matters.

In the Ville-Marie Tunnel we were snared briefly by the clog of traffic exiting onto Berri. I looked at the flow of cars heading toward the old city and experienced a return to melancholy. Why was I trapped with Senor Surly and his partner, the bones of a dead girl at my feet and visions of mutilated bikers in my head? Why wasn't I heading for Place Jacques Cartier, thinking about dinner, dancing, or drinks with a lover?

But I couldn't handle the pleasure of drink.

And I had no lover.

Ryan.

Put it away, Brennan. That line of thought will take you from melancholy to depression. The simple fact is you chose this life. You could be limiting your bone a.n.a.lysis to archaeological digs and your professional commentaries to textbooks or cla.s.srooms in which you talk and they listen. You asked for this and you got it, so stop brooding and do your work.

When Charbonneau pulled up at the SQ building I said a terse thank you, slammed the door, and headed up the block toward the main entrance. Before I got to the end of the wrought-iron fence my cell phone rang, so I set the athletic bag on the sidewalk and dug the phone out of my purse.

"Aunt Tempe?"

"Hey, Kit."

I was relieved and annoyed to hear his voice. Though I'd called several times since leaving for Raleigh, Kit hadn't once picked up.

"Did you get my messages?"

"Yeah. Bad timing. I was out, then when I got in I hit the sack. Figured you wouldn't want me to call that late."

I waited.

"I was with Lyle."

"For two days?"

"The guy's O.K."

O.K.?.

"We went to that cycle shop. Man, he wasn't exaggerating. They've got more s.h.i.t than the Harley factory. Oops, sorry."

"Hm."

I placed the briefcase next to the athletic bag and rotated my shoulder to work out a kink. Hip-hop music pounded from a Caravan on the opposite side of Parthenais. The driver sat sideways, one arm draped around the wheel, the other drumming the back of the seat.

"I'll be home by six," I told Kit. "Tell me what you'd like and I'll throw something together for dinner."

"That's why I'm calling. Lyle said he'd take me to the TV studio so I can watch them do the show tonight."

A man emerged from an apartment building across the street and did a slow crawl down the steps, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His hair looked as if he'd gotten his head too close to an explosion. Some of it stuck out in clumps, some strands lay in knots against his head. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket that showed arms so fully tattooed that from where I stood they looked blue.

The man took a deep drag as he scanned the street. His eyes locked onto me then narrowed, like those of a terrier sighting on a rat. Two smoke streams shot from his nose, then he flicked the b.u.t.t, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into the van with the music lover. As the pair drove off I felt a chill, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.

". . . ever seen it in person?"

"What?"

"The news. Have you ever been at the station when they actually do it?"

"Yes. It's very interesting."

"So if you don't mind, I'd really like to go."

"Sure. That sounds like fun. I'm pretty beat anyway."

"Did you find out who she is?"

The switch left me behind.

"The girl. Did she turn out to be who you thought she was?"

"Yes."

"That's cool. Can I tell Lyle?"

"It's not official yet. Better wait until the coroner releases her name."

"No sweat. So, I'll see you later."

"O.K."

"You're sure?"

"Kit, it's fine. I've been ditched by tougher men than you."

"Ooh. Hit me where I bleed."

"Bye."

Lyle Crease. Was that b.a.s.t.a.r.d going to use my nephew to wheedle information that he couldn't get directly from me?

Upstairs, I secured Savannah's remains in my evidence locker, and gave one set of bone samples to Denis, the histology technician. He would use a microtome to cut slices less than a hundred microns thick, then stain them and mount them on slides for a.n.a.lysis.

I took the other set to the DNA section. While there I asked about the eyeball. As I waited I felt a band of tension move slowly up the back of my head, and I began to rub my neck.

"Headache?" asked the technician when she returned.

"A little."

The results were not yet in.

Next I reported to LaManche. He didn't interrupt as I told him of my meeting with Kate, and showed him photos and copies of hospital records.

When I'd finished he removed his gla.s.ses and kneaded two red ovals on the bridge of his nose. Then he leaned back, his face devoid of the emotions normally created by death.

"I will call the coroner's office."

"Thank you."

"Have you discussed this with the people at Carcajou?"

"I mentioned it to Quickwater, but right now everyone is focused on the Cherokee Desjardins murder."

That was an understatement. When I'd told him in the car, Quickwater had hardly listened.

"I'll talk to Roy tomorrow," I added.

"The agent in North Carolina believes this child was killed by gang members?"

"Kate Brophy. She believes it's a good possibility."

"Does she know of any ties between Quebec and Myrtle Beach gangs?"

"No."

LaManche inhaled deeply, exhaled.

"Nineteen eighty-four is a long time ago."

Sitting across from my boss, listening to his precise French and seeing him backlit by the St. Lawrence River, I had to admit the Carolina theory sounded bizarre even to me. What had seemed so right in Raleigh now felt like a remembered dream in which I couldn't sort reality from fantasy.

"We had to cut it short when I got the call about Cherokee's body in the fire, but Agent Brophy lent me a great deal of material from the SBI files, including old photos. Tomorrow I'll take everything over to Carcajou and we'll see what falls out."

LaManche replaced his gla.s.ses.

"This Carolina skeleton may be unrelated."

"I know."

"How soon will they have the DNA results?"

I avoided the impulse to roll my eyes, but I'm sure the frustration showed in my voice.

"They're backed up because of the bomber twin case, and wouldn't give me an estimate." I remembered the look I'd gotten when the technician spotted Savannah's DOD. "And, as you said, it's not exactly a recent death."

LaManche nodded.

"But it is an unexplained death, and the remains were found in Quebec, so we will treat it as a homicide. Hopefully the SQ will do the same," he said.

At that moment his phone rang. I gathered papers as he spoke. When he'd hung up I said, "The Cherokee case doesn't fit the recent pattern here, but who knows why people kill."

He answered as he scribbled something on a small yellow pad, his mind still on the phone conversation. Or perhaps he thought I was talking about something else.

"Occasionally Monsieur Claudel can be abrupt, but in the end he will get it right."

What the h.e.l.l did that mean?

Before I could ask, the phone rang again. LaManche reached for the receiver, listened, then held it to his chest.

"Was there anything else?"

A polite dismissal.

I was so preoccupied by LaManche's comment about Claudel that I almost collided with Jocelyn the temp as I left his office and headed toward my own. She wore large beaded loops in her ears, and the hair streaks were now the color of purple African violets.

As we circled each other, readjusting our armloads of papers, I again was struck by the whiteness of her skin. Under the harsh fluorescent light, her lower lids looked plum, her skin as pale as the underbelly of a lemon peel. It crossed my mind Jocelyn might be albino.

For some reason, I felt compelled to speak to her.

"How are you getting along, Jocelyn?"

She stared at me with a look I couldn't interpret.

"I hope you're not finding the lab too overwhelming."

"I can do the job."

"Yes, of course you can. I just meant it's hard to be the new kid on the block."

As she opened her mouth to say something, a secretary emerged from an adjacent office. Jocelyn hurried off down the hall.