Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 21

"This was handy."

"You'll have to sign in and leave your things here."

She flipped pages in a ledger, wrote something, then handed me the pen. I scribbled the time and my name. Then I slipped my purse off my shoulder and handed it across the counter.

"It'll be a minute."

Ms. Cupcake secured my bag in a metal locker, then picked up a phone and spoke a few words. Ten minutes later a key turned in a green metal door to my left, then it opened and a guard waved me in. He was skeletal, his uniform drooping from his bones like clothes on a hanger.

Guard number two swept me with a handheld metal detector, then indicated I should follow. Keys jangled on his belt as we turned right and headed down a corridor lighted by fluorescents and surveilled by wall and ceiling cameras. Straight ahead I could see a large holding cell, with a window facing the hall I was in, green bars facing the other. Inside, a half-dozen men lounged on wooden benches, sat or slept on the floor, or clung to the bars like captive primates.

Beyond the drunk tank was another green metal door, the words Bloc Cellulaire Bloc Cellulaire in bold white to its right, beside that another counter. A guard was placing a bundle in one of a grid of cubicles, this one marked XYZ. I suspected a Mr. Xavier was arriving. He would not see his belt, shoelaces, jewelry, gla.s.ses, or other personal possessions until checkout. in bold white to its right, beside that another counter. A guard was placing a bundle in one of a grid of cubicles, this one marked XYZ. I suspected a Mr. Xavier was arriving. He would not see his belt, shoelaces, jewelry, gla.s.ses, or other personal possessions until checkout.

"Man's in here," said the guard, thrusting his chin toward a door marked Entrevue avocat Entrevue avocat, the door attorneys used. I knew Dorsey would pa.s.s through an identical door marked Entrevue detenu Entrevue detenu, for the prisoners.

I thanked him and brushed past into a small room not designed to lift prisoner or visitor morale. The walls were yellow, the trim green, the only furnishings a red vinyl counter, a wooden stool fixed to the floor, and a wall phone.

George Dorsey sat on the opposite side of a large rectangular window, back rounded, hands dangling between his knees.

"Push the b.u.t.ton when you're done," said the guard.

With that he closed the door and we were alone.

Dorsey didn't move but his eyes locked on me as I crossed to the counter and picked up the handset.

I flashed on Gran's painting. Jesus, skull circled with thorns, forehead covered with droplets of blood. No matter where I went the gaze followed. Look, the eyes were open. Blink, they were closed. The picture was so unnerving I avoided my grandmother's bedroom my entire childhood. Dorsey had the same eyes.

Inwardly trembling, I sat and folded my hands on the countertop. The man across from me was thin and wiry, with a hump nose and razor-blade lips. A scar started at his left temple, looped his cheek, and disappeared into a circle of plumage around his mouth. His head was shaved, his only hair a dark bolt of lightning that touched down just above the scar's terminus.

I waited for him to pick up the phone and break the silence. Outside our little room I heard voices and the clang of steel against steel. Despite the intensity of his stare, Dorsey looked as though he hadn't slept in a while.

After several birthdays Dorsey smiled. The lips disappeared and small, yellow teeth took their place. But there was no mirth in his eyes. With a jerky motion he yanked the receiver from its cradle and placed it to his ear.

"You've got b.a.l.l.s coming here, lady."

I shrugged.

"Got cigarettes?"

"Don't smoke."

He drew both feet in, flexed his toes, and jiggled one leg up and down on the ball of his foot. Again he went mute. Then, "I had nothing to do with that piece of work in Pointe-St-Charles."

"So you said." I pictured the gruesome scene at Les Appartements du Soleil.

"This a.s.shole Claudel is trying to cut my d.i.c.k off. Figures if he sweats me hard enough I'll cop to burning Cherokee."

The jiggling intensified.

"Sergeant-Detective Claudel is simply doing his job."

"Sergeant-Detective Claudel couldn't blow a fart and get it right."

There were times I agreed with that a.s.sessment.

"Did you know Cherokee Desjardins?"

"I've heard of him."

He ran a finger back and forth along a groove on the countertop.

"Did you know he was dealing?"

Now Dorsey shrugged.

I waited.

"Maybe the stuff was for personal use. You know, medicinal. I heard he had health problems."

He ran the finger through the hair on his chin, then went back to working the groove.

"You were seen at Desjardins' building around the time he was shot. They found a b.l.o.o.d.y jacket in your apartment."

"The jacket ain't mine."

"And O.J. never owned the gloves."

"What kind of moron is gonna keep souvenirs after a hit?"

He had a point.

"Why were you in that neighborhood?"

"That's my business."

He shot forward and spread his elbows on the counter. My heart did a hop, but I didn't flinch.

"And it had nothing to do with wasting Cherokee."

I noticed a tightening around his eyes, and wondered what scenario he was constructing for my consumption.

More silence.

"Do you know who killed him, George?"

Mistake.

"Ohh, whee!" He curled his fingers and rested his chin on the back of one hand. "And can I call you Tempe?"

"This isn't a social call. You asked to meet."

Dorsey turned sideways and stretched a leg toward the wall. One hand played with the phone cord as he kicked at the baseboard with a laceless boot. Outside the door a man's voice called to someone named Marc. I waited. Finally, "Look, I'm telling you. That hit was Amateur Hour Amateur Hour. The only thing missing was Ted Mack."

Dorsey swiveled back and tried to stare me down. Then his gaze dropped and he opened and closed his fingers several times. I watched the letters F.T.W. change shape across his knuckles.

"And?"

"That show was not four star, that's all I'll give up right now."

"Then I can't help you. We've already determined it was a sloppy hit."

Dorsey lunged forward again and spread his forearms on the counter.

"Your boy Claudel may think I'm just some Heathens coolie a.s.s wipe, but he's got one thing wrong. I'm not stupid. And neither are they."

I didn't point out that he'd listed two points of error.

"He likes you for this one."

Dorsey leaned so close to the gla.s.s I could see dirt in the pores on his nose.

"It's a G.o.ddam lie. I didn't kill Cherokee."

I looked into the face that was inches from mine, and for one heartbeat the mask slipped. In that fraction of an instant I saw fear and uncertainty. And something else in those bitter, dark eyes. I saw candor.

Then the lids narrowed and the bravado was back.

"I'm going to cut right to it. You don't like the way my friends and me do business. Fair enough. I don't like your righteous bulls.h.i.t. But know this. Keep grinding me and whoever did Cherokee is going to walk."

"Is that all you can tell me, Mr. Dorsey?"

The eyes bored into mine and I could almost smell his hatred.

"I might be privy to additional knowledge," he said, inspecting his fingernails with feigned nonchalance.

"About what?"

"I'm not telling you nothing. But Cherokee's not the only stiff in the news lately."

My mind raced. Was he talking about Spider Marcotte? Did he know the ident.i.ty of Emily Toussaint's killers?

Before I could ask, Dorsey slumped back again, an amused expression curling the corners of his mouth.

"Is there something funny you'd like to share?"

Dorsey ran a hand under his chin and the goatee curled around his fingers. He shifted the receiver to the other ear.

"Tell pus b.u.t.t to ease off my case."

I stood to leave, but his next words froze me in place.

"Work with me and I'll give you the girl."

"What girl?" I asked, forcing calm into my voice.

"That sweet little thing you dug up."

I stared at him, so angry my heart pounded.

"Tell me what you know," I hissed.

"Are we dealing?" Though the little rat teeth were out, the eyes were dark as Dante's ninth ring.

"You're lying."

He raised his eyebrows and the palm of his free hand.

"But truth is the cornerstone of my life."

"Peddle it elsewhere, Dorsey."

Trembling with anger, I slammed home the phone, whirled and hit the b.u.t.ton. I couldn't hear Dorsey's last mocking addendum, but I saw his face as I stormed past the guard. His lips were clear.

He'd be in touch.

The drive back took almost an hour. An accident had closed all but one of the eastbound lanes of 720, and traffic in the Ville-Marie Tunnel was backed up for miles. By the time I realized the situation, reversing up the ramp was not an option, and there was nothing to do but creep along with the other frustrated motorists. The concrete tunnel blocked radio reception so there were no diversions. Dorsey had the floor in my head.

He'd been jumpy as cold water on a hot griddle, but could the man be innocent?

I remembered the eyes, and that moment the veil dropped.

I palmed the gearshift, inched forward, dropped back to neutral.

Was Claudel on the wrong track?

Wouldn't be the first time.

I watched an ambulance squeeze past along the right shoulder, its light pulsing red against the tunnel walls.

What would Claudel say when he learned I'd been to the jail?

That one was easy.

I drummed my fingers on the wheel.