Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 30

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."

27.

THE NEXT MORNING I I WAS AT WORK BY SEVEN-THIRTY. OTHERS 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. 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 gla.s.s. 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. 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 n.o.body 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 Bandidos, the lower, Houston 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 regarded 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.