Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 39

"That's the same chopped hog we saw in the funeral picture."

My pulse stepped up.

"Are you sure?"

"Auntie T, that is the sweetest piece of Milwaukee iron I have ever seen. You could really ride the edge on those wheels."

"That's why I was asking about the other picture."

"Did you find it?"

"No."

"Doesn't matter. That's the same bike."

"How can you be sure?"

"Can you zoom it up?"

I magnified that part of the photo.

"Jesus. That is five hundred pounds of thunder."

"Tell me how you know it's the same bike."

"Like I said before, it's an old FLH, a police touring cycle that's been stripped and customized. That's no big deal. But it's the way he did the chop that's so b.i.t.c.hing."

One by one he again pointed out the bike's wonders. "This dude wanted a truly raw machine, so he changed the power-to-weight ratio."

His finger touched the front of the bike.

"He lengthened the wheel base and raised the front end by installing longer front forks. Man, those puppies must be twenty inches over stock. He probably cut out a section of the neck of the frame. You've really got to know your s.h.i.t to pull that off."

"Why?"

"If you screw it up the bike will split and you'll find yourself eating cement at high speed."

He indicated the handlebars.

"He used dog bones, steel struts to raise the handlebars."

"Mm."

"The guy that did this was definitely not interested in comfort. He's riding a springer front end, that's one with external springs, not hydraulic shock absorbers, and a 'hard tail' frame."

"A hard tail?"

"It's a rigid frame with no rear shock absorbers. It's called a 'hard tail' because your a.s.s really takes a beating."

He pointed to a set of pins at the front of the bike.

"Check out the highway pegs."

I must have looked blank.

"He's got extra foot pegs up front, and a forward-positioned custom-shift-and-brake a.s.sembly so he can stretch out his feet. This guy is into serious puttin'."

"And you're sure this is the same bike we saw at Silvestre's grave?"

"Same righteous hog. But that's not my only clue."

I knew I was in over my depth, and said nothing.

"Look at this." He pointed at the gas tank. "He's sculpted the tank with some kind of molding material. What does that look like to you?"

I bent close. The front end did look odd, but the shape brought nothing to mind. I peered at it, forcing my brain cells to draw meaning from the tapered form.

Then I saw it.

"Is that unusual?" I asked.

"It's the only one I've ever seen. The guy's a regular Rodin with bondo."

He stared at the screen, mesmerized. Then, "Yeah! Jammin' in the wind sitting on a snake's head. Hee ha-"

He stopped short and an odd look crossed his face. Then he leaned in, back, then in again, like a bird sighting on a curious insect.

"Can you bring that guy's face up?"

"The one on the bike?"

"Yeah."

"It will blur as I enlarge it."

"Try."

I did, then went through the same manipulations I'd performed with Claudel. As lines and shadows shifted, congealing pixels into recognizable features, then reordering them into meaningless patterns of color and shape, I gradually realized what my nephew had spotted.

In twenty minutes I'd done what I could do. During that time we had not spoken. I broke the silence.

"What made you recognize him?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe the jaw. Maybe the nose. It grabbed me as I was pointing out the snake's head. Before that I hadn't even noticed the rider."

We stared at the man on the marvelous hog. And he looked into s.p.a.ce, intent on a happening long since past.

"Did he ever mention riding with the Angels?"

"He's not wearing colors."

"Did he, Kit?"

My nephew sighed.

"No."

"Does he hang with them now?"

"Oh, please. You've seen the guy."

Yes. I'd seen the guy. On a country road in St-Basile-le-Grand. Across a dinner table. On the late-night news. And in my own home.

The man on the bike was Lyle Crease.

34.

WORDS AND IMAGES FLASHED IN MY BRAIN. PASCAL'S FACE IN neon and shadow. George Dorsey mumbling my name to a paramedic. A glossy eyeball. neon and shadow. George Dorsey mumbling my name to a paramedic. A glossy eyeball.

". . . are you going to do?" Kit asked.

"Call Isabelle, then go to bed." I closed down the program and slid the CD into its holder.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Sometimes when thoughts are ricocheting inside my head, the best strategy is to lay back and let them find their own patterns.

"Aren't you curious?"

"Very. And I will will find out if Crease has ties to the h.e.l.ls Angels. But not tonight." find out if Crease has ties to the h.e.l.ls Angels. But not tonight."

"I could ask around."

"That is precisely what you will not not do," I snapped. "He could be a dangerous man with dangerous friends." do," I snapped. "He could be a dangerous man with dangerous friends."

Kit's face froze. Then his eyes dropped and he turned away.

"Whatever." He shrugged.

I waited for the click of his bedroom door, then dialed Isabelle's number. She answered after four rings, sounding slightly out of breath.

"Mon Dieu, I was buried in the back of the closet. I've misplaced my Vuitton overnighter and can't imagine where it is. And, really, nothing else will do."

"Isabelle, I need some information."

My tone suggested I was not in the mood for a luggage discussion.

"Oui?"

"I'd like to know about Lyle Crease."

"Ahhh, Tempe, you little pixie. I knew you would change your mind."

Like h.e.l.l. "Tell me about him."

"He's cute, eh?"

As a mealworm, I thought, but said nothing.

"And you know he is an investigative reporter with CTV. Very glamorous."

"How long has he done that?"

"How long?"

"Yes. How long?"

"Mon Dieu, forever."

"How many years?"

"Well, I'm not sure. But he's been on the air as long as I can remember."

"What did he do before that?"

"Before that?"

"Yes. Before CTV." This was harder than questioning George Dorsey.

"Let me think." I heard a soft ticking, and pictured lacquered nails tapping the handset. "I know the answer to this, Tempe, because Veronique told me. Veronique hosts a talk show on Radio-Canada now, interviews celebrities, but she started out doing the weather at CTV. Do you know her?"

"No." My left eye was beginning to throb.

"She dated Lyle briefl-"

"I'm sure I've seen her."

"I think she told me Lyle was hired away from an American newspaper. No. Wait, this is coming back to me." Tick. Tick. Tick. "It was a paper somewhere out west. Alberta, I think. But originally he comes from the States. Or maybe he went to school down there."

"Do you know which state?"