by Kathy Reichs
"How did it get there?"
"It was probably flung there during the struggle."
"How do you know that?"
"There was blood under as well as on the cap. The assailant probably lost it in the frenzy of the attack."
"Cherokee was not wearing it?"
"I'd bet my life on it.
"Thanks."
Back in my office I looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. I had no message slips. I had no case requests.
I drummed my fingers and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. It didn't. Not optimistic, I dialed Harry's number in Houston, then listened to a recording in very bad Spanish. I tried Kit, got my own voice.
Damn. Where was everybody?
I called Claudel again, this time leaving my cell number. Ditto Charbonneau. Then I grabbed my purse and bolted, unable to bear the waiting.
When I stepped outside I was blinded for a moment. Sunlight bathed the day and sparrows twittered in the branches overhead. Lab and SQ staff chatted along the drive and relaxed at picnic tables on the lawn, enjoying a midmorning smoke or coffee.
I inhaled deeply, and started up Parthenais, wondering how I could have lost track of spring. For a moment I had an odd fantasy. The Dorsey funeral would take place in less than twenty-four hours. If I could freeze time I could hold it at bay, keep the birds singing, the sun shining, and the ladies on the lawn with their shoes kicked ofE
But I couldn't, and the tension was making me jumpier than a proton in a particle accelerator.
Jesus, Brennan. Upstairs you wanted things to move faster. Now you want a freeze-frame. Clear your neurons.
The situation called for a hot dog and fries.
I hung a left on Ontario, walked east a block, and pushed open the door to Lafleur At 11 A.M. there was no line, and I stepped directly to the counter.
Lafleur is Quebec's version of the fast-food joint, offering hot dogs, burgers, and poutine. The decor is chrome and plastic, the clientele largely blue collar
"Chien chawd,frites, et Coke Diète, s'il vows plait," I told the man at the cash register. Why did the literal translation of hot dog in French still sound strange to me?
"Steamd ow grille?"
I chose steamed, and in seconds a cardboard container was slapped in front of me. Grease from the fries already stained the left side.
I paid and carried my food to a table with an excellent view of the parking lot.
As I ate my eyes roved over the other patrons. To my left were four young women in nurse s white, students from the technical school across the street. Tags identified them as Manon, Lise, Brigitte, and Marie-José.
Two painters ate in silence beyond the students. They wore coveralls, and their arms, hair, and faces were speckled like the walls of Gilbert's spatter lab. The men worked on platters of fries topped with curd cheese and brown gravy. In a city renowned for its fine cuisine, I have never understood the appeal of poutine.
Across from the painters sat a young man trying his best to grow a goatee. His glasses were round and he was overweight.
I finished my fries and checked my cell. The phone was on, the signal strong, but there were no messages. Damnl Why wasn't anyone returning my call?
I needed release. Physical release.
I spent two hours running, lifting, rolling around on a large rubber ball, and taking a high-impact aerobics class. By the time I finished I could hardly drag myself to the showers. But the exercise was an effective antivenin. My anger had dissipated along with the toxins from the hot dog and fries.
When I returned to the lab two messages lay on my desk. Charbonneau had called. Morin wanted to talk about LaManche. That didn't sound good. Why hadn't Madame LaManche phoned?
I hurried down the hall, but Morin's door was already closed, indicating he'd left for the day. I went back to my office and dialed Charbonneau.
"There maybe more to this Crease than I thought."
"Such as?"
"Seems he and the Angels go back a ways. Crease is Canadian, but he did his undergraduate studies at South Carolina. Go Cocks."
"You're really hung up on that."
"Hey, beats the Redmen."
"I'll pass on your opinion to the McGill board."
"Politically it's more correct. I waited.
"Newsboy completed a B.A. in journalism in '83 and decided to go on for a master's degree, using outlaw bikers as his thesis topic. By the way, he was calling himseif Robert then."
"Why would anyone choose Lyle over Robert?"
"It's his middle name.
"Anyway, Robby got a hog and a nod from the brothers, and roared off with the pack."
"Did he finish the degree?"
"He completely dropped from sight. He attended classes for a month or two, then his professors never heard from him again."
"There's no record of where he was? Driver's license? Tax return? Credit card application? Blockbuster membership?"
"Nada. Then Crease resurfaced in Saskatchewan in '89, working the crime beat for a local paper and doing some on-air stories for the evening news. Eventually he was offered the job at CTV and relocated to Quebec."
"So Crease was interested in bikers as a student. That was the Ice Age, remember?"
"Apparently Crease left Saskatchewan in a bit of a hurry."
"Oh?"
"Ever hear of Operation CACUS?"
"Wasn't that an FBI sting using informants inside the Hells Angels?"
"Informant. Tony Tait joined the Alaska chapter in the early eighties then rose through the ranks to national prominence. He wore a wire for the bureau the whole time.
"Angels Forever, Forever Angels."
"I guess Tony preferred cash."
"Where is he now?"
"In witness protection if he's smart.
"What does this have to do with Crease?"
"It seems the Mounties had their own investigation going in the eighties."
"Are you telling me Lyle Crease was an RCMP informant?"
"No one will talk and I've found nothing on paper, but I've always heard we had someone inside for a while. When I leaned on a couple of long-timers, they wouldn't confirm, but they didn't deny."
He paused.
'And?" I prodded.
"This is just for us, Brennan." "But I share everything with my hairstylist." He ignored that.
"I run my own sources on the street. Shit, I can't believe I'm telling you this."
I heard rattling as he switched the receiver to his other hand.
"Word is someone was definitely going to church with the Angels back then, and the guy was American. But it was a two-way street."
"The snitch was working both sides?" "That's the story my sources gave up. "Risky."
"As a cerebral hemorrhage." "Do you think the plant was Lyle Crease?"
"How else does a guy completely bury six years of his life?" I thought about that.
"But why would he reappear in such a public line of work?" "Maybe he figures visibility confers protection." For a moment no one spoke.
"Does Claudel know this?"
"I'm about to give him a call."
"Now what?"
"Now I dig deeper."
"You'll question Crease?"
"Not yet. We don't want to spook him. And Roy owns Claudel's ass until this funeral is over. But then I'll get him to help me take a run at the guy."
"Do you think Crease was involved in the Cherokee murder?" "There's no evidence of that, but he may know something."
"That cap didn't belong to Cherokee or Dorsey." "How do you know that?"
"The inside is covered with dandruff." "So?"
"Dorsey shaved his head and Cherokee was bald from chemo."
"Not bad, Brennan."
"Gately and Martineau were killed during the time Crease was underground."
"Tm e."
"And Savannah Osprey."
Silence hummed across the wire.
"What about asking Rinaldi?"
"Frog?"
<
br /> "Yeah, Frog. He was willing to spill his guts about the Gately and Martineau graves. Why not ask him about Cherokee? He might know something."
"Claudel says they've questioned Frog until they're blue in the face. He was willing to trade the St-Basile-le-Grand bodies because they're old news. He doesn't think the brothers will take him out for that. On anything recent he turns into a potted palm.
"Look, I'll get Claudel to help me flush Crease once the circus is over tomorrow And, by the way, Brennan, keep your head low Bandidos patches have been spotted in town, and there are rumors the Angels may make a move. Don't-"
He hesitated.
"Yes?"
"Well, your nephew might want to check out the action."
My checks burned. Claudel had discussed Kit with his CUM buddies.
"My nephew won't be anywhere near that funeral."
"Good. A Bandidos presence could force a show of strength by the Angels. Might turn hairy."
We'd hardly hung up when I started worrying. How could I keep Kit away if he was intent on going?
What did Morin want to say about LaManche? Had my old friend died?
Could Ryan be in immediate danger? Had helping me compromised his cover? Had I put him in peril as I had George Dorsey?
I laid my head on the fuzzy green surface of my desk blotter and slowly closed my eyes.
Chapter 36
I was under water and Lyle Crease was speaking to me. Seaweed undulated from below, like strands of hair on a submerged corpse. Here and there a shaft of sunlight penetrated the murky gloom, illuminating tiny particles floating around us.
My neck hurt. I opened my eyes then lifted and rotated my head, gingerly working the kink from my cervical vertebrae. My office was dark except for a pale fluorescence oozing through the glass beside the door.
How long had I slept? I strained to see my watch.
When I noticed the figure outside my door an alarm went off in my head. I froze, watching and listening.
The floor was still, except for my heart drumming against my ribs.
The figure stood motionless, a silhouette framed by low-level light spilling from my lab.
My eyes dropped to the phone. Should I call security?
My hand was on the receiver when the door swung inward.
Jocelyn's face looked ghostly. She was dressed in black, and the pale oval head seemed to float, a disembodied jack-o'-lantern with dark holes for eyes and mouth.
I stood, not wanting to give her the advantage of height.
She didn't answer.
"Puis-je vous aider?" I asked. May I help you?
Still, she said nothing.
"Please turn on the light, Jocelyn."
The command brought forth a response where the questions had failed. Her arm rose, and the office was thrown into brightness.
Her hair clung damply to her neck and face, and her clothes were corrugated, as if she'd been sitting a long time in a hot, cramped space. She sniffed and ran the back of a hand under her nose.
"What is it, Jocelyn?"
"You're just letting them slide." Her voice was hard with anger.
"Who?" I asked, confused.
"I thought you might be different."
"Different from whom?"
"Nobody gives a shit. I hear cops joke about it. I hear them laugh. Another dead biker. Good riddance, they say. It's cheap trash removal."
"What are you talking about?" My mouth felt dry.
"It's these cops who are a joke. Wolverines. Pfff." She puffed air through her lips. "Dickheads would be more like it."
I was stunned by the hatred in her eyes.
"Tell me why you're upset.
There was a long silence while she studied my face. Her gaze seemed to focus then withdraw as if grabbing my image for testing in some mental equation.
"He didn't deserve what he got. No fuckin' way." The obscenities sounded odd in French.
Quietly I said, "If you don't explain I can't help you."
She hesitated, taking a final tally, then the angry eyes fixed on mine.
"George Dorsey didn't kill that old man."
"Cherokee Desjardins?" She answered with a shrug. "How do you know?"
She frowned, deciding if the question was a trap.
"Anyone with the IQ of celery would know that." "That's not terribly convincing."
"A real mechanic would have done it right." "What does that mea-"
She cut me off "Do you want to hear this or not?"
I waited.
"I was there that night." She swallowed.
"I was hardly in the door when some guy showed up, so I went into the bedroom. He and Cherokee started talking, friendly at first, but pretty soon I heard shouting, then slamming and banging. I knew something was coming down, sol hid in the closet."
"Why were you there, Jocelyn?"
"Cherokee was gonna sponsor me in the Kiwanis," she sneered.
"Go on."
"I hunkered in until things quieted down, then when I thought the guy was gone, I started to split. That's when I heard the gunshot. Jesus."
Her eyes slipped past me to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. I tried to imagine what for her was memory.
"Then I heard the guy banging drawers and flinging crap around. I figured he was a smackhead looking for Cherokee's rock, and I nearly shit my shorts, 'cause I knew the stuff was in the bedroom with me.
"When I smelled smoke it was time to haul ass, junkie or no junkie. I smashed the window dropped to the alley, and ran to the corner. Now here's the weird part. When I cut around the building and looked up the block, the little roach was still outside Cherokee's pad, scratching at something in the mud. Then a car turned onto the street and hetook off."
"What was he looking for?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Then what?"
"When I was sure he wasn't coming back I walked over and poked around."
There was a long silence. Then she dropped a purse strap from her shoulder, dug inside, and withdrew a small, flat object.
"I found this where the guy was squatting." She thrust it at me.
I unfolded a pharmacy sack and removed a photograph framed in cheap plastic. Two men smiled through a mist of spattered blood, inner arms entwined, outer arms raised, middle fingers pointing skyward. The one on the right was Cherokee Desjardins, robust and full of life.
When I recognized the man on the left my throat tightened and my breath came in short, quick spurts. Jocelyn went on speaking but I didn't hear hen
torn bag beside it. When the headlights hit him he bolted like a jackrabbit."
My thoughts raced. Images flashed.
… why the fuck he wanted it. But go figure what burns in a junked-out head."
I saw a face.
… wish I'd gotten a look at him." I saw a baseball cap.
… this son of a bitch get away with it." I saw flecks of gold circling in a watery vortex… didn't deserve a shiv up his ass."
I pulled myself back to the present and willed my face neutral.
"Jocelyn, do you know a newscaster named Lyle Crease?" "English?"
"Yes."
"I don't watch English TV Why are you asking me that? Look, I'm trying to tell you Dorsey didn't whack Cherokee."
"No," I agreed. "He didn t.
But I had a pretty good idea who did.
When Jocelyn left I phoned Claudel. He was not in, but this time I hung up and dialed his pages
Urgent enough, I thought, as I entered my number. When Claudel called back I relayed Jocelyn's story. "Can she identify the man?"
"Never saw his face."
"Fan tastique."
"It's Crease."
"How can you be sure?"
"The cap found in Desjardins' apartment had a USC logo. Crease went to school there."
"We've alread-"
"Did Charbonneau tell you about the dandruff?" "Yes."
"I had the pleasure of dining with Crease not too long ago
. He has enough dandruff to open a ski hill."
"Motive?"
I described what I'd seen in the photo.
"Holy Mother of Christ."
Rarely had I heard Claudel blaspheme.
"What's this woman's relationship to Dorsey?"
"She was not receptive to personal inquiries."
"Can she be trusted?" His breath sounded moist against the mouthpiece.
"She obviously has a habit, but I believe her"
"If she was terrified, why hang around?"
"She probably thought the intruder dropped drugs and she had a shot at a free score."
"Michel Charbonneau told me of your conversation." More breathing. "I think it's time to net this Mr. Crease."
When we disconnected I phoned for air reservations. Willing or not, Kit was on his way to Texas. Until then, I wasn't going to let him out of my sight. I arrived home to find Kit in the shower.
"Have you eaten?" I shouted through the door when I heard the sound of the water stop.
"Not much."
O.K, podna. I, too, can cook pasta.
I made a run to Le Faubourg for scallops and greens. Back home I sautéed the seafood with onions and mushrooms, then mixed and added a yogurt-mustard-lemon-dill sauce. I ladled the mollusk concoction over angel-hair pasta, and served it with a baguette and tossed salad.
Even Kit was impressed.
We talked as we ate, but said little.
"How was your day?" I asked.
"Pretty good."
"What did you do?"
"Not much."
"Did you stay here?"
"I rode the subway to some island and cruised around the parks."
"Ile-Ste-Hélene."
"Yeah. There's a beach out there and lots of trails. It's pretty slick."
That explained the skateboard in the entrance hall.
"How 'bout your day?" he asked, picking a crouton from the salad remains.
"Pretty good."
A cokehead security risk in our own lab accused me of indifference to bikers, and I discovered one of your Easy Rider playmates may be a killer.
"Cool," he said. I took a deep breath.
"I made airline reservations today."
"Off on another trip?" "The flight is for you."
"Uh-oh. The bum's rush." He kept his eyes on the salad bowl.
"Kit, you know I love you, and I love having you here, but I think it's time you went home."
