Deadly Decisions

by Kathy Reichs

  “The big chief spent time down South in the early eighties.”

  My eyes roved over the pictured group, then came to rest on a bike and rider on the outer edge. His back was turned, his face obscured, but the cycle was visible in full profile. It looked familiar.

  “Who’s the guy on the far left?” I asked.

  “On the chop job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I’ve seen that guy in a couple of old photos,” Kuricek offered. “Nothing recent, though. He’s ancient history.”

  “What about the bike?”

  “A work of art.”

  Thanks.

  A discussion of Friday’s operation followed the slides. When the investigators had gone I approached Roy.

  “Could I borrow that shot of Cherokee Desjardins?”

  “Would you prefer a print?”

  “Sure.”

  “Spot something interesting?”

  “I just thought the bike looked familiar.”

  “It’s a hummer.”

  “Yeah.”

  We went to his office and he pulled a file from a metal cabinet, then leafed through until he located the picture.

  “They sure as hell don’t all look like this anymore,” he said, handing it to me. “Now some of them wear Versace and own fast-food franchises. Made our job easier when they were drunk and filthy.”

  “Did you leave another South Carolina print on my desk in the last couple of days?”

  “Not I. Is it something I should see?”

  “It’s like the one you just gave me, but it includes the Osprey girl. I’ve shown it to Claudel.”

  “Now that’s interesting. I’ll be curious to hear what he says.”

  I thanked him and left, promising to return the print.

  When I got to the lab I went directly to Imagerie and added the photo to my compact disc. It was just a hunch, probably a dead end, but I wanted to make a comparison.

  I left work at four-thirty and swung by the Hôte-Dieu Hospital, hoping LaManche had improved enough to receive visitors. No go. He was still unresponsive, and his doctors were keeping him in cardiac intensive care, with no visitors except immediate family. Feeling helpless, I ordered a small bouquet in the hospital gift shop, and headed for the parking lot.

  In the car I turned on the radio and hit scan. The channel selector ran the band, pausing briefly on a local talk show. Today’s topic was the biker war and the upcoming funeral for its latest victim. The host was soliciting comments on police performance. I clicked in to listen.

  While opinions varied as to police handling of the gang situation, one thing was clear. Callers were nervous. Whole neighborhoods were being avoided. Mothers were walking their kids to school. Late-night carousers were changing watering holes, looking over their shoulders as they scurried to their cars.

  And the callers were angry. They wanted their town released from the threat of these modern-day Mongols.

  When I got home Kit was on the phone. He held the mouthpiece to his chest, and informed me that Harry had called from Puerto Vallarta.

  “What did she say?”

  “Buenos días.”

  “Did you get a number?”

  “She said she was moving around. But she’ll call again later in the week.”

  Then he resumed his conversation, disappearing into his room.

  Good going, Harry.

  Wasting no time worrying about my sister, I pulled out the print Roy had loaned me and laid it on the table. Then I sorted through Kate’s photos for the shots of Bernard “Slick” Silvestre’s biker funeral down South. I was particularly interested in the graveside scene Kit and I had studied.

  I went through the stack three times and came up empty. I checked everything in my briefcase. Then the desk in my bedroom. The papers around my computer. Every folder Kate had given me.

  The photos were nowhere to be found.

  Puzzled, I stuck my head into Kit’s room to ask if he’d borrowed them.

  He hadn’t.

  O.K., Brennan. Play the remembering game. When did you last see them?

  Saturday night with Kit?

  No.

  Sunday morning.

  In the hands of Lyle Crease.

  The anger hit me like a sucker punch, sending heat up my neck, and curling my fingers into fists.

  “Goddammit! Sonovabitch!”

  I was furious with Crease and more furious with myself. Living alone, I had gotten into the habit of working investigative material at home, a practice discouraged by the lab. Now I was missing a piece of potential evidence.

  Slowly, I calmed down. And I recalled something a detective once told me while working a homicide in Charlotte. Media vans surrounded the charred suburban colonial where we were bagging what remained of a family of four.

  “Our free press is like a sewer system,” he said, “sucking in everyone and grinding them to shit. Especially those who ain’t paying attention.”

  I hadn’t paid attention, and now I would have to retrieve those photos.

  TO WORK OFF MY ANGER AT CREASE, MY DISGUST WITH MYSELF, and my fear for LaManche, I pounded out three miles on the treadmill at the gym. Then I lifted for thirty minutes, and sat in the steam room for another ten.

  Walking home along Ste-Catherine I felt physically tired, but still mentally anxious. I forced my thoughts to innocuous things.

  The weather had turned heavy and humid. Seagulls screamed at the dark clouds that hung low over the city, trapping the smell of the St. Lawrence and bringing on a premature dusk.

  I thought about city gulls. Why fight pigeons for urban scraps when a world-class river flows a mile away? Are gulls and pigeons variations of the same bird?

  I thought about dinner. I thought about the pain in my left knee. I thought about a tooth in which I suspected a cavity. I thought about ways to conceal my hair.

  Mostly I thought about Lyle Crease. And I understood the rage of Islamic fundamentalists and postal workers. I would call him and demand the return of the photos. Then, if the little reptile crossed my path again I would probably get my name in the papers.

  As I rounded the corner onto my street I saw a figure moving toward me, a leather-vested white-trash redneck who looked like a hyena pack of one.

  Had he come from my building?

  Kit!

  I felt a constriction in my chest.

  I quickened my pace and kept to the center of the sidewalk. The man held his path, banging into me as we passed. His bulk was such that the impact knocked me off balance. Stumbling, I looked up into dark eyes, made darker by the brim of a baseball cap. I stared into them.

  Look at me, asshole. Remember my face. I’ll remember yours.

  He met my gaze, then puckered his lips in an exaggerated kiss.

  I offered a digit.

  Heart pounding, I raced to the complex and into the vestibule, taking the steps two at a time. With shaking hands I unlocked the front door, hurried down the hall, and inserted the key to my condo.

  Kit was in the kitchen adding pasta to boiling water. There was an empty beer bottle by the sink, a half-full one at his elbow.

  “Kit.”

  His hand jumped at the sound of my voice.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  He poked the noodles with a wooden spoon, and took a swig of beer. Though the greeting was casual, his jerky movements belied tension.

  I was silent, waiting for him to go on.

  “I found some store-bought sauce. Roasted garlic and black olive. It ain’t gourmet, but I thought you’d like a home-cooked.”

  He gave a brilliant Kit smile, then tossed back another mouthful of Molson.

  “What’s going on?”

  “NBA play-off game tonight.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do?”

  “Kit.” I did not disguise my annoyance.

  “What? Just ask, ma’am.”

  “Was someone here while I was
gone?”

  He swirled the linguine, tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot, and looked straight at me. For several moments the steam rose between us. Then the corners of his eyes pinched, and he tapped again.

  “No.”

  He dropped his gaze, stirred, flicked back to me.

  “What’s the deal?”

  “I saw someone on the sidewalk and thought he might have been coming from here.”

  “Can’t help you.” Another shit-eating grin. “You like your linguine al dente, madam?”

  “Kit—”

  “You worry too much, Aunt Tempe.”

  It was becoming a familiar refrain.

  “Are you still seeing those men from the bike shop?”

  He extended his hands, wrists pressed together.

  “O.K. I give up. Arrest me on suspicion of involvement with organized pasta.”

  “Are you?”

  His voice grew stern. “Who hired you to ask these questions, ma’am?”

  It was clear he would tell me nothing. I pushed the fear to a corner of my mind, knowing that it wouldn’t stay there, and went to my room to change. But I’d made a decision.

  Kit was going back to Houston.

  • • •

  After dinner Kit settled in front of the TV and I went to my computer. I’d just pulled up the jpg files that contained Kate’s photos and the one I’d borrowed from Jacques Roy, when the phone rang.

  Kit answered, and I heard laughter and banter through the wall, then the tone changed. Though I could make out no words, it was clear Kit was upset. His voice grew loud and angry, and at one point I heard something slammed.

  In a moment Kit appeared at my door, his agitation apparent.

  “I’m going out for a little bit, Auntie T.”

  “Out?”

  “Yep.”

  “With?”

  “Just some guys.” Only his mouth smiled.

  “That’s not good enough, Kit.”

  “Oh hell, don’t you start in.”

  With that he stormed down the hall.

  “Shit!”

  I leaped to my feet, but Kit was already out the door when I rounded the corner into the living room.

  “Shit!” I repeated for emphasis.

  I was about to go after him when the phone rang. Thinking it was Kit’s earlier caller, I grabbed the handset.

  “Yes!” I seethed.

  “Jesus, Tempe. Maybe you need to get into some kind of exercise program. You are becoming consistently rude.”

  “Where the hell are you, Harry?”

  “The great state of Jalisco. Buenos noch—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Kit’s trouble in Houston?”

  “Trouble?”

  “The tiny matter of the drug bust!” I was almost shouting.

  “Oh, that.”

  “That.”

  “I really don’t believe that was Kit’s fault. If it weren’t for the pasty-faced little pricks he was hanging out with, he’d never have gotten involved with that stuff.”

  “But he did, Harry. And now he has a police record.”

  “But he didn’t have to do any jail time. Howard’s lawyer got him off with probation and some community service. Tempe, that boy worked at a homeless shelter for five nights, ate there and slept there and everything. I think it gave him a real good understanding of how the less fortun—”

  “Did you get him into counseling?”

  “It was just wild oats. Kit’s fine.”

  “He could have a serious problem.”

  “He just took to runnin’ with the wrong crowd.”

  I wanted to explode from sheer exasperation. Then another thought occurred to me.

  “Kit is on probation?”

  “Yes, that’s all. So it didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

  “What are the terms of his probation?”

  “What?”

  “Are there restrictions on what Kit is allowed to do?”

  “He can’t drive after midnight. That’s been a real pisser. Oh, yeah. And he can’t associate with criminals.” She said the last with exaggerated drama, then snorted. “As if he roams with Bonnie and Clyde.”

  Harry’s inability to grasp the obvious never ceased to amaze me. She talked to houseplants, but had no inkling of how to communicate with her son.

  “Are you supervising what he does, whom he sees?”

  “Tempe, it’s not like the boy’s gonna rob a bank.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I really don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

  Harry was a grand master at “I really don’t want to discuss this.”

  “I’ve got to run, Harry.” The conversation was degenerating into an argument, and I had no desire to go there.

  “Okeydokey. Just wanted to make sure y’all are doing fine. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Do that.”

  I disconnected and stood for a full five minutes, considering my options. None was appealing, but I finally settled on a plan.

  After checking the phone book for an address, I grabbed my keys and headed out.

  • • •

  Traffic was light, and within twenty minutes I pulled to the curb on rue Ontario. I cut the engine and looked around, while butterflies took flight in my stomach. I’d have preferred a decade of laser resurfacing to the enterprise I was about to undertake.

  La Taverne des Rapides was directly across from me, sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and a motorcycle atelier. The place looked as seedy as I remembered from the photos of Kit that Claudel had brought to my office. Neon signs promised Budweiser and Molson through window glass last washed in the Age of Aquarius.

  Zipping a can of Mace inside my jacket pocket, I got out, locked the car, and crossed the street. From the sidewalk I could feel the throb of music vibrating the tavern. Opening the door, I was blasted by the smell of smoke and sweat and stale beer.

  Inside, a bouncer looked me up and down. He wore a black T-shirt with the words Born to Die emblazoned across a screaming skull.

  “Sweet darling,” he said with an oily purr, leering at my chest. “I think I’m in love.”

  The man was missing several teeth, and looked like a member of Thugs Anonymous. I did not return his greeting.

  “You come back to Rémi when you’re ready for something special, honey.”

  He ran a hairy hand down my arm, then signaled me to proceed.

  I moved past, wanting to reduce Rémi’s dentition by another two or three incisors.

  The place had the feel of an Appalachian hooch house, complete with pool table, jukebox, and TV’s bolted to corner shelves. A bar occupied one wall, booths another. The rest of the room was filled with tables. It was dark except for Christmas lights framing the bar and front windows.

  When my eyes adjusted, I did a sweep. The clientele were alpha male, scruffy and longhaired, looking like Visigoth extras from central casting. The women had swirled their hair into styling-gel do’s, and stuffed their breasts into halters with rock-my-world cleavage.

  I did not see Kit.

  I was threading my way toward the back of the room when I heard shouts and the sound of scuffling feet. Lowering my head, I plowed a course through a sea of beer bellies and flattened myself against a wall.

  Near the bar, a goon with Rasputin brows and concave cheeks bellowed and shot to his feet. Blood streamed down his face, staining his sweatshirt and darkening the chains around his neck. A puffy-faced man glared at him from the opposite side of a small table. He was holding a Molson bottle by the wrong end, jabbing it forward to keep his opponent at bay. With a yell, Rasputin grabbed a chair and slammed it into his rival. I heard glass shatter as man and bottle hit the cement.

  Tables and bar stools emptied as patrons surged forward, eager to join in whatever was happening. Rémi the bouncer appeared with a baseball bat, and boosted himself onto the bar.

  That was enough for me. I decided to wait for Kit outside.

&nbs
p; I was halfway to the door when a pair of hands clamped my upper arms. I tried to wrench free but the grip tightened, squeezing my flesh hard against my bones.

  Furious, I twisted, and looked into a face strikingly like that of a swamp gator. It sat atop a thick neck, with protruding beady eyes, jaw long and narrow and slung forward at an obtuse angle.

  My captor curled his lips and split the air with a piercing whistle. Rasputin froze, and there was a moment of surprised silence as he and his spectators located the source of the whistle. George Strait crooned in the sudden quiet.

  “Hey, cut the shit, I got some show-and-tell.” The man’s voice was surprisingly high. “Rémi, get the goddam bottle from Tank.”

  Rémi dropped from the bar and stepped between the combatants, the bat resting lightly on his shoulder. He placed a foot on Tank’s wrist, applied weight, and what remained of the bottle rolled free. Rémi kicked it away, then pulled Tank to his feet. Tank started to sputter but the man holding me cut him off.

  “Shut the fuck up and listen.”

  “You talking to me, JJ?” Tank swayed, then spread his feet for better balance.

  “You fucking bet your ass I am.”

  Again Tank opened his mouth. Again JJ ignored him.

  “Look what we have here, gents.”

  A few listened, faces vacant from booze or boredom, most turned away. George finished his song and the Rolling Stones took over. The bartender went back to pouring drinks. The hubbub began to swell.

  “Big fuckin’ deal,” yelled a man at the bar. “You found a broad who don’t puke when she looks at you.”

  Laughter.

  “Take a good look, dick brain,” JJ replied in an adenoidal whine. “Ever hear of the bone lady?”

  “Who the fuck cares?”

  “The one what did a little yard work for the Vipers?” He was shouting now, the tendons in his neck taut as guy wires.

  A handful of customers turned back to us, confusion floating across their faces.

  “Don’t any of you assholes read the papers?” JJ’s voice cracked with the effort to be heard.

  While others went back to their drinks and conversation, Tank picked his way toward us, moving with the exaggerated care of the very drunk. Breathing heavily, he planted himself in front of me, and ran a hand down my cheek.