“I guess Monsieur Claudel is too busy.”
Charbonneau gave one of his shrugs. “He’s working these homicides for both agencies.”
His eyes drifted to the monitor.
“Desjardins?”
“Yes. Look at this.”
He circled the table and stood behind me. I pointed at the cap.
“It’s from the University of South Carolina.”
“You can’t lick our Cocks.”
“You’ve heard of the team.”
“With a motto like that, who hasn’t?”
“That’s not the official slogan.”
“Cherokee’s decor suggested he was an athletic supporter.”
I ignored that.
“In all the photos you’ve seen of him, was Cherokee ever wearing headgear?”
Charbonneau thought a moment.
“No. So what?”
“Maybe the cap isn’t his. Maybe it belongs to his killer.”
“Dorsey?”
I told him about the pictures of Lyle Crease.
“So the guy spent some time in South Carolina. Big deal. Half the population of Quebec vacations down there.”
“Why would Crease take a sudden interest in me after I dug up those bodies?”
“Aside from the fact that you’re cute as a sea monkey?”
“Aside from that.”
“O.K., when things quiet down we might reel Crease in and query him on Gately and Martineau. But there’s nothing to tie him to the Cherokee hit.”
I told him about the Myrtle Beach photo.
“Crease and Cherokee knew each other, and that photo was not of a Boy Scout camporee.”
“A trip through Dixie back in the Ice Age. Crease is a journalist. He might have been covering a story.”
Charbonneau flipped the envelope onto the table.
“Look, Cherokee had chemo. He probably got the cap when comb-overs were no longer an option. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll check Crease out.”
When he’d gone, I turned back to the tape, my mind zigzagging through a labyrinth of explanations. The cap could belong to Dorsey. He claimed to have knowledge of Savannah Osprey. Maybe he’d been to South Carolina.
When the camera moved off along the wall I hit rewind and did another sweep through the corner. Bloodstains. Guitar. Birdcage. Cap.
Then the lens drew very close, and I felt movement in the tiny hairs at the back of my neck. I leaned in and squinted at the screen, hoping to make sense of what I’d spotted. It was fuzzy, but definitely there.
I rewound the tape, switched off the VCR, and hurried from the room. If what I saw was real, Claudel and Charbonneau would have to find another theory.
• • •
I took the stairs to the thirteenth floor and went to a large window opening onto a room filled with shelves and lined by storage lockers. A small blue sign identified it as the Salle des Exhibits. The property room.
A uniform from the SQ was sliding a deer rifle across the counter. I waited while the clerk filled out forms, handed the officer a receipt, then tagged the gun and carried it to the storage area. When she returned I showed her the Cherokee case numbers.
“Could you check to see if the evidence inventory includes an athletic cap?”
“There was a long list for that case,” she said, entering the number into a computer. “This may take a moment.”
Her eyes scanned the screen.
“Yes, here it is. There was a cap.” She read the text. “It went to biology for testing on a bloodstain, but it’s back.”
She disappeared into the shelves and returned after several minutes with a Ziploc plastic bag. In it I could see the red cap.
“Do you need to sign it out?”
“If it’s all right I’ll just take a look at it here.”
“Sure.”
I zipped open the seal and slid the cap onto the counter. Gently raising the brim, I studied the hat’s interior.
There it was. Dandruff.
I resealed the cap and thanked the technician. Then I flew to my office and snatched up the phone.
CLAUDEL AND QUICKWATER WERE NOT AT CARCAJOU HEAD-quarters. Neither Claudel nor Charbonneau was at CUM headquarters. I left messages, and returned to Ronald Gilbert’s office.
“Thanks for the tape.”
“Did it help?”
“May I ask you about something?”
“Please.”
“Do you remember the corner of the room with the guitar and birdcage stacked against the wall?”
“Yes.”
“There was a cap there.”
“I remember it.”
“Did you make observations on the bloodstaining?”
“Certainly.”
“I’m interested in the cap’s position at the time of the murder. Would your notes have anything on that?”
“I don’t need my notes. I recall perfectly. The stain and spatter on the cap came from the blunt object attack near that corner.”
“Not the gunshot.”
“No. That would look quite different. And the orientation of the spatter was consistent with the type of assault we discussed.”
“With Cherokee lying on the floor.”
“Yes.”
“Was he wearing the cap?”
“Oh my, no. That’s impossible. The cap was behind the birdcage when struck by most of the spatter.”
“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 off.
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 chaud, frites, et Coke Diète, s’il vous plaît,” I told the man at the cash register. Why did the literal translation of hot dog in French still sound strange to me?
“Steamé ou grillé?”
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. Damn! 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 may be 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 himself 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.”
“True.”
“And Savannah Osprey.”
Silence hummed across the wire.
“What about asking Rinaldi?”
“Frog?”
“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 cheeks 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.
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.
&nbs
p; 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.
“Oui?”
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.