Fatal Voyage (33 page)

 I broke at one-thirty and ate my bagel with cream cheese, banana, and
Chips Ahoy! cookies while watching boats sailing under cars driving over the Jacques Carrier
Bridge far below my office window. By two I was back with the bones, and by four-thirty I had
finished my analysis.

 The victim could have shattered her jaw, orbit, and cheekbone and
smashed the depressed fractures into her forehead by falling. From a hot air balloon or high-rise
building.

 I called Claudel and left a verbal opinion of homicide, locked up, and
went home.

 I spent another night by myself, cooking and eating a chicken breast,
watching a rerun of Northern Exposure, reading a few chapters of a novel by James Lee Burke. It
was as though Ryan had dropped from the planet.

 I was asleep by eleven.

 The next day was spent documenting the battered lady: photographing my
findings with regard to biological profile and photographing, diagramming, describing, and
explaining the injury patterns on her skull and face. By late afternoon I’d compiled a report and
left it in the secretarial office. I was removing my lab coat when Ryan appeared at my office
door.

 “Need a lift to the funeral?”

 “Rough couple of days?” I asked, taking my purse from the bottom desk
drawer.

 “There’s not a lot of sunshine in the squad.”

“No,” I said, meeting his gaze.

 “I’m completely jammed up with this Petricelli thing.”

 “Yes.” My eyes never left his.

 “Turns out Metraux isn’t quite so sure about eyeballing Pepper.”

 “Because of Bertrand?”

 He shrugged.

 “These bastards will dime their own mothers for an afternoon out.”

 “Risky.”

 “As tap water in Tijuana. Do you want the ride?”

 “If it’s not too much trouble.”

 “I’ll pick you up at eight-fifteen.”

 Since Sergent-detective Jean Bertrand had died while on duty, he was
given full state honors. La Direction des Communications of the Surete du Quebec had informed
every police force in North America, using the CPIC system in Canada and the NCIC system in the
United States. An honor guard flanked the casket at the funeral parlor. The body was escorted
from there to the church, from the church to the cemetery.

 While I had expected a large turnout, I was astounded by the mass of
people who showed up. In addition to Bertrand’s family and friends, his fellow SQ officers,
members of the CUM, and many from the medico-legal lab, it looked like every police department in
Canada, and many in the United States, had sent representatives. French and English media sent
reporters and TV crews.

 By noon, the bits of Bertrand that passed for his corpse lay in the
ground at the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery, and Ryan and I were winding our way down the
mountain toward Centre-ville.

 “When do you fly out?” he asked, splitting off Cote-des-Neiges onto rue
St.-Mathieu.

 “Eleven-fifty tomorrow morning.”

 “I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty.”

 “If you’re aspiring to a position as my chauffeur, the pay is
lousy.”

 The joke plunged to its death before I’d finished saying it.

 “I’m on the same flight.”

 “Why?”

 “Last night the Charlotte PD busted an Atlanta lowlife named Pecan
Billie Holmes.”

 He dug a pack of du Maurier’s from his pocket, tapped one out on the
steering wheel, and placed it between his lips. After lighting up with one hand, he inhaled, then
blew smoke through both nostrils. I lowered my window.

 “Seems the Pecan had a lot to say about a certain telephone tip to the
FBI.”

 THE NEXT FEW DAYS FELT LIKE A PLUNGE ON THE MIND ERASER AT Six
Flags.

 After weeks of the slow climb, suddenly everything broke. But there was
nothing amusing about the ride.

 It was late afternoon when Ryan and I touched down in Charlotte. In our
absence, fall had caught on, and a strong breeze flapped our jackets as we walked to the parking
garage.

 We drove directly downtown to the FBI office at Second and Tryon.

 Mcmahon had just returned from interviewing Pecan Billie Holmes at the
jail.

 “Holmes was coked to the eyeballs when they hauled his butt to the bag
last night, yelling and screaming, offering to roll over on everything back to a Little League
game his team threw in the fourth grade.”

 “Who is this guy?” Ryan.

 “A thirty-eight-year-old three-time loser. Hangs on the fringes of the
Atlanta biker scene.”

 “Hells Angels?”

 Mcmahon nodded.

 “He’s not a full patcher, doesn’t have the brains of a banana Popsicle
The club tolerates him as long as he’s useful.”

 “What was Holmes doing in Charlotte?”

 “Probably here for a Rotary luncheon,” Mcmahon said.

 “Does Holmes really know who phoned in the bomb tip?” I asked.

 “At four A.M. he had an inside track. That’s why the arresting officers
phoned us. By the time I got there, a night’s sleep had dulled the Pecan’s enthusiasm for
sharing.”

 Mcmahon lifted a mug from his desk, swirled and examined the contents
as one might a stool sample.

 “Fortunately, at the time of his arrest the scumbag was on probation
for bouncing rubber all over Atlanta. We were able to persuade him that full disclosure was in
his own best interest.”

 “And?”

 “Holmes swears he was present when the scheme was hatched.”

 “Where?”

 “The Claremont Lounge in midtown Atlanta. That’s about six blocks from
the pay phone where the call was made.”

 Mcmahon set down the mug.

 “Holmes says he was drinking and snorting blow with a couple of Angels
named Harvey Poteet and Neal Tannahill. The boys were talking about Pepper Petricelli and the
crash when Poteet decided it would be cool to diddle the FBI with a false lead.”

 “Why?”

 “Barstool brilliance. If Petricelli was alive, it would scare him into
silence. If he’d gone down with the plane, a message would go out. Talk and the brothers erase
you from the planet. A freebie.”

 “Why would these assholes talk business in front of an outsider?”

 “Poteet and Tannahill were doing lines in Holmes’s car. Our hero was
out cold in the backseat. Or so they thought.”

 “So the whole thing was a hoax,” I said.

 “Appears so.” Mcmahon moved the mug beyond the edge of the blotter.

 “Metraux’s backing off on his Petricelli sighting,” Ryan added.

 “There’s a surprise.”

 Down the hall a phone rang. A voice called out. Heels clicked down the
corridor.

 “Looks like your partner and his prisoner just got on the wrong
flight.”

 “So the Sri Lankans are clean, Simington is up for Humanitarian of the
Year, and the Angels are nothing but merry pranksters. We’re back to square one with a blown
plane and no explanation.” Ryan.

 “I got a call from Magnus Jackson as I was leaving Bryson City. He
claims his investigators are picking up evidence of slow burning.”

 “What kind of evidence?” I asked. “Geometric burn patterns on
debris.”

 “Which means?”

 “Fire prior to the explosion.”

 “A mechanical problem?”

 Mcmahon shrugged.

 “They can separate pre crash from post crash burning?” I pushed.

 “Sounds like crap to me.”

 Mcmahon grabbed the mug and got out of his chair. “So the Pecan may be
a hero.” Ryan and I stood.

 “And Metraux’s not finding a seller’s market,” said Ryan. “Ain’t life
grand.”

 I hadn’t told Ryan about Parker Davenport’s insinuations concerning
himself and Bertrand. I did so now, outside the Adams Mark Hotel. Ryan listened, hands tight on
his knees, eyes straight ahead.

 “That rat-brained little prick.” Headlights moved across his face,
distorting lines and planes rigid with anger.

 “This should dampen that line of reasoning.”

 “Yes.”

 “I’m sure Davenport’s reaming me has nothing to do with you or
Bertrand.

 That was a sidebar to his real agenda.“

 “Which is?”

 “I have every intention of finding out.”

 Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.

 “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

 “Powerful people.”

 His palms rubbed up then down his jeans, then he reached over and took
my hand.

 “Sure I can’t buy you dinner?”

 “I need to collect my cat.”

 Ryan dropped my hand, flipped the handle, and got out of the car.

 “I’ll call you in the morning,” I said.

 He slammed the door and was gone.

 Back at the Annex, my answering machine flashed four messages.

 Anne.

 Ron Gillman.

 Two hang-ups.

 I dialed Gillman’s pager. He phoned back before I’d filled Birdie’s
bowls.

 “Krueger says you’ve got a match on the DNA.”

 My stomach and tonsils changed places.

 “He’s sure?”

 “One chance in seventy god zillion of error. Or whatever figures those
guys throw around.”

 “The tooth and foot come from the same person?” I still couldn’t
believe it.

 “Yes. Go get your warrant.”

 I dialed Lucy Crowe. The sheriff was out, but a deputy promised to find
her.

 There was no answer in Ryan’s room.

 Anne picked up on the first ring.

 “Figure out who your bomber is?”

 “We figured out who it isn’t.”

 “That’s progress. How about dinner?”

 “Where’s Ted?”

 “At a sales meeting in Orlando.”

 My cupboard would have made Mother Hubbard proud. And I was so agitated
I knew sitting at home would be sheer torture.

 “Foster’s in thirty minutes?”

 “I’ll be there.”

 Foster’s Tavern is a subterranean hideaway with somber wood paneling
and

 tufted black leather rising to mid wall A carved bar wraps around
one

 end, battered tables fill the other. Blood cousin to the Selwyn
Avenue

 Pub, the tavern is small, dark, and flawlessly Irish. Anne had the

 Guinness stew and Chardonnay. Were I in the game, I’d have gone for
a

 black and tan, but Anne always had

 Chardonnay. I ordered corned beef and cabbage, a Perrier with lime.

 Normally I ask for lemon, but the green seemed more fitting.

 “So who’s been ruled out?” Anne asked, fmgertipping a speck from her
wine.

 “I can’t really discuss that, but there’s other progress I can tell you
about.”

 “You’ve figured out the early temperature history of the solar
system.”

 She flicked the particle. Her hair looked blonder than I
remembered.

 “That was last week. Did you lighten your hair?”

 “A mistake. What’s this progress?” I told her about the DNA hit.

 “So your foot belongs to whoever went soupy inside the wall.”

 “And it wasn’t any jive deer.”

 “Who was it?”

 “I’ll bet the farm it was Jeremiah Mitchell.”

 “The black Cherokee.”

 “Yes.”

 “Now what?”

 “I’m waiting for a call from the Swain County sheriff. With the DNA
match, a warrant should be a piece of cake. Even from that medieval moron of a magistrate.”

 “Nice alliteration.”

 “Thanks.”

 Over dinner, we decided on Wild Dunes at Thanksgiving. The rest of the
time Anne described her trip to England. I listened.

 “Did you see anything besides cathedrals and monuments?” I asked when
she paused for breath.

 “Caves.”

 “Caves?”

 “Totally bizarre. This guy named Francis Dashwood had them dug sometime
in the eighteenth century. He wanted a Gothic atmosphere, so he had this corny three-sided stone
structure built around the entrance.

 Cathedral windows, doors, and arches, a stone-bordered portal in the
center, and a black wrought-iron fence at each side. Creates a sort of courtyard. Gothic chic,
complete with souvenir shop, cafe, and white plastic tables and chairs for the thirsty medieval
tourist.“

 She took a sip of wine.

 “You enter the caves through a long white tunnel with a low, rounded
ceiling.”

 “Why white?”

 “It’s all fake. The caves were chiseled out of chalk.”

 “Where are they?”

 “West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. It’s about an hour’s drive northwest
of London. Someone told Ted about the place, so we had to stop off on our way to Oxford.” She
rolled her eyes. “Tempe, these caves are mon do bizarro. Passages meander all over the place,
with little rooms and crannies and side branches. And they’re filled with all sorts of creepy
carvings.”

 “Creepy?”

 “Most of the engravings look like the work of kids, but they’re way too
grotesque.”

 “Like what?”

 “A face with a cross gouged into its forehead, another wearing a
sorcerer’s hat, the mouth and eyes perfect O’s.”

 She gave what she must have considered a ghostly grimace.

 “Tunnels split, then rejoin, then change direction for no reason.

 There’s a Banqueting Hall, and a River Styx, complete with fake
stalactites, that you have to cross to enter a chamber called the Inner Temple. My personal
favorite was a winding passage to nowhere stuffed with tacky mannequins of Dashwood and his
cronies.“

 “Why did Dashwood dig the caves?”

 “Maybe he had more money than brains. The guy’s mausoleum is there,
too.

 Looks like the Coliseum.“

 She drained her wine, swallowed quickly as another idea struck her.

 “Or maybe Frank was an eighteenth-century Walt Disney. Planned to make
millions opening the place as a tourist attraction.”

 “Didn’t they provide an explanation?”

 “Yeah. Outside the cave there’s a long brick corridor with wall
hangings that give the history. I was taking pictures, so I didn’t read them. Ted did.”

 She rechecked her glass, found it still empty.

 “Just down the road, there’s an elaborate English manor called
Medmenham Abbey. The place was built by twelfth-century Cistercian monks, but Dashwood bought and
renovated it to use as a country getaway Gothic walls, crumbling entrance with engraved motto
arching above.” She said this in a breathy voice, moving her hand in a semicircle above her
head. Anne is a real estate agent and sometimes describes things in Realtorese.