Deadly Decisions (14 page)

And why was she buried at the biker clubhouse? Was her death linked to the murders of Gately and Martineau, or was she just another victim in the grim tradition of biker violence against women? Was her life interrupted for a premeditated reason, or had she merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, like little Emily Anne Toussaint?

As I wound my way through rush hour traffic I again felt pain and anger. Pain over a life only partly lived, anger at the callousness of those who had taken it.

And I considered Andrew Ryan, with his sky blue eyes and burning intensity. Even the smell of him used to make me happy. How could I have missed his other side, his double life? Could it really be so? My brain told me yes. Bertrand swore it was true. Why did my heart refuse to budge?

My thoughts ran in useless circles. My neck hurt and I could feel a pounding behind my left eye.

I turned onto Parthenais and pulled into an empty spot. Then I leaned back and called a time-out. I needed a respite.

I would tell Claudel what I’d learned, then there would be no bones or thoughts of Ryan for an entire weekend. I would do nothing more serious than peruse Roy’s biker manual. I would read, shop, and go to Isabelle’s party. But come Monday, I would make a second vow. I would continue my search for Emily Anne’s killers and I would also find a name for The Girl in the Viper pit.

I
T WAS AFTER SEVEN WHEN
I
GOT HOME.

At the lab I’d secured the bones and shunt, then phoned Claudel to pass along what I’d learned from Russell. We decided that I’d research all cases from the past ten years involving partial skeletons. He’d continue with his list of missing girls. If neither of us had a hit by the end of the day on Monday, we’d enter the case into CPIC. That failing, we’d send it south into the NCIC system.

That sounded like a plan.

Following a change of clothes and a brief conversation with Birdie, I walked to McKay, climbed to the gym on the top floor, and worked out for an hour. Afterward I bought a rotisserie chicken from the butcher, and loaded up on veggies and fruit.

Back home I microwaved green beans and split the chicken, stashing half in the refrigerator for Saturday lunch. Then I got out my bottle of Maurice’s Piggy Park barbecue sauce.

Montreal is a veritable smorgasbord, home to many of the world’s finest restaurants. Chinese. German. Thai. Mexican. Lebanese. No ethnic group is unrepresented. For a fast-food lunch or a lingering gourmet supper the city is unsurpassed. Its one failing lies in the art of barbecue.

In Quebec what poses as barbecue sauce is a brown gravy, as tasteless and odorless as carbon monoxide. A diligent seeker can
find the tomato-based Texas variety, but the vinegar-and-mustard concoction of the eastern Carolinas is a delicacy I am forced to import. Montreal friends eyeing the golden potion are skeptical. One taste and they’re hooked.

I poured Maurice’s sauce into a small bowl, carried everything to the living room, and dined in front of the tube. By 9
P.M.
the weekend was still going well. The hardest decision up to that point involved sports allegiance. Though the Cubs were taking on the Braves, I opted for the NBA play-offs, and cheered the Hornets to a 102–87 victory over the Knicks.

Bird was torn, attracted by the smell of chicken, but alarmed by the outbursts and arm waving. He spent the night across the room, chin on his paws, eyes flying open every time I yelled. At eleven he followed me to bed, where he circled twice before settling behind my knees. We were both asleep in minutes.

•    •    •

I was awakened by the sound of the doorbell. Door chirp would be more correct. When a visitor buzzes for entry to my building, the system twitters like a sparrow with hiccups.

The window shade was a pale gray, and the digits on the clock glowed eight-fifteen. Bird was no longer pressed to my legs. I threw back the covers and grabbed a robe.

When I stumbled into the hall I was greeted by an enormous green eye. My hands flew to my chest and I took an involuntary step back from the security monitor.

Chirrrrrrrrup.

The eye withdrew and was replaced by my nephew’s face. He mugged at the camera, tipping his head from side to side and stretching the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

I pressed the button to allow him in. Birdie brushed my legs, then looked up with round yellow eyes.

“Don’t ask me, Bird.”

Kit rounded the corner with a duffel bag in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other, and a backpack slung from each shoulder. He wore a multicolored knit hat that looked as though it would be big in Guatemala.

“Auntie T,” he boomed in his rowdy Texas drawl.

“Shhh.” I held a finger to my lips. “It’s Saturday morning.”

I stepped back and held the door wide. As he brushed past I could smell wood smoke and mildew and something like mushrooms or moss.

He dropped the duffel and packs and gave me a hug. When he released me and pulled off the hat his hair did an Edward Scissorhands impression.

“Nice do, Auntie.”

“You are
not
in a position to talk,” I said, tucking strands behind my ears.

He held out the paper bag.

“A little something from the waters of Vermont.” He spotted Birdie. “Hey, Bird. How’s my bud?”

The cat bolted for the bedroom.

I peered down the empty hallway.

“Is Howard with you?”

“Nope. He headed his heinie south.”

“Oh?” As I closed the door I felt a tickle of apprehension.

“Yessir. Needed to get back to the oil game. But I’m going to hang for a while, if that’s cool with you?”

“Sure, Kit. That’s great.” Awhile? I eyed the mound of luggage and remembered my last visit from his mother. My sister Harry had come for a five-day conference and ended up staying for weeks.

“But right now I’m bushed. Is it O.K. if I shower and siesta for a few? We broke camp before the sun was even thinking about getting up.”

“Sleep as long as you like. Then I want to hear about your trip.” And definitely bathe, I thought.

I got towels and showed him the guest room. Then I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt and walked to the corner
dépanneur
to buy a
Gazette.
When I returned wet towels lay on the bathroom floor and the bedroom door was shut.

I went to the kitchen and sniffed Kit’s package. Definitely fish. Adding an outer wrapper of plastic, I stashed it in the refrigerator pending further instructions. Then I made coffee and settled with the paper at the dining room table.

That’s when the weekend went off course.

DEATH TOLL REACHES 120:
BODIES OF TWO MORE BIKERS IDENTIFIED

The story was on the third page of the front section. I’d expected some coverage. What I hadn’t expected was the photo. The image was grainy, shot from a distance with a powerful telephoto lens, but the subject was recognizable.

I was kneeling by a grave with skull in hand. As usual the caption identified me as “. . . an American forensic anthropologist working for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale.”

The shot was so poorly focused I was unsure if it had been snapped at the Vipers’ clubhouse, or if it was an old file photo taken at another site. My appearance and equipment vary little from dig to dig, and there was nothing in the frame to identify a specific location.

The article was accompanied by three other photos: the usual head shots of the victims, and a view of the entrance to the Vipers’ clubhouse. It described the exhumation of Gately and Martineau, and recounted the story of their disappearance. There was a brief recap of the biker war, and an explanation of the revised body count.

O.K. Those facts might have been released through official channels. What followed was what shocked me.

The text went on to discuss a baffling third victim, accurately describing the partial remains found in the other pit. It concluded by stating that, to date, the young woman’s identity remained a mystery.

How the hell had they gotten that?

I felt the beginnings of agitation. While I am not fond of media attention, I am particularly uneasy when it threatens to jeopardize one of my cases. Who would have released the information?

I took a long, deep breath and got up to reheat my coffee.

O.K. Someone leaked information. So what?

So that shouldn’t happen, that’s what.

I punched the quick-timer button on the microwave.

True. But will it compromise the case?

I thought about that.

The beeper sounded and I removed my mug.

No. In fact, the article could trigger a useful tip. Someone might come forward with a name.

So no harm done. But had there been an official decision to release that information? Probably not or I would have known about it.

Someone had talked to the press and that was unacceptable. Who knew about the girl’s bones? Quickwater? Claudel? A member of the Ident section? A lab technician? Dr. Russell?

You’re not going to figure it out this weekend.

True again.

Intending to deal with the question on Monday, I circled my mind back to reading, shopping. And Isabelle’s party.

Kit.

Oh.

I went to the phone and dialed Isabelle’s number.

“Bonjour.”

“It’s me, Isabelle.”

“Tempe, don’t you even think about canceling on me.” I could hear
The Rite of Spring
playing in the background, and knew she must be cooking. Isabelle always cooks to Stravinsky.

“Well, something has come up—”

“The only thing that would excuse you tonight would be a fatal fall from a seven forty-seven. Yours.”

“My nephew showed up this morning and he’s going to be staying with me awhile.”

“Oui?”

“I don’t feel right about leaving him alone on his first day here.”

“But of course not. You will bring this nephew with you tonight.”

“He’s nineteen.”

“
Extraordinaire.
I think I was once that age. I believe it was the sixties. I had to go through the sixties to get to the seventies. I remember taking LSD and wearing a great many bad outfits. I will see you and this young man at seven-thirty.”

I agreed and rang off.

Right. Now to convince my nephew to spend Saturday night eating lamb chops and snails with a gaggle of seniors.

As it turned out that wasn’t a problem. Kit emerged around
three-fifteen, rumpled and starving. He finished the leftover chicken and asked if he could do some laundry. When I mentioned the supper he readily agreed.

I made a note to call Harry. Kit’s conviviality was not what I’d expected based on my daughter Katy’s teenage years. But Kit was a stranger in town and probably had nowhere else to hang out.

I spent the next few hours finishing a reference letter for a student, cleaning my bedroom, and explaining detergents and fabric settings to my nephew. Around six I zipped to Le Faubourg for a bottle of wine and a small bouquet.

•    •    •

Isabelle lives on Île-des-Sœurs, a small chunk of land in the St. Lawrence owned for generations by the gray nuns, but recently colonized by an order of Yuppies. A “mixed use” community, the island’s condos, town houses, private homes, and high-rise apartments are tastefully integrated with tennis clubs, strip malls, bicycle paths, and carefully tended green spaces. The island is connected to the south shore via the Champlain Bridge, and to Montreal by two small bridges.

Isabelle’s condo is on the top floor of a two-building complex at the far northern tip. Following the failure of her third marriage, she signed divorce papers, sold her home and all its contents, and sallied forth to the clean-slate Île-des-Sœurs. The only belongings she brought along were her treasured CDs and photo albums.

Wanting something in keeping with her new “what the hell” mind-set, Isabelle had chosen a safari theme. Her decorator had blended natural fabrics that looked like they’d been approved by the World Wildlife Fund with simulated leopard and tiger skin. The walls were hung with animal prints, and a collection of African carvings dotted a glass-topped coffee table, the legs of which resembled elephant feet. The king-sized bed in the master suite was swathed in a canopy of mosquito netting.

Kit was enthralled, or at least appeared to be. As Isabelle gave us a tour he asked question after question about the origin of each of her possessions. I wasn’t sure of the depth of his interest, but was pleased at his social acumen.

It was not the decor but the view that captivated me. One guest
was still expected, so after Kit and I had been issued drinks and had met the other attendees, I stepped onto the balcony to take it in.

A light rain was falling, and across the river the skyline twinkled in every color imaginable. The mountain loomed over the buildings of Centreville, massive and black. I could see the lights of the cross high up on its flank.

From inside I heard the doorbell sound, then Isabelle called my name. I took one last look and went inside.