Deadly Decisions (22 page)

“C’est une promotion ou une réduction?”

I smiled, wondering if Quickwater and Claudel would see the error as a promotion or demotion, then resumed sorting. So far I was up to two lamb dinners, a pot roast, and more grilled chicken than I planned to count.

By ten I’d finished with the bones and written a detailed narrative saying that the remains were not human.

I took the report to the secretarial pool, then returned to my office and dialed Carcajou headquarters. Jacques Roy was in a meeting and wouldn’t be free until late afternoon. I left my name and number. I tried Claudel, left the same message. Charbonneau. Same name, same number. Please call. I thought of using pagers, decided the situation was not that urgent.

Frustrated, I swiveled my chair and surveyed the river.

I couldn’t examine the microstructure of the Myrtle Beach bones because the slides weren’t ready. God knew when I’d have DNA results, or if there would be anything there to sequence.

I thought of calling Kate Brophy, but didn’t want to pressure her. Besides, she was as concerned about the Osprey case as I was. More so. If she discovered anything she’d let me know.

Now what?

LaManche was downstairs performing an autopsy on Cherokee. I could drop in, maybe assuage my doubts about the killing.

Pass. I was not enthused at the thought of studying another biker spread out on a table.

I decided to organize the material Kate had given me. I’d left in such a rush that I hadn’t gone through it. We’d done a quick triage, packed everything into my briefcase, signed for possession, and raced to catch a flight.

I emptied the case onto my desk and stacked the photos to my left, the folders to my right. I picked a brown envelope, shook several five-by-sevens onto the blotter, and flipped one over. It was labeled on the back with a date, location, event, name, and several reference numbers.

I reversed the photo and stared into the face of Martin “Deluxe” DeLuccio, immortalized on July 23, 1992, during a run to Wilmington, North Carolina.

The subject’s eyes were hidden by dark lenses the size of quarters, and a twisted bandanna circled his head. His sleeveless denim jacket bore the grinning skull and crossed pistons of the Outlaws motorcycle club. The bottom rocker identified its owner as a member of the Lexington chapter.

The biker’s flesh appeared puffy, his jawline slack, and a large gut bulged below the jacket. The camera had caught him straddling a powerful hog, a Michelob in his left hand, a vacuous expression on his face. Deluxe looked as if he’d need instructions to use toilet paper.

I was moving on when the telephone rang. I laid Eli “Robin” Hood next to Deluxe and picked up, hoping it was Roy.

It wasn’t.

A gravelly voice asked for me, dropping the final long “e” from my first name, but correctly pronouncing the second. The man was a stranger, and obviously an Anglophone. I answered in English.

“This is Dr. Brennan.”

There was a long pause during which I could hear clanging, and what sounded like a public address system.

“This is Dr. Brennan,” I repeated.

I heard a throat cleared, then breathing. Finally a voice said, “This is George Dorsey.”

“Yes?” My mind scanned, but got no hits.

“You’re the one dug up those stiffs?”

The air had gone hollow, as if George Dorsey had cupped his hand around the mouthpiece.

“Yes.” Here we go.

“I saw your name in today’s pap—”

“Mr. Dorsey, if you have information about those individuals you should speak with one of the investigating officers.”

Let Claudel or Quickwater deal with the postmedia circus parade.

“Ain’t you with Carcajou?”

“Not in the sense you mean. The investigating officer—”

“That fuck has his head so far up his ass he’s going to need sonar just to find it.”

That got my attention.

“Have you spoken with Constable Quickwater?”

“I can’t speak with fuck-all while this moron Claudel is squeezing my nuts.”

“Excuse me?”

“This ass wipe has aspirations to higher rank, so I sit here sucking shit.”

For a moment no one spoke. The call sounded like it was coming from a bathysphere.

“He’s probably putting something together for CNN.”

I was growing impatient, but didn’t want to risk losing information that might be useful.

“Are you calling about the skeletons unearthed in St-Basile?”

I heard choking noises, then, “Shit, no.”

It was then that my brain locked on to the name.

George Dorsey was the suspect Claudel had locked up.

“Have you been charged, Mr. Dorsey?”

“Fuck, no.”

“Why are they holding you?”

“When they popped me I was holding six bumps of meth.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because none of these other fucks will listen. I didn’t whack Cherokee. That was unskilled labor.”

I felt my pulse increase.

“What do you mean?”

“That ain’t how brothers take care of business.”

“Are you saying Cherokee’s murder wasn’t gang-related?”

“Fuckin’ A.”

“Then who killed him?”

“Get your ass over here and I’ll lay it all out.”

I said nothing. Dorsey’s breath was loud in the silence.

“But this ain’t going to be a one-sided shuck.”

“I’ve got no reason to trust you.”

“And you ain’t my choice for Woman of the Year, but none of these jag-offs will listen. They’ve launched the D day of police fuck-ups and parked me right on Omaha Beach.”

“I’m impressed with your knowledge of history, Mr. Dorsey, but why should I believe you?”

“Got a better lead?”

I let the question dangle a moment. Loser though he was, George Dorsey had a point. And no one else appeared inclined to talk to me today.

I looked at my watch. Eleven-twenty.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

F
OR POLICING PURPOSES, THE
C
OMMUNAUTÉ URBAINE DE MONTRÉAL
is divided into four sections, each with a headquarters housing intervention, analysis and investigation divisions, and a detention center. Suspects arrested for murder or sexual assault are held at a facility near place Versailles, in the far eastern end of the city. All others await arraignment at one of the four sectional jails. For possession of methamphetamine, Dorsey went to his local facility, Op South.

The Op South headquarters is located at rue Guy and boulevard René Lévesque, on the outskirts of Centreville. This section is predominantly French and English, but it is also Mandarin, Estonian, Arabic, and Greek. It is separatist and federalist. It holds the vagrant and the affluent, the student and the stockbroker, the immigrant and the “
pur laine”
québécois.

The Op South is churches and bars, boutiques and sex shops, sprawling homes and walk-up flats. The murders of Emily Anne Toussaint and Yves Cherokee Desjardins had taken place within its borders.

As I turned off Guy into the lot, I passed through a group carrying placards and wearing signs. They’d spread down the sidewalk from the building next door, blue-collar workers picketing for higher pay. Good luck, I thought. Perhaps it was the political instability, perhaps the Canadian economy in general, but Quebec
Province was in a financial squeeze. Budgets were being cut, services curtailed. I hadn’t had a raise in seven years.

I entered at the main door and stepped to a counter to my right.

“I’m here to see George Dorsey,” I said to the guard on duty. She put down her snack cake and eyed me with boredom.

“Are you on the list?”

“Temperance Brennan. The prisoner asked to see me.”

She brushed chubby hands together, checked for crumbs, then entered something into a keyboard. Light reflected off her glasses as she leaned forward to read the monitor. Text scrolled down each lens, froze, then she spoke again without raising her eyes.

“Carcajou?” Ralph Nader couldn’t have sounded more dubious.

“Mm.”
Le Journal
thought so.

“Got an ID?”

She looked up and I showed her my security pass for the SQ building.

“No badge?”

“This was handy.”

“You’ll have to sign in and leave your things here.”

She flipped pages in a ledger, wrote something, then handed me the pen. I scribbled the time and my name. Then I slipped my purse off my shoulder and handed it across the counter.

“It’ll be a minute.”

Ms. Cupcake secured my bag in a metal locker, then picked up a phone and spoke a few words. Ten minutes later a key turned in a green metal door to my left, then it opened and a guard waved me in. He was skeletal, his uniform drooping from his bones like clothes on a hanger.

Guard number two swept me with a handheld metal detector, then indicated I should follow. Keys jangled on his belt as we turned right and headed down a corridor lighted by fluorescents and surveilled by wall and ceiling cameras. Straight ahead I could see a large holding cell, with a window facing the hall I was in, green bars facing the other. Inside, a half-dozen men lounged on wooden benches, sat or slept on the floor, or clung to the bars like captive primates.

Beyond the drunk tank was another green metal door, the words
Bloc Cellulaire
in bold white to its right, beside that another
counter. A guard was placing a bundle in one of a grid of cubicles, this one marked XYZ. I suspected a Mr. Xavier was arriving. He would not see his belt, shoelaces, jewelry, glasses, or other personal possessions until checkout.

“Man’s in here,” said the guard, thrusting his chin toward a door marked
Entrevue avocat,
the door attorneys used. I knew Dorsey would pass through an identical door marked
Entrevue détenu,
for the prisoners.

I thanked him and brushed past into a small room not designed to lift prisoner or visitor morale. The walls were yellow, the trim green, the only furnishings a red vinyl counter, a wooden stool fixed to the floor, and a wall phone.

George Dorsey sat on the opposite side of a large rectangular window, back rounded, hands dangling between his knees.

“Push the button when you’re done,” said the guard.

With that he closed the door and we were alone.

Dorsey didn’t move but his eyes locked on me as I crossed to the counter and picked up the handset.

I flashed on Gran’s painting. Jesus, skull circled with thorns, forehead covered with droplets of blood. No matter where I went the gaze followed. Look, the eyes were open. Blink, they were closed. The picture was so unnerving I avoided my grandmother’s bedroom my entire childhood. Dorsey had the same eyes.

Inwardly trembling, I sat and folded my hands on the countertop. The man across from me was thin and wiry, with a hump nose and razor-blade lips. A scar started at his left temple, looped his cheek, and disappeared into a circle of plumage around his mouth. His head was shaved, his only hair a dark bolt of lightning that touched down just above the scar’s terminus.

I waited for him to pick up the phone and break the silence. Outside our little room I heard voices and the clang of steel against steel. Despite the intensity of his stare, Dorsey looked as though he hadn’t slept in a while.

After several birthdays Dorsey smiled. The lips disappeared and small, yellow teeth took their place. But there was no mirth in his eyes. With a jerky motion he yanked the receiver from its cradle and placed it to his ear.

“You’ve got balls coming here, lady.”

I shrugged.

“Got cigarettes?”

“Don’t smoke.”

He drew both feet in, flexed his toes, and jiggled one leg up and down on the ball of his foot. Again he went mute. Then, “I had nothing to do with that piece of work in Pointe-St-Charles.”

“So you said.” I pictured the gruesome scene at Les Appartements du Soleil.

“This asshole Claudel is trying to cut my dick off. Figures if he sweats me hard enough I’ll cop to burning Cherokee.”

The jiggling intensified.

“Sergeant-Detective Claudel is simply doing his job.”

“Sergeant-Detective Claudel couldn’t blow a fart and get it right.”

There were times I agreed with that assessment.

“Did you know Cherokee Desjardins?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

He ran a finger back and forth along a groove on the countertop.

“Did you know he was dealing?”

Now Dorsey shrugged.

I waited.

“Maybe the stuff was for personal use. You know, medicinal. I heard he had health problems.”

He ran the finger through the hair on his chin, then went back to working the groove.

“You were seen at Desjardins’ building around the time he was shot. They found a bloody jacket in your apartment.”

“The jacket ain’t mine.”

“And O.J. never owned the gloves.”

“What kind of moron is gonna keep souvenirs after a hit?”

He had a point.

“Why were you in that neighborhood?”

“That’s my business.”

He shot forward and spread his elbows on the counter. My heart did a hop, but I didn’t flinch.

“And it had nothing to do with wasting Cherokee.”