Deadly Decisions (36 page)

Kit’s face froze. Then his eyes dropped and he turned away.

“Whatever.” He shrugged.

I waited for the click of his bedroom door, then dialed Isabelle’s number. She answered after four rings, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Mon Dieu,
I was buried in the back of the closet. I’ve misplaced
my Vuitton overnighter and can’t imagine where it is. And, really, nothing else will do.”

“Isabelle, I need some information.”

My tone suggested I was not in the mood for a luggage discussion.

“Oui?”

“I’d like to know about Lyle Crease.”

“Ahhh, Tempe, you little pixie. I knew you would change your mind.”

Like hell. “Tell me about him.”

“He’s cute, eh?”

As a mealworm, I thought, but said nothing.

“And you know he is an investigative reporter with CTV. Very glamorous.”

“How long has he done that?”

“How long?”

“Yes. How long?”

“Mon Dieu,
forever.”

“How many years?”

“Well, I’m not sure. But he’s been on the air as long as I can remember.”

“What did he do before that?”

“Before that?”

“Yes. Before CTV.” This was harder than questioning George Dorsey.

“Let me think.” I heard a soft ticking, and pictured lacquered nails tapping the handset. “I know the answer to this, Tempe, because Véronique told me. Véronique hosts a talk show on Radio-Canada now, interviews celebrities, but she started out doing the weather at CTV. Do you know her?”

“No.” My left eye was beginning to throb.

“She dated Lyle briefl—”

“I’m sure I’ve seen her.”

“I think she told me Lyle was hired away from an American newspaper. No. Wait, this is coming back to me.” Tick. Tick. Tick. “It was a paper somewhere out west. Alberta, I think. But originally he comes from the States. Or maybe he went to school down there.”

“Do you know which state?”

“Somewhere in the South, I think. You should like that.”

“When did he come to Canada?”

“Oh my goodness, I have no idea.”

“Where does he live?”

“Off the island, I think. Or maybe downtown.”

“Does he have family here?”

“Sorry.”

“How well do you know Lyle Crease?”

“I am not his confidante, Tempe.” Her tone was becoming defensive.

“But you tried to pair me up with him!” I tried to keep my voice neutral but the irritation curled around the edges.

“You needn’t put it like that. The gentleman asked to meet you, and I saw no reason to refuse. It’s not as though your love life has been bountiful this year.”

“Hold it. Back up. It was Crease’s idea that we meet?”

“Yes.” Guarded.

“When was this?”

“I don’t know, Tempe. I ran into him at
L’Express,
you know, that bistro on rue St-Denis th—”

“Yes.”

“Lyle saw your picture in the paper and was absolutely smitten. Or so he said, though not in those exact words. Anyway, we were talking, and one thing led to another, and before I could help myself I’d invited him to dinner.”

Tick. Tick.

“And really, he wasn’t so bad. In fact, he was quite charming.”

“Um.” So was Ted Bundy.

For a few moments no one spoke.

“Are you angry with me, Tempe?”

“No, I’m not angry.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll phone Véronique an—”

“No. Never mind. It’s not important.”

The last thing I needed was an alert to Lyle Crease.

“I was just curious. Have a good trip, Isabelle.”

“Merci.
Where do you suppose that overnighter has gone?”

“Try your storage locker.”

“Bonne idée. Bonsoir, Tempe.”

When we disconnected, I realized I hadn’t asked where she was going.

•    •    •

An hour later the mental commingling began. As I lay in bed, trying to block out Kit’s music, images, facts, and questions floated to the surface then sank into the deep, like tropical fish in a subliminal tank.

Image. Lyle Crease pouring wine.

Fact. Crease had finagled the introduction. He was at St-Basile-le-Grand and knew about the skeletons, and had seen the article in the
Gazette,
before Isabelle’s dinner party.

Questions. Why did he want to meet me? Was his request linked to the discovery of the burials? Was he simply looking for an inside scoop, or did he have other reasons for wanting information?

Image. A young Lyle Crease on a chopped hog.

Fact. Crease had ties to the Southern states.

Questions. What was Crease doing with the homeboys? Had he stolen the Silvestre funeral photo from me? If so, why? Could his past somehow endanger him now? Whom did he fear?

Image. A hyena redneck lumbering up my block.

Fact. Besides initial fear, the man had triggered something in my psyche.

Questions. Had Kit been lying when I asked about visitors? Why? Who was the goon in the baseball cap? Why did the man provoke such a strong reaction in me?

Image. LaManche on tubes and life support.

Fact. The pathologist was in his sixties and had never taken time for exercise or a proper diet.

Questions. Would he survive? Would he ever return to work?

Image. Ryan slouching on a barroom stool.

Fact. He was undercover, and hadn’t gone over.

Questions. Had his actions on my behalf jeopardized his cover? Was he in danger? Had I contributed to that?

These musings mingled with more mundane considerations. How to relocate Kit to Houston. Birdie’s overdue vaccinations. The cavity. Hair growth.

But underlying all my thoughts was the nagging signal from my subconscious, unrelenting, yet out of reach. The redneck in the baseball cap. I tossed and turned, frustrated that my psyche was beaming a message I could not decipher.

I was sleeping fitfully when the phone shrilled.

“Hello.” Groggy.

“Oh, were you in bed?”

The digits on my clock glowed one-fifteen.

“Mm.”

“It was the University of South Carolina,” Isabelle chirped.

“What?”

“Lyle is from London, Ontario, but he went to school in South Carolina.” Her voice beamed with satisfaction. “And don’t worry about my source. I was
très
discreet.”

Oh boy.

“Thank you, Isabelle.” Mumbled.

“Now, go back to sleep. Oh, and I found the suitcase in the bathroom closet. Silly me.
Bonsoir.”

Dial tone.

I clicked off and flopped back on the pillow, noticing that the bedroom wall no longer vibrated. Had Kit gone out?

As I began to drift off my id made one more try at sending up images. The hyena took form with his leather vest and grungy long hair. Boots. Cap.

Cap.

My eyes flew open and I shot to a sitting position, searching my stored memories for another image.

Could it be?

•    •    •

The next morning I was up before the alarm. A peek told me Kit was asleep in his bed. I showered, dressed, and puttered until it was time to go to the lab.

I went directly to Ronald Gilbert’s office and made my request. Without a word he crossed to a shelf, selected a videotape, and handed it to me. I thanked him and hurried to the conference room.

Nervously, I inserted the plastic box into a VCR and clicked on
the monitor. Not knowing at what point I’d find the scene, I started at the beginning and hit fast-forward.

Views of the Cherokee Desjardins apartment jerked across the screen. The living room, the kitchen, the faceless corpse. Then the tape focused on bloody walls.

The camera swept across a corner, zooming in, then drawing back. I hit play and the pace slowed to normal.

Two minutes later I spotted the object wedged between the wall and a rusted birdcage supporting a guitar. I hit freeze and read four letters peeking from a wine-colored stain.

“-cock-”

I studied the cap closely. It was red and white, and I could see portions of a familiar logo that hadn’t registered while I was at the scene. My mind completed the letters obliterated by Cherokee’s blood.

G-a-m-e - - - - s.

Yes.

Gamecocks.

The cap hadn’t proclaimed some macho obscenity. It had broadcast the name of an athletic team. The Gamecocks.

The University of South Carolina Gamecocks.

The hyena’s cap had nudged my id. Isabelle’s call had allowed my brain’s summons to assemble and organize to breakthrough.

Just then the door opened and Michel Charbonneau stuck his spiky head into the room. He held up a brown envelope.

“Claudel asked me to give you this. It’s the official game plan for tomorrow, and Roy wanted you to have it.”

“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.

C
LAUDEL AND
Q
UICKWATER WERE NOT AT
C
ARCAJOU 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.”