Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 40

"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 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 Veronique 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 idee. 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 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.

"h.e.l.lo." 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 tres tres discreet." 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 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

"-c.o.c.k-"

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.

Gamec.o.c.ks.

The cap hadn't proclaimed some macho obscenity. It had broadcast the name of an athletic team. The Gamec.o.c.ks.

The University of South Carolina Gamec.o.c.ks.

The hyena's cap had nudged my id. Isabelle's call had allowed my brain's summons to a.s.semble 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 c.o.c.ks."

"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?"