Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 41

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 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone.

35.

CLAUDEL AND Q QUICKWATER WERE NOT AT C CARCAJOU HEAD quarters. Neither Claudel nor Charbonneau was at c.u.m headquarters. I left messages, and returned to Ronald Gilbert's office. quarters. Neither Claudel nor Charbonneau was at c.u.m 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."

"There was a cap there."

"I remember it."

"Did you make observations on the bloodstaining?"

"Certainly."

"I'm interested in the cap's position at the time of the murder. Would your notes have anything on that?"

"I don't need my notes. I recall perfectly. The stain and spatter on the cap came from the blunt object attack near that corner."

"Not the gunshot."

"No. That would look quite different. And the orientation of the spatter was consistent with the type of a.s.sault we discussed."

"With Cherokee lying on the floor."

"Yes."

"Was he wearing the cap?"

"Oh my, no. That's impossible. The cap was behind the birdcage when struck by most of the spatter."

"How did it get there?"

"It was probably flung there during the struggle."

"How do you know that?"

"There was blood under as well as on the cap. The a.s.sailant probably lost it in the frenzy of the attack."

"Cherokee was not wearing it?"

"I'd bet my life on it."

"Thanks."

Back in my office I looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. I had no message slips. I had no case requests.

I drummed my fingers and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. It didn't. Not optimistic, I dialed Harry's number in Houston, then listened to a recording in very bad Spanish. I tried Kit, got my own voice.

d.a.m.n. Where was everybody?

I called Claudel again, this time leaving my cell number. Ditto Charbonneau. Then I grabbed my purse and bolted, unable to bear the waiting.

When I stepped outside I was blinded for a moment. Sunlight bathed the day and sparrows twittered in the branches overhead. Lab and SQ staff chatted along the drive and relaxed at picnic tables on the lawn, enjoying a midmorning smoke or coffee.

I inhaled deeply, and started up Parthenais, wondering how I could have lost track of spring. For a moment I had an odd fantasy. The Dorsey funeral would take place in less than twenty-four hours. If I could freeze time I could hold it at bay, keep the birds singing, the sun s.h.i.+ning, and the ladies on the lawn with their shoes kicked off.

But I couldn't, and the tension was making me jumpier than a proton in a particle accelerator.

Jesus, Brennan. Upstairs you wanted things to move faster. Now you want a freeze-frame. Clear your neurons.

The situation called for a hot dog and fries.

I hung a left on Ontario, walked east a block, and pushed open the door to Lafleur. At 11 A.M. A.M. there was no line, and I stepped directly to the counter. there was no line, and I stepped directly to the counter.

Lafleur is Quebec's version of the fast-food joint, offering hot dogs, burgers, and poutine. The decor is chrome and plastic, the clientele largely blue collar.

"Chien chaud, frites, et c.o.ke Diete, s'il vous plait," I told the man at the cash register. Why did the literal translation of hot dog in French still sound strange to me? I told the man at the cash register. Why did the literal translation of hot dog in French still sound strange to me?

"Steame ou grille?"

I chose steamed, and in seconds a cardboard container was slapped in front of me. Grease from the fries already stained the left side.

I paid and carried my food to a table with an excellent view of the parking lot.

As I ate my eyes roved over the other patrons. To my left were four young women in nurse's white, students from the technical school across the street. Tags identified them as Manon, Lise, Brigitte, and Marie- Jose.

Two painters ate in silence beyond the students. They wore coveralls, and their arms, hair, and faces were speckled like the walls of Gilbert's spatter lab. The men worked on platters of fries topped with curd cheese and brown gravy. In a city renowned for its fine cuisine, I have never understood the appeal of poutine.

Across from the painters sat a young man trying his best to grow a goatee. His gla.s.ses were round and he was overweight.

I finished my fries and checked my cell. The phone was on, the signal strong, but there were no messages. d.a.m.n! Why wasn't anyone returning my call?

I needed release. Physical release.

I spent two hours running, lifting, rolling around on a large rubber ball, and taking a high-impact aerobics cla.s.s. By the time I finished I could hardly drag myself to the showers. But the exercise was an effective antivenin. My anger had dissipated along with the toxins from the hot dog and fries.

When I returned to the lab two messages lay on my desk. Charbonneau had called. Morin wanted to talk about LaManche. That didn't sound good. Why hadn't Madame LaManche phoned?

I hurried down the hall, but Morin's door was already closed, indicating he'd left for the day. I went back to my office and dialed Charbonneau.

"There may be more to this Crease than I thought."

"Such as?"

"Seems he and the Angels go back a ways. Crease is Canadian, but he did his undergraduate studies at South Carolina. Go c.o.c.ks."

"You're really hung up on that."

"Hey, beats the Redmen."

"I'll pa.s.s on your opinion to the McGill board."

"Politically it's more correct."

I waited.

"Newsboy completed a B.A. in journalism in '83 and decided to go on for a master's degree, using outlaw bikers as his thesis topic. By the way, he was calling himself Robert then."