Deadly Decisions (28 page)

To the south rose the pale yellow tower of l’École Polytechnique at l’Université de Montréal, site of the 1990 slaughter of thirteen women. The day was too lovely to share that story.

We were heading downhill when Kit broached an equally unpleasant topic.

“So who’s this guy Ryan?”

“Just a friend,” I hedged.

“Harry talked about him. He’s a detective, right?”

“Yes. With the provincial police.”

I’d introduced my sister to Ryan during her stay in Montreal. Sparks had flown, but I’d left town almost immediately and didn’t learn if there was liftoff. I’d avoided Ryan for a long time after that, but I’d never asked.

“So what’s the deal?”

“He’s gotten into some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

A
calèche
passed on the road above, moving in the direction from which we’d come. I heard the driver cluck, then the slap of reins on the horse’s neck.

“He may have gotten involved in drugs.”

“Using?”

“Selling.” Though I was trying hard, my voice sounded wavery.

“Oh.”

The clop of hooves receded, grew quiet.

“You care about this guy, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“More than Uncle Pete?”

“That’s not a fair question, Kit.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever happened to that fish?” I said, changing the subject.

“It’s in the freezer.”

“Here’s a plan. We zap Mr. Trout, then peruse
les motards
while he finishes defrosting. Tonight we throw him on the grill, then slide over to Hurley’s for a few beers.”

“It’s a salmon. Otherwise the plan is sound.”

We descended the rest of the way, cut through the Montreal General, and continued downhill on Côte-des-Neiges. At the bottom I turned and looked back up at the peak.

“Did you ever notice the cross at night?”

“Sure. It’s pretty.”

“From down here, yes. From nearby it’s just a pile of steel mesh and bare bulbs. I think Andrew Ryan’s like that. Nice at a distance, but up close he’s a tangled mess.”

T
HE
B
ERAWAN ARE A HORTICULTURAL PEOPLE LIVING IN LONG
house villages on the island of Borneo. When I taught introductory anthropology, I used them as an illustration of the absurdity of Western funerary practices.

According to Berawan beliefs, the souls of the dead are released to the afterlife only when the flesh has decomposed. Until that point, the deceased hover in limbo, no longer part of the living, but unable to join the dead. And there’s a hitch. Their bodies can be reanimated by malevolent spirits roaming the world in search of housing. Once revived, these living-dead cannot be killed. Needless to say, the villagers are not wild about having them around.

The Berawan were repulsed and horrified when their ethnographer responded to questions about American customs. In their view, embalming, treatment with cosmetics and waxes, and burial in watertight coffins and vaults are actions of pure folly. Not only are we prolonging the transition of our loved ones, but our cemeteries provide vast storehouses for potential zombies.

I wondered how the Berawan would react to Bernard Silvestre, centerpiece of the photo in my hand. The fish was taking forever to defrost, and in the interim Kit and I were working our way through Kate’s collection.

Silvestre lay in his coffin, mustache and sideburns spread symmetrically on each cheek, hands folded piously on his black leather
jacket. Ten men crouched in a semicircle below, denimed and booted, while four stood flanking the open casket. Except for the dress and mangy appearance, they looked like a fraternity at a Paddy Murphy party.

Elaborate bouquets stretched from one side of the photo to the other, a mini Rose Bowl of floral condolences. One said “Slick” in blue on yellow, another “Good-bye BS,” in shades of red and pink. Carnations forming the number “13” rose directly behind the coffin, flaunting “Slick’s” connection to pot or meth.

But best of show was the rectangle on the upper right, a petal mosaic of cycle and rider, complete with whiskers, shades, and angel’s wings. I tried, but was unable to read the banners above the helmet and below the front tire.

“Know anything about Slick?” asked Kit.

“He doesn’t look like the pick of the litter.”

“Yeah, even from that motley litter.” He flipped the picture. “Heck, this guy croaked when I was three years old.”

There were two more photos of Slick’s funeral, both taken from a distance, one at the cemetery, the other on the church steps. Many of the mourners wore caps riding their eyebrows, and bandannas stretched to cover their mouths.

“The one you’ve got must be from a private collection.” I handed Kit the other pictures. “I think these two are police surveillance photos. Seems the bereaved weren’t anxious to show their faces.”

“Man, this chopper is one statement in chrome and steel. No wonder the dude rode it right up to the grave.”

I walked around the table and peered over his shoulder.

“It looks pretty stark to me.”

“That’s the point. Raw power. The guy probably started with a garbage wagon and—”

“Garbage wagon?”

“An old police cycle, probably an FLH touring model. He stripped away all the nonessential crap like the windshield, roll bars, and fiberglass luggage bags, and replaced the stock items with streamlined custom parts.”

“Such as?” It looked like a cycle without any of the good stuff.

Kit pointed out items on the graveside bike.

“A thin front wheel, coffin-shaped gas tank, bobbed rear fender, and tapered soda seat. Those are the coolest. Makes it look like you’re straddling the motor.”

He pointed at the front wheel.

“And he extended the front end and added ape hangers.”

I assumed those were the long, backward-projecting handlebars.

“And check out the molding and custom paint job! Man, I wish I could see that up close. This machine is a work of art. All it needs to achieve perfection is a sissy bar.”

“From which to serve beer and mixed drinks?”

“It’s a backrest.”

The bike
was
bizarre, but no more so than its owner. He had leather wristbands, a denim vest with assorted Harley-Davidson pins and patches, riding chaps, and more hair than a Wookie. He looked like a walking threat display.

“I’m going to poke Mr. Salmon again. If he’s still cryogenic, we’ll nuke him.”

He was and we did, then laid him on the grill for a charcoal finish. Then I buttered green beans and tossed a salad while Kit carved and served the fish.

We’d just opened our napkins when the phone rang. I answered, and a rough male voice asked for my nephew. Wordlessly, I handed him the phone.

“Hey, man, what’s up?”

Kit stared at a spot on the glass tabletop.

“No go. Can’t do.”

Pause.

“No way.” He shifted position, and worked at the spot with his thumbnail.

“Not this time.”

Though muted by my nephew’s ear, I could hear the voice on the other end. It sounded harsh, like an angry dog locked in a cellar. The nerves in my stomach tightened.

“Well, that’s how it is.”

The muffled response rose and fell in agitation.

Keeping his eyes averted, my nephew left the table and moved down the hall out of earshot.

I speared a green bean, chewed, swallowed. Mechanically, I repeated
the action, but my appetite had evaporated. After five forkfuls he was back.

The look on his face brought a feeling like physical pain to my chest. I wanted to put my arms around him, to brush back his hair and comfort him the way I had when he was a little boy. But whatever had happened was not a skinned knee, and I couldn’t do that now. Even if he allowed it, I knew the gesture would only discomfort him. I sensed his distress, but was helpless to ease it.

He gave me a big smile, shrugged palms and shoulders, then sat and dived into his fish.

I stared at the top of his head. Finally, he looked up.

“This is great.” He swallowed and reached for his iced tea. “Yes, that was one of them. And no, I’m not going.”

I was suddenly ravenous.

The next call came as we were finishing cleanup. Kit answered, but I could hear nothing over the chugging and sloshing of the dishwasher. In a few minutes he reappeared at the kitchen door.

“It’s Lyle. I guess I told him I like swap meets, so he’s inviting us to an estate sale tomorrow.”

“An estate sale?”

“Well, it’s a flea market in some place called Hudson. He thought if I called it an estate sale you might be more inclined to go.”

The doublespeak had little impact on my response. While I would have enjoyed a trek to Hudson, it was not worth the price of an afternoon with Crease.

“You go ahead, Kit. It’s really very pretty out there. Horse country. I should stay and finish some things I’ve been putting off.”

“Like what?”

“Actually, I think I’m having my hair cut tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.”

He returned to the living room and I finished wiping the counters. I couldn’t believe I was feeling relief that my nephew would be with Lyle Crease. The guy was as smarmy as a snake-oil salesman from Matamoros.

And what was Crease’s interest in a nineteen-year-old kid? I had no doubt that Kit could handle the little twerp, but I vowed to call Isabelle and ask a few questions.

Easy does it, I told myself. Brush your hair and go see the fiddlers.

Hurley’s is the closest thing to an Irish pub that Montreal has to offer. Though I don’t imbibe, my Gaelic genes still enjoy the atmosphere.

The place was as big a hit with Kit as it had been with his mother. But then, it’s hard to be gloomy with a fiddle and mandolin belting out reels, and dancers jigging up and down like Nijinsky with a neurological disorder. We stayed until well past midnight.

•    •    •

When Lyle Crease showed up the next morning I was idly flipping through the photos Kit and I had left on the table the night before.

“How’s it going?” Crease asked, as I let him into the entrance hall. He wore khakis, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a windbreaker with
CTV News
printed on the left breast. His hair looked like molded plastic.

“Good. And yourself?” We spoke English.

“Can’t complain.”

“Kit said he’d be just a minute. He overslept a bit.”

“No problem.” Crease chuckled, then gave me a knowing grin.

I did not return it.

“Can I offer you some coffee?”

“Oh no, thanks. I’ve already had three cups this morning.” He showed miles of capped teeth. “It’s a gorgeous day out there. Sure you won’t change your mind?”

“No, no. I have things I have to do. But thanks. Really.”

“Maybe next time.”

When Moses does another bush, I thought.

We stood for a moment, unsure where to go from there. Crease’s eyes roamed the hall, then came to rest on a framed photo of Katy.

“Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

He walked over and picked it up.

“She’s lovely. Is she a student?”

“Yes.”

He replaced the portrait and his eyes moved on to the dining room.

“That’s quite a bouquet. You must have a serious admirer.”

Nice try.

“May I?”

I nodded, though Crease was as welcome in my home as the
Exorcist
demon. He crossed to the flowers and sniffed.

“I love daisies.” His eyes drifted to Kate’s photos. “I see you’re doing some research.”

“Would you like to sit down?” I indicated the living room sofa.

Crease helped himself to a picture, replaced it, chose another.

“I understand you’re involved in the Cherokee Desjardins investigation,” he said without looking up.

“Only peripherally,” I said, and moved quickly to stack the photos.

He gave a deep sigh. “The whole world’s going crazy.”

“Perhaps,” I noted, reaching out my hand for him to surrender the picture of the Silvestre funeral.

“Please,” I said, gesturing toward the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Crease sat and crossed his legs.

“I understand Dorsey’s been charged and moved to Rivière-des-Prairies?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Think he did it?”

This guy never gave up.

“I’m really not involved in the investigation.”

“How about the Osprey girl. Anything breaking on that front?”

How about your face, I thought.

At that moment my nephew appeared, looking pure urban cowboy in his Levi’s, boots, and ninety-gallon hat. I popped to my feet.

“I’m sure you two want to get there early before the good stuff’s gone.”

“What good stuff?” asked Kit.

“The bass fishing lures and Elvis T-shirts.”

“I’m actually looking for a plastic Madonna.”

“Try the cathedral.”

“The other Madonna.”

“Be careful,” I said, pointing a finger at him.

“Careful is my middle name. Christopher Careful Howard, C.C. to my close friends.” He tapped two fingers to the brim of his hat.

“Right.”

As Crease said good-bye he placed a hand on my shoulder, ran it down my arm, and squeezed just above my elbow.