Deadly Decisions (29 page)

“You take care,” he said with a meaningful look.

What I took was a long shower.

Later, scrubbed and smelling of sandalwood, I checked my e-mail. There was nothing earth-shattering. I offered suggestions for problems submitted by students, sent an opinion to a pathologist inquiring about an oddly shaped skull, and replied to my three nieces in Chicago. Daughters of Pete’s sisters, the teenagers were avid computer buffs, and kept me informed of happenings within my estranged husband’s extended Latvian family.

Finally, I thanked a colleague at the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology who’d forwarded a particularly amusing photo. The case involved a pig and a high-rise building.

At one-thirty I logged off and tried Isabelle. Predictably, she was not in.

Looking for an excuse to be outside, I set out to buy jumbo shrimp at the
poissonnerie
. I’d gone less than a block when I was stopped dead, distracted by photos at
Coiffure Simone.

I stared at the woman in the black and white. She looked good. Stylish, but neat. Professional, but jaunty.

Jesus, Brennan. You sound like copy for a shampoo ad. Next you’ll be telling yourself you’re worth it.

I
had
told Kit I’d scheduled a haircut.

I studied the poster, estimating the amount of maintenance the style would require. I thought it could pass my ten-minute rule.

I started to move on, caught my reflection in the glass. What I saw was light-years from poster lady.

How long had it been since I’d tried a new do?

Years.

And the salon was offering a special Sunday discount.

Five dollars off. Right. You’ll save about three-fifty U.S.

A new haircut could boost your spirits.

It could be a disaster.

Hair grows back.

That last came straight from my mother.

I pushed open the door and went in.

•    •    •

Hours later I was eating dinner with the Discovery channel. On the screen, male kangaroos kickboxed over control of the mob. On the hearth, Birdie eyed me silently, curious, but keeping his distance.

“Hair grows back, Bird.”

I dipped a shrimp and popped it into my mouth, wishing it would happen before Kit got home.

“And I could use your support,” I informed him.

If the new look was to have buoyed my spirits, the experiment had been a catastrophe. Since returning home I’d been thinking of ways to avoid public contact. Thanks to developments in telecommunication I had many options. I’d use telephone, fax, and e-mail. And lots of hats.

By ten I was feeling as low as I had on Friday evening. I was overworked, underappreciated, and my never-was lover turned out to prefer the robbers over the cops. My boss had collapsed, my nephew was out with the sleaze of the year, and I now looked like I’d been attacked by a Weed Eater.

Then the phone rang and things got terribly, terribly worse.

“Claudel ici.”

“Yes,” I answered, too surprised to switch to French.

“I thought you should know. George Dorsey was attacked about two hours ago.”

“Attacked by whom?”

“He’s dead, Ms. Brennan. Murdered because of your meddling.”

“Me?”

I was speaking to a dial tone.

The rest of the evening I was too distracted to focus on coherent thought. I barely acknowledged Kit’s return and report that he had had a really good time.

“Murdered because of your meddling.” That was unfair. Dorsey had asked to see me. What if he had asked for Claudel or Charbonneau or Quickwater? This was a prison murder of someone who was a threat to others. Those things happen. I didn’t cause it. Claudel was unfair. I tossed and turned all night and repeated “unfair.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I
WAS AT WORK BY SEVEN-THIRTY.
O
THERS
wouldn’t arrive for an hour, and the building was graveyard quiet. I cherished the calm and planned to take full advantage of it.

I let myself into my office, slipped on a lab coat, and crossed to the anthropology lab. Unlocking the door to the storage room, I pulled out the box containing Savannah’s remains. I intended to get straight to work and let the Claudel matter arise in whatever manner he chose to raise it.

I laid the skull and femora on the table, and began the painstaking process of reinspecting every millimeter of bone under magnification and strong light. Though doubtful, I hoped to find something I’d missed. Perhaps a tiny nick or scrape that would tell me how the bones had been separated from the rest of the body.

I was still at it when someone knocked at the door. When I looked up Claudel stood framed in the glass. As usual his spine was ramrod straight, his hair as perfect as a studio shot of Douglas Fairbanks.

“Nice tie,” I said, opening the door.

It was. Pale violet, probably designer silk. A good choice with the tweed jacket.

“Merci,”
he mumbled with all the warmth of a pit bull.

I laid down the femur, clicked off the fiber-optic light, and stepped to the sink.

“What happened to Dorsey?” I asked as I washed my hands.

“A Philips screwdriver happened to him,” he replied. “The guard was outside reading while Dorsey showered. Probably catching up on his professional journals.”

I pictured the man with the little rat teeth.

“The guard heard a change in the noise of the water, so he took a look-see. Dorsey was facedown in the drain with twenty-eight holes in his upper body.”

“Jesus.”

“But Dorsey didn’t die right away,” Claudel continued. “He shared a few thoughts on the ride to the hospital. That’s why I felt I should come by.”

I reached for a paper towel, surprised that Claudel was being so open.

“The paramedic didn’t get it all, but he caught one thing.”

Claudel lifted his chin a little.

“Brennan.”

My hands froze.

“That’s it?”

“He said he was busy keeping Dorsey alive. But he noticed the name because of his dog.”

“His dog?”

“He’s got an Irish setter named Brennan.”

“It’s a common name.”

“Maybe in Galway, but not here. You did talk to Dorsey about Cherokee Desjardins, did you not?”

“Yes, but nobody knows that.”

“Except everyone at Op South.”

“We were in a private interrogation room.”

Claudel was silent. I pictured the corridor, with the holding tank just ten feet away.

“I suppose I could have been spotted.”

“Yes. These things have a way of getting back.”

“Getting back to whom?”

“Dorsey was a Heathens hang-around. The boys wouldn’t be happy if they thought he was launching a self-preservation movement.”

I felt tension rise up my neck at the thought I might have triggered the attack.

“I don’t think Dorsey killed Cherokee,” I said, bunching up the towel and tossing it into the trash.

“You don’t.”

“No.”

“I suppose Dorsey claimed he was innocent as the Easter Bunny.”

“Yes. But there’s more.”

He gave me an uncertain look, then folded his arms across his chest.

“All right. Let’s hear it.”

I told him about the blood spatter.

“Does that sound like a biker hit?”

“Things go wrong.”

“Bludgeoning? Don’t hit men usually come in shooting?”

“The last biker pulled from the river was hammered to death. So was his bodyguard.”

“I’ve been thinking about that void pattern behind Cherokee’s head. What if he was killed for whatever was removed?”

“There were a lot of people milling around that scene. Someone could have knocked the thing out of position. Or maybe the neighbor snatched it.”

“It was covered with blood.”

“I’ll talk to her anyway.” Finite at the best of times, Claudel’s patience was clearly evaporating.

“And why would Cherokee let someone in?” I pressed on.

“Maybe the hit man was a buddy from the old days.”

That made sense.

“Has ballistics gotten anything?”

He shook his head.

“Who’s heading the Spider Marcotte investigation?”

“That and the little girl fell to Kuricek.”

Sipowicz.

“Any progress?”

Claudel raised both palms.

“Dorsey hinted he had something he’d trade on that.”

“These degenerates will say anything to save themselves.”

He dropped his eyes and picked a nonexistent fleck from his sleeve.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

At that moment we heard the door open in the adjacent lab, announcing the arrival of the technicians.

“May we . . . ?” He tipped his head toward my office.

Curious, I led him across the hall and slipped behind my desk. When he’d settled across from me Claudel withdrew a picture from his inside pocket and placed it on the blotter.

It differed little from Kate’s biker photos. The vintage was more recent, the quality better. And one other thing.

Kit stood among the group of leather-jacketed men centered in the image.

I looked a question at Claudel.

“That was taken last week at an establishment called La Taverne des Rapides.” He looked away. “That’s your nephew, right?”

“So? I don’t see any patches,” I said curtly.

“They’re Rock Machine.”

He placed a second photo in front of me. I was getting very tired of celluloid bikers.

Again I saw Kit, this time straddling a Harley, engaged in conversation with two other cyclists. His companions were clean-cut but wore the standard bandannas, boots, and sleeveless denim jackets. On each back I could see a heavily armed figure in a large sombrero. The upper rockers said
Bandidos,
the lower,
Houston.

“That was taken at a swap meet at the Galveston County fairgrounds.”

“What are you suggesting?” My voice came out high and stretched.

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just showing you pictures.”

“I see.”

Claudel frowned, then crossed his ankles and regarded me intently.

I folded my hands to disguise the shaking.

“My nephew lives in Texas. Recently his father bought him a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and he’s become enamored with the two-wheeled culture. That’s it.”

“Riding in the wind is not what bikers live for these days.”

“I know that. I’m sure these were chance encounters, but I will speak to him.”

I handed back the photos.

“The Houston PD has a jacket on Christopher Howard.”

If I could have laid hands on Harry at that moment I would have committed a felony.

“He’s been arrested?”

“Four months ago. Possession.”

No wonder his father had hauled him up to the north woods.

“I know what advice is worth on the open market,” Claudel went on. “But be careful.”

“Be careful of what?”

He looked at me a long moment, no doubt deciding whether to confide.

“The paramedic actually picked out two words.”

The phone rang but I ignored it.

“Brennan’s kid.”

I felt someone light a match in my chest. Could they know about Katy? Kit? I looked away, not wanting Claudel to see my fear.

“Meaning?”

Claudel shrugged.

“Was it a threat? A warning?”

“The paramedic says he doesn’t listen to patients while he’s working on them.”

I studied the wall.

“So what are you suggesting?”

“I don’t want to alarm you, but Constable Quickwater and I think—”

“Oh, yeah. Quickwater. He’s a lot of laughs.” I cut him off, my sarcasm triggered by anger and fear.

“He’s a good investigator.”

“He’s an asshole. Every time I talk to him he acts like he’s deaf.”

“He is.”

“What?”

“Quickwater is deaf.”

I searched for a response, but couldn’t come up with a single word.

“Actually, he’s deafened. There’s a difference.”

“Deafened how?”

“He took a cast-iron pipe in the back of the head while breaking up an alley fight. Then they shot him with a stun gun until the batteries died.”

“When?”

“About two years ago.”

“That destroyed his hearing?”

“So far.”

“Will it come back?”

“He hopes so.”

“How does he function?”

“Extremely well.”

“I mean, how does he communicate?”

“Quickwater is one of the quickest studies I’ve ever met. I’m told that he learned to lip-read in no time, and he’s crackerjack. For distance communication he uses e-mail, fax, and TTY.”

“TTY?”

“It’s an acronym for teletypewriter. Essentially, it’s a keyboard and acoustic coupler built into one device. At home he has a special modem in his PC that communicates at the same band Baudot code as a regular TTY. He’s got his fax and TTY on the same phone line and uses a switching device that recognizes an incoming fax tone. It sends faxes to the fax machine and all other calls to the TTY. We’ve got the same setup and software at headquarters, so calling back and forth is no problem.”

“What about when he’s out?”

“He has a portable TTY. Battery-operated.”