Deadly Decisions (31 page)

Yet, there was a resemblance.

Had George Dorsey known something after all?

Heart pounding, I reached for the phone.

W
HEN
C
LAUDEL ANSWERED
I
IDENTIFIED MYSELF AND DIVED
right in.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you. Spider Marcotte wasn’t the only one Dorsey mentioned. He claimed to have information about Savannah Osprey.”

“The young girl we found in St-Basile-le-Grand?”

“Yes. I think he may have been telling the truth.”

“Dorsey’s trademark.”

I ignored the sarcasm.

“Did you leave a picture on my desk?”

“No.”

“Someone did. It’s an old snapshsot taken at a biker gathering.”

“Probably a prayer meeting.”

“It looks like a picnic or camp-out.”

“Uh-huh.”

I took a deep breath to steady my voice.

“Savannah Osprey is there.”

“She is?” His tone told me he didn’t believe it.

“Absolutely.”

“What does that have to do with Dor—”

“The picture was taken in Myrtle Beach.”

“How do you know?”

“At least one of the believers is wearing a Myrtle Beach T-shirt.”

“My son has a Kansas City Chiefs’ shirt.”

“I know honeysuckle and kudzu when I see it. And I recognized a Piggly Wiggly logo on one of the grocery bags.”

“What’s a Piggly Wiggly?”

“It’s a chain of supermarkets, with several in the Myrtle Beach area.”

“Why would anyone call a supermarket Piggl—”

“And one of the picnickers may be Cherokee Desjardins.”

There was a moment of dead air.

“What makes you think that?”

“He’s wearing a belt buckle that says ‘Cherokee.’”

“What does the man look like?”

“Something Jack Hanna would keep on a chain and pacify with small chunks of meat,” I spat. His skepticism was irritating me.

“I mean does the man in the buckle resemble Cherokee Desjardins?”

“His features aren’t clear. Besides, I never got a look at Desjardins when he was wearing a face.”

There was another moment of silence, then the sound of an exhaled breath.

“I’ll get photos of Desjardins and come by in the morning.”

“We can try enhancing the image.”

“Set it up. But it will have to be quick. We’re expecting difficulties because of the Dorsey murder, and the whole squad is on alert.”

•    •    •

I drove home plagued by feelings of self-doubt.

I’d been fooled by Dorsey, and my naiveté had gotten him killed.

What if the man in the photo wasn’t Cherokee? Claudel obviously had reservations. If I was wrong he’d be even more convinced I was an idiot.

As I had been with regard to his Carcajou partner. I’d entirely misread Quickwater. Had I also misjudged Ryan? My nephew?

Where had the picture on my desk come from? Why no note, no phone call? It had to be one of the detectives or lab people. No one else would have an opportunity to leave it there.

I steered and shifted robotically, barely noticing the traffic around me.

Should I make a surprise call on Ryan? Would he answer the door? Probably not. Ryan had cut himself off because he preferred it that way. But how could it be true? I still couldn’t believe the man was a criminal.

Was Kit involved with the Bandidos? With drugs? Was he in danger? What had Dorsey been trying to say to the paramedic?

Was it possible Katy was in danger from the biker gangs thousands of miles away on a ship? Her last letter had come from Penang.

Who was I kidding? Dorsey had been killed while under armed guard in a provincial prison. If
les motards
wanted you to be in danger, you were there.

“Dammit!” I slapped the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.

Ryan and Katy were out of my reach, but I could do something about my nephew. I vowed to have it out with Kit before the sun set.

Or rose, I thought, turning onto the ramp that led under my building. I had no idea how late he’d get in, but resolved to wait up.

It wasn’t necessary.

“Hey, Auntie T,” he greeted me when I entered the condo, as did the aroma of cumin and turmeric.

“Something smells good,” I said, dropping my briefcase in the entrance hall.

My nephew and cat were sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by remnants of that morning’s
Gazette.
The Sony PlayStation had been reattached to the TV and wires squiggled across the floor.

“I stopped by La Maison du Cari. Figured it was my turn to cook.”

He’d removed his earphones and draped them around his neck. I could hear the tinny sounds of the Grateful Dead.

“Great. What did you get?”

“Uno momento.”

He swung his feet to the floor and tossed the headset onto the couch. Bird bolted at the sudden proximity to Jerry Garcia. Kit retrieved a receipt from the kitchen and read off nine items.

“Are you expecting your state legislature?”

“No, ma’am. I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got a cross section of regional cuisines.”

He pronounced the last in an accent that mimicked perfectly that of the restaurant’s owner.

“Don’t you worry. We’ll graze right through it,” he added, reverting to Texan.

“Let me change and then we’ll eat.”

“Wait. First you gotta see this.”

He dug through the scattered
Gazette
and came up with the front section. Opening to a middle page, he folded the paper in half and handed it to me, indicating a headline.

PRISONER SLAIN IN GANG ASSASSINATION

The article summarized the facts surrounding the Dorsey murder, referring to him as a prime suspect in the execution-style killing of Yves “Cherokee” Desjardins. It described Dorsey as a Heathens associate, Cherokee as a member of the Predators, though inactive in recent years.

The story went on to speculate that Dorsey’s death may have been ordered in retaliation for the Desjardins killing, and recounted the murders of the Vaillancourt twins, Richard “Spider” Marcotte, and Emily Anne Toussaint. It reported that Dorsey’s funeral would be held as soon as the coroner released the body.

The piece concluded by stating that the authorities were concerned that an escalation in violence was on the horizon, and that the Dorsey funeral might be used as an opportunity for revenge by Heathens sympathizers. Police would be taking extra precautions in the coming weeks.

I looked up to see Kit regarding me intently.

“It would be rockin’ to go to that funeral.”

“No way.”

“The cops will have these guys so boxed in they’ll be like altar boys heading to Mass.”

“No.”

“The bikes will be solid Harley.”

“You’re not going anywhere near that funeral.”

“All that juice pounding along in formation.” He mimicked steering handlebars. “Rolling thunder.”

“Kit.”

“Yeah?” His eyes were bright as a Pentecostal zealot’s.

“I don’t want you there.”

“Aunt Tempe, you worry too much.”

How many times had Katy said that?

“I’ll throw on jeans, then let’s have dinner. I want to ask you about something.”

I broached the subject during dessert.

“A Carcajou investigator came to see me today.”

“Yeah?” Kit scraped the top off then scooped a spoonful of rice pudding.

“You’re supposed to eat the frosting.”

“It looks like silver.”

“It is.”

I was stalling.

“He brought a set of police surveillance photos.”

A quizzical look. More pudding.

“Of you.”

My nephew lowered his chin and raised his brows.

“The pictures were taken at the Galveston County fairgrounds. You’re with members of the Bandidos motorcycle club.”

“Uh-oh,” he said, giving a goofy grin. “Hanging out with bad companions.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hang out with the Bandidos?”

“Just that once. But the big kids made me do it.”

“This isn’t funny, Kit! You were caught on film with drug dealers!”

He lay down his spoon and gave me another brilliant smile. I did not return it.

“Aunt Tempe. I go to flea markets. Bikers go to flea markets. Sometimes we go to the same flea markets. We talk about Harleys. That’s all it is.”

“The detective said you’d been arrested on a drug charge.” I forced myself to speak calmly.

He slumped back and threw out his legs.

“Oh, great. That shit again.”

“What shit?”

“Jesus. You’d think I was supplying a preschool.” His voice was hard, the humor gone.

I waited.

“I bought a ten-dollar bag for a friend because she left her wallet at home. Before I could give her the weed a cop pulled me over for an illegal left and found the stuff in my pocket. How’s that for a seasoned dope dealer?”

“Why did the cop search you?”

“I’d had a little beer.”

He scuffed at the rug with one big toe. A long thin toe, knobby at the joints, oblong under the nail. My father’s big toe. As I looked at him my heart ached. Every cell in his body reminded me of Daddy.

“All right, I’d had a lot of beer. But I don’t do drugs. I told you that. Christ, you’re acting just like my father.”

“Or any concerned parent.” Love and anger battled for control of my voice.

“Look, I did my community service and went to their lame substance abuse program. Aren’t you people ever going to ease up?”

With that he lurched from the chair and slouched out of the room. In seconds I heard the slam of the guest room door.

Well-done, Brennan. Take a gold star for effective parenting.

I cleared the table, repackaged the uneaten portions of food, loaded the dishwasher, and tried Howard’s number.

No answer.

Damn you, Harry, for not telling me about this. And damn you for being in Mexico.

I tried Isabelle, hoping to ask about Lyle Crease.

Machine.

I spent the rest of the evening with the Pat Conroy book I’d laid down a week earlier. Nothin’ could be finer than to be in Carolina.

•    •    •

Predictably, Kit was sleeping when I left for work. This day, I attended the morning meeting.

When I returned to my office, Claudel was there.

“Figure out who killed Dorsey?” I asked as I threw the morning’s case log on the desk.

He gave me a look that could freeze molten lava, then held out an envelope.

I sat, unlocked my desk drawer, and handed him the Myrtle Beach photo.

“Where did you say this came from?”

“I didn’t.” I gave him the lens. “Because I don’t know.”

“It just appeared?”

“Yes.”

His eyes roved the print.

“I noticed it yesterday. I can’t say for certain when it arrived on my desk.”

After several seconds the lens froze and he drew closer to it. Then, “You’re talking about the man next to Z. Z. Top?”

“Show me,” I said, surprised at the musical reference. I would have pegged Claudel as strictly classical.

He turned the photo and pointed.

“Yes. The girl next to him is Savannah Osprey.”

Back to the lens.

“You’re sure?”

I dug out the yearbook portrait Kate had given me. He studied it, then the picnic shot, going back and forth like a fan at Wimbledon.

“You’re right.”

“What about Buckle Boy?”

He indicated the envelope in my hand. “Desjardins was a large man before his illness.”

I shook out the photos and Claudel circled the desk so we could view them together.

Large was an understatement. The partially headless form I’d seen in the chair was a feeble reminder of the body that once had housed Cherokee Desjardins. Before cancer had parched his innards, and drugs and chemo had done their magic, the man had been massive, though in a spongy, gut-bulging sort of way.

The file photos spanned a period of years. Beards came and went and the hairline crept backward, but the belly and facial features changed little.

Until the cancer struck.

Six months before his death Cherokee was a shadow of his former self,
bald and death-camp thin. Had the picture been unlabeled, I would not have recognized the subject as the same man.

As I studied the face from shot to shot I remembered an old Brando quote. I have eyes like those of dead pig, the aging actor had said of himself.

Not to worry, Marlon. They served you well. This guy looked merely baleful, and mean as a pack dog with a stolen flank steak.

But try as we might we could not determine for sure if our late but unlamented Cherokee was the one wearing the buckle at Myrtle Beach.