Part 19 (1/2)

”As you know, Monsieur Claudel, I am the lab's liaison to Carcajou. You have a professional obligation to share ideas and information with me, like it or not, and I expect nothing less.”

With that I strode down the hall and descended into sunlight.

20.

THOUGH WE DROVE THROUGH BRIGHT SUNs.h.i.+NE, MY THOUGHTS were dark. When I had volunteered for the Carcajou unit it had been to help solve the Emily Anne shooting, not to join the murder-of-the-day club. I rode in back, my mind s.h.i.+fting between Yves ”Cherokee” Desjardins and Savannah Claire Osprey, victims as different as Charlie Manson and the Sugarplum Fairy. were dark. When I had volunteered for the Carcajou unit it had been to help solve the Emily Anne shooting, not to join the murder-of-the-day club. I rode in back, my mind s.h.i.+fting between Yves ”Cherokee” Desjardins and Savannah Claire Osprey, victims as different as Charlie Manson and the Sugarplum Fairy.

But Savannah hadn't danced off with Ariel or Puck, and I couldn't shake the image of the spider-legged girl in the baggy swimsuit. I kept wondering about the poisonous web into which she'd been drawn.

I was also haunted by the horror we'd just left. Though the dynamic duo in the front seat were convinced Cherokee's killing was a biker hit, something about the scene seemed out of sync. It was not my call, but my uneasiness remained, p.r.i.c.kling my brain.

Savannah and Cherokee. Cherokee and Savannah. And Ronald and Donald Vaillancourt, Robert Gately and Felix Martineau. And Emily Anne Toussaint, the little girl who danced, and skated, and loved waffles. These lives seemed unconnected, the only tie a posthumous one, created by homicide files.

No one spoke. Now and then the radio sputtered as it scanned channels, diligent in its attention to police matters.

In the Ville-Marie Tunnel we were snared briefly by the clog of traffic exiting onto Berri. I looked at the flow of cars heading toward the old city and experienced a return to melancholy. Why was I trapped with Senor Surly and his partner, the bones of a dead girl at my feet and visions of mutilated bikers in my head? Why wasn't I heading for Place Jacques Cartier, thinking about dinner, dancing, or drinks with a lover?

But I couldn't handle the pleasure of drink.

And I had no lover.

Ryan.

Put it away, Brennan. That line of thought will take you from melancholy to depression. The simple fact is you chose this life. You could be limiting your bone a.n.a.lysis to archaeological digs and your professional commentaries to textbooks or cla.s.srooms in which you talk and they listen. You asked for this and you got it, so stop brooding and do your work.

When Charbonneau pulled up at the SQ building I said a terse thank you, slammed the door, and headed up the block toward the main entrance. Before I got to the end of the wrought-iron fence my cell phone rang, so I set the athletic bag on the sidewalk and dug the phone out of my purse.

”Aunt Tempe?”

”Hey, Kit.”

I was relieved and annoyed to hear his voice. Though I'd called several times since leaving for Raleigh, Kit hadn't once picked up.

”Did you get my messages?”

”Yeah. Bad timing. I was out, then when I got in I hit the sack. Figured you wouldn't want me to call that late.”

I waited.

”I was with Lyle.”

”For two days?”

”The guy's O.K.”

O.K.?.

”We went to that cycle shop. Man, he wasn't exaggerating. They've got more s.h.i.+t than the Harley factory. Oops, sorry.”

”Hm.”

I placed the briefcase next to the athletic bag and rotated my shoulder to work out a kink. Hip-hop music pounded from a Caravan on the opposite side of Parthenais. The driver sat sideways, one arm draped around the wheel, the other drumming the back of the seat.

”I'll be home by six,” I told Kit. ”Tell me what you'd like and I'll throw something together for dinner.”

”That's why I'm calling. Lyle said he'd take me to the TV studio so I can watch them do the show tonight.”

A man emerged from an apartment building across the street and did a slow crawl down the steps, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His hair looked as if he'd gotten his head too close to an explosion. Some of it stuck out in clumps, some strands lay in knots against his head. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket that showed arms so fully tattooed that from where I stood they looked blue.

The man took a deep drag as he scanned the street. His eyes locked onto me then narrowed, like those of a terrier sighting on a rat. Two smoke streams shot from his nose, then he flicked the b.u.t.t, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into the van with the music lover. As the pair drove off I felt a chill, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.

”. . . ever seen it in person?”

”What?”

”The news. Have you ever been at the station when they actually do it?”

”Yes. It's very interesting.”

”So if you don't mind, I'd really like to go.”

”Sure. That sounds like fun. I'm pretty beat anyway.”

”Did you find out who she is?”

The switch left me behind.

”The girl. Did she turn out to be who you thought she was?”

”Yes.”

”That's cool. Can I tell Lyle?”

”It's not official yet. Better wait until the coroner releases her name.”

”No sweat. So, I'll see you later.”

”O.K.”

”You're sure?”

”Kit, it's fine. I've been ditched by tougher men than you.”

”Ooh. Hit me where I bleed.”