Part 28 (1/2)
”Holy c.r.a.p.”
”Since that time I have been pursuing forensic evidence pertaining to these biker crimes. So you can understand my lack of enthusiasm for your newly acquired friends.”
”And tattoo. You've seen some rough s.h.i.+t.”
”There's more.”
I glanced at his face. Though shadowed by the eaves, his eyes were bright as a songbird's.
”This past week another biker was killed. Yves 'Cherokee' Desjardins.”
”Which side?”
”He was a Predator. That's the Angels.”
”So the Heathens were still evening the score for the twins?”
”Maybe. The problem is Cherokee was an older guy who hadn't been active for a while. Also, it seems he was running his own c.o.ke concession.”
”So he might have been snuffed by his own side?”
”It's possible. We don't have all the evidence. We just don't know. Right now our investigation has slowed.”
I told him about LaManche.
”Holy s.h.i.+t. Maybe they got to him, too.”
”Who?”
”The Angels. Maybe he was going to find something in that body they didn't want found.”
”I don't think so, Kit.”
”Maybe they slipped him something. You know, one of those poisons that leave no trace.”
”He was in the autopsy room. That's a secure area.”
”There could be a mole at your lab. They do that, you know. Position their people on the inside.”
”Whoa.” I laughed. ”Let's not get carried away.”
He turned and looked past the j.a.panese tourists to the misty peaks in the far distance. Someone opened a door behind us and pigeons startled from the steps.
”Jesus, Aunt Tempe, I feel like a real lowlife. Your boss is sick, and you're trying to juggle a zillion separate murders all at once. And what do I do? I show up, dump a dead fish on your counter, then run around town having fun.”
The j.a.panese were moving our way.
”And I was too distracted to follow what you were doing. Anyway, ready to hike?”
”I live to ramble.”
We circled the chalet and set off on one of the many dirt trails that honeycomb the mountain. We walked in silence for a while, watching squirrels scuttle among last year's leaves, excited by the arrival of spring. The trees overhead were loud with chirps and trills and warbles and shrieks. At one point we stopped to listen to an old man perform a recorder adaptation of ”Ode to Joy.” Wearing a long overcoat and ear-flapped beret, he played with all the concentration of a symphonic virtuoso.
As we strolled west, the dome of l'Oratoire St-Joseph appeared on the horizon. I told Kit the story of Frere Andre's heart. Stolen from its altar crypt, the organ became the focus of a ma.s.sive manhunt. Eventually it showed up at our lab, and was now ensconced in safer quarters deep within the church.
To the south rose the pale yellow tower of l'ecole Polytechnique at l'Universite de Montreal, 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 caleche caleche pa.s.sed 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. pa.s.sed 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.”