Part 35 (1/2)
”South Carolina.”
”That's Cherokee Desjardins.”
”The big chief spent time down South in the early eighties.”
My eyes roved over the pictured group, then came to rest on a bike and rider on the outer edge. His back was turned, his face obscured, but the cycle was visible in full profile. It looked familiar.
”Who's the guy on the far left?” I asked.
”On the chop job?”
”Yes.”
”Don't know.”
”I've seen that guy in a couple of old photos,” Kuricek offered. ”Nothing recent, though. He's ancient history.”
”What about the bike?”
”A work of art.”
Thanks.
A discussion of Friday's operation followed the slides. When the investigators had gone I approached Roy.
”Could I borrow that shot of Cherokee Desjardins?”
”Would you prefer a print?”
”Sure.”
”Spot something interesting?”
”I just thought the bike looked familiar.”
”It's a hummer.”
”Yeah.”
We went to his office and he pulled a file from a metal cabinet, then leafed through until he located the picture.
”They sure as h.e.l.l don't all look like this anymore,” he said, handing it to me. ”Now some of them wear Versace and own fast-food franchises. Made our job easier when they were drunk and filthy.”
”Did you leave another South Carolina print on my desk in the last couple of days?”
”Not I. Is it something I should see?”
”It's like the one you just gave me, but it includes the Osprey girl. I've shown it to Claudel.”
”Now that's interesting. I'll be curious to hear what he says.”
I thanked him and left, promising to return the print.
When I got to the lab I went directly to Imagerie and added the photo to my compact disc. It was just a hunch, probably a dead end, but I wanted to make a comparison.
I left work at four-thirty and swung by the Hote-Dieu Hospital, hoping LaManche had improved enough to receive visitors. No go. He was still unresponsive, and his doctors were keeping him in cardiac intensive care, with no visitors except immediate family. Feeling helpless, I ordered a small bouquet in the hospital gift shop, and headed for the parking lot.
In the car I turned on the radio and hit scan. The channel selector ran the band, pausing briefly on a local talk show. Today's topic was the biker war and the upcoming funeral for its latest victim. The host was soliciting comments on police performance. I clicked in to listen.
While opinions varied as to police handling of the gang situation, one thing was clear. Callers were nervous. Whole neighborhoods were being avoided. Mothers were walking their kids to school. Late-night carousers were changing watering holes, looking over their shoulders as they scurried to their cars.
And the callers were angry. They wanted their town released from the threat of these modern-day Mongols.
When I got home Kit was on the phone. He held the mouthpiece to his chest, and informed me that Harry had called from Puerto Vallarta.
”What did she say?”
”Buenos dias.”
”Did you get a number?”
”She said she was moving around. But she'll call again later in the week.”
Then he resumed his conversation, disappearing into his room.
Good going, Harry.
Wasting no time worrying about my sister, I pulled out the print Roy had loaned me and laid it on the table. Then I sorted through Kate's photos for the shots of Bernard ”Slick” Silvestre's biker funeral down South. I was particularly interested in the graveside scene Kit and I had studied.
I went through the stack three times and came up empty. I checked everything in my briefcase. Then the desk in my bedroom. The papers around my computer. Every folder Kate had given me.
The photos were nowhere to be found.
Puzzled, I stuck my head into Kit's room to ask if he'd borrowed them.
He hadn't.
O.K., Brennan. Play the remembering game. When did you last see them?
Sat.u.r.day night with Kit?
No.
Sunday morning.
In the hands of Lyle Crease.