Part 38 (2/2)
It was a message. Ryan was saying that all was not as it seemed.
Right perfection.
Ryan was not a point man for the dark side! He had not gone over!
What then?
Undercover?
But why hadn't he contacted me?
He couldn't, Brennan. You know that.
It didn't matter. Suddenly I was certain that whatever Ryan was doing, the man I knew remained beneath. In time I would know the full story.
And I was equally certain I would never report the previous night's events. I would do nothing to compromise Ryan's cover.
I closed the book and went back to the laundry. Though I understood that covert operations could last months, or even years, at least now I knew.
A smile spread across my face as I bunched the s.h.i.+rt and tossed it into the washer. I can wait, Andrew Ryan. I can wait.
Feeling happier than I had in weeks, I shook off the vision of Pascal and Tank and went back to the photos I'd abandoned the night before. I'd just booted up the disc when Kit appeared in the doorway.
”I forgot to tell you that Isabelle phoned. She's going out of town and wanted to return your call before she left.”
”Where is she going?”
”I forget. Something to do with an award.”
”When is she leaving?”
”I forget.”
”Thanks.”
His eyes s.h.i.+fted to the screen.
”What are you doing?”
”I'm trying to clean up some old photographs so I can view the faces.”
”Whose?”
”Savannah Osprey is in one shot. And the man who was killed last week.”
”The guy who was stabbed in jail?”
”No. The person the police think was his victim.”
”Awesome.”
He moved into the room.
”Can I see?”
”Well, I guess there's nothing in the way of sensitive information here. As long as you promise not to discuss these things with anyone but me, you can pull up a chair.”
I brought up the Myrtle Beach photo and indicated Savannah and Cherokee Desjardins.
”Man. That dude looks like a reject from the W.W.F.”
”World Wrestling Federation?”
”World Wildlife Fund.” He pointed at Savannah. ”She's sure no ole lady.”
”No. But it's not uncommon for bikers to drug young girls and hold them against their will.”
”And she's no beach bunny. Man, her skin's the color of a bedsheet.”
I had a thought.
”I want you to take a look at something.”
I closed the picnic photo and opened the police-check photo.
Kit leaned in and studied the scene.
”Is that the same dude?” He indicated Cherokee.
”Yes.”
”We still in Dixie?”
”South Carolina.”
”Looks like a road bust.”
His eyes moved across the group, then locked onto the cycle at the periphery.
”Holy s.h.i.+t. Sorry. When was this taken?”
”That's unclear. Why?”
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