Part 40 (2/2)
I was sleeping fitfully when the phone shrilled.
”h.e.l.lo.” Groggy.
”Oh, were you in bed?”
The digits on my clock glowed one-fifteen.
”Mm.”
”It was the University of South Carolina,” Isabelle chirped.
”What?”
”Lyle is from London, Ontario, but he went to school in South Carolina.” Her voice beamed with satisfaction. ”And don't worry about my source. I was tres tres discreet.” discreet.”
Oh boy.
”Thank you, Isabelle.” Mumbled.
”Now, go back to sleep. Oh, and I found the suitcase in the bathroom closet. Silly me. Bonsoir Bonsoir.”
Dial tone.
I clicked off and flopped back on the pillow, noticing that the bedroom wall no longer vibrated. Had Kit gone out?
As I began to drift off my id made one more try at sending up images. The hyena took form with his leather vest and grungy long hair. Boots. Cap.
Cap.
My eyes flew open and I shot to a sitting position, searching my stored memories for another image.
Could it be?
The next morning I was up before the alarm. A peek told me Kit was asleep in his bed. I showered, dressed, and puttered until it was time to go to the lab.
I went directly to Ronald Gilbert's office and made my request. Without a word he crossed to a shelf, selected a videotape, and handed it to me. I thanked him and hurried to the conference room.
Nervously, I inserted the plastic box into a VCR and clicked on the monitor. Not knowing at what point I'd find the scene, I started at the beginning and hit fast-forward.
Views of the Cherokee Desjardins apartment jerked across the screen. The living room, the kitchen, the faceless corpse. Then the tape focused on b.l.o.o.d.y walls.
The camera swept across a corner, zooming in, then drawing back. I hit play and the pace slowed to normal.
Two minutes later I spotted the object wedged between the wall and a rusted birdcage supporting a guitar. I hit freeze and read four letters peeking from a wine-colored stain.
”-c.o.c.k-”
I studied the cap closely. It was red and white, and I could see portions of a familiar logo that hadn't registered while I was at the scene. My mind completed the letters obliterated by Cherokee's blood.
G-a-m-e - - - - s.
Yes.
Gamec.o.c.ks.
The cap hadn't proclaimed some macho obscenity. It had broadcast the name of an athletic team. The Gamec.o.c.ks.
The University of South Carolina Gamec.o.c.ks.
The hyena's cap had nudged my id. Isabelle's call had allowed my brain's summons to a.s.semble and organize to breakthrough.
Just then the door opened and Michel Charbonneau stuck his spiky head into the room. He held up a brown envelope.
”Claudel asked me to give you this. It's the official game plan for tomorrow, and Roy wanted you to have it.”
”I guess Monsieur Claudel is too busy.”
Charbonneau gave one of his shrugs. ”He's working these homicides for both agencies.”
His eyes drifted to the monitor.
”Desjardins?”
”Yes. Look at this.”
He circled the table and stood behind me. I pointed at the cap.
”It's from the University of South Carolina.”
”You can't lick our c.o.c.ks.”
”You've heard of the team.”
”With a motto like that, who hasn't?”
”That's not the official slogan.”
”Cherokee's decor suggested he was an athletic supporter.”
I ignored that.
”In all the photos you've seen of him, was Cherokee ever wearing headgear?”
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