Part 48 (1/2)
”What about that eyeball?”
”The police think the Vipers put it on my car to discourage further interest in their history.”
A pause. On-screen, a man mouthed the news while stock prices ticked by below.
”I think I'm going to look into school when I get back home. Try a few courses. See how it goes.”
”I think that's a wonderful idea, Kit.”
”You must think I'm about as dumb as a largemouth ba.s.s.”
”Maybe a perch.”
”I hope you don't give up on me.”
”Never.”
Embarra.s.sed, he changed the subject.
”How's your boss?”
”Much better. He's starting to give the nurses a hard time.”
”I'm with him there. And Ryan?”
”Don't push it, fish brain.”
”How long do you think he'll be moonin' around here, expecting flowers and caramel cl.u.s.ters?” Harry stood in the doorway, a smile on her lips, a vase in her hand. Both were the same geranium red.
Leaving the hospital, I drove home, had dinner with Birdie, and began a series of household tasks. A return to normalcy by immersion in the mundane. That was the plan and it was working.
Until the doorbell chirped.
Dumping an armload of dirty sweaters, I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Too early for Harry.
Curious, I went to check the security screen.
What the h.e.l.l?
Sergeant-Detective Luc Claudel stood in my vestibule, hands clasped behind his back, weight s.h.i.+fting from the heels to the b.a.l.l.s of his feet.
”So much for normalcy,” I muttered as I buzzed him in.
”Bonsoir, Monsieur Claudel.”
”Bonsoir. I apologize for disturbing you at your home, but there has been a development.” His jaw tensed, as though what he had to say was pus.h.i.+ng him to the limits of civility. ”I thought that you should know.”
Courtesy from Claudel? In English? What now?
Birdie did a figure eight around my ankles, but offered no conjecture.
I stepped back and gestured the detective inside. He entered and waited stiffly as I closed the door, then followed me to the living room sofa. Settling into the armchair opposite, I remembered my conversation with Ryan's partner, Jean Bertrand, and the thought of Ryan brought the usual stomach clutch.
G.o.d, please let him be safe!
I pushed the thought aside and waited for Claudel to speak.
He cleared his throat and looked away from me.
”You were right about George Dorsey. He did not kill Cherokee Desjardins.”
There was a revelation.
”Nor did Lyle Crease.”
I stared at him, too surprised to respond.
”Shortly before her death Jocelyn Dion mailed a letter to her mother giving information about a number of illegal biker activities. Among the subjects discussed were the shooting of Emily Anne Toussaint and Richard 'Spider' Marcotte, and the murder of Cherokee Desjardins.”
”Why did she do that?”
”Her motives were complex. First and foremost, she feared for her own life and felt the letter might confer protection. In addition, she was angry over Dorsey's murder, which, by the way, was ordered by his own gang. Jocelyn Dion was living with George Dorsey at the time of his death.”
I felt heat climb the sides of my neck, but did not let on what Jocelyn had said about Dorsey's death.
”Was Dorsey killed because he spoke with me?”
Claudel ignored the question.
”Dion also felt remorse for certain of her own actions, including the killing of Cherokee Desjardins.”
”What?” I blurted in astonishment.
”That is correct. Jocelyn Dion killed Desjardins.”
”But Jocelyn told me she heard Crease bludgeon and shoot him.”
”It seems your clerk was somewhat economical with the truth.”
He tented his fingers under his chin.
”According to the young lady's letter, she'd gone to Desjardins for drugs when Crease showed up, wanting the infamous barroom photo. The men argued, Crease knocked Cherokee unconscious with a pipe, then began ransacking the apartment. Hearing noises in the bedroom, he panicked and fled.
”It seems your Jocelyn had a big habit and a short budget. She went over there high on drugs, and saw the situation as an opportunity to stock her medicine chest. When Crease left, she battered Desjardins' unconscious body, dragged it to a chair, and used a shotgun to remove his face.”