Death Du Jour (52 page)

Ouch.

“Temperance, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Constable Martin Quickwater. He’s there in Quantico, but he’s been in a case-review meeting all day.”

“Quickwater?” It was not a typical québécois name.

“He’s Native. Cree, I think.”

“Is he with Carcajou?”

Opération Carcajou is a multijurisdictional task force created to investigate criminal activities among outlaw motorcycle gangs in the province.

“Oui.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Please tell Constable Quickwater what I have told you, and have him contact me. Then I would like you to come here as quickly as possible. We may have difficulty with these identifications.”

“Have they recovered printable digits or dental fragments?”

“No. And it is not likely.”

“DNA?”

“There may be problems with that. The situation is complicated and I would rather not discuss it by phone. Is it possible for you to return earlier than you had planned?”

Following my normal pattern, I’d wrapped up the spring term at UNC-Charlotte in time to teach the FBI course. Now I only had to read the final exams. I’d been looking forward to a brief stay with friends in D.C. before flying to Montreal for the summer. The visit would have to wait.

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Merci.”

He continued in his very precise French, either sadness
or fatigue deepening the timbre of his rich, bass voice.

“This does not look good, Temperance. The Heathens will undoubtedly retaliate. Then the Vipers will draw more blood.” I heard him pull a long breath, then exhale slowly. “I fear the situation is escalating to full-scale war in which innocents may perish.”

We hung up and I called US Airways to arrange for a morning flight. As I was replacing the receiver Craig Beacham appeared in the doorway. I explained about Quickwater.

“Constable?”

“He’s RCMP. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Or GRC if you prefer French. Gendarmerie royale du Canada.”

“Um. Huh.”

Craig punched in a number and asked about the constable’s whereabouts. After a pause he jotted something down and hung up.

“Your guy’s in a major case management session in one of the conference rooms down here.” He offered the number he’d written, then gave me directions. “Just slide in and take a seat. They’ll probably break at three.”

I thanked him, and wormed my way through the halls until I’d located the room. Muffled voices came through the closed door.

My watch said two-twenty. I turned the knob and slipped in.

The room was dark save for the beam of a projector and the apricot glow of an illuminated slide. I could make out half a dozen figures seated around a central table. Some heads turned in my direction as I eased into a chair against the side wall. Most eyes stayed fixed on the screen.

For the next thirty minutes I saw LaManche’s premonition brought to life in horrifying detail. A bombed-out
bungalow, tissue spattered on the walls, body parts strewn across the lawn. A female torso, face a red mass, skull bones mushroomed by a shotgun blast. The blackened chassis of a sports utility vehicle, one charred hand dangling from a rear window.

A man seated to the right of the projector commented about biker gang wars in Chicago as he clicked through the presentation. The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t make out the features.

More shootings. Explosions. Stabbings. Now and then I scanned the silhouettes around the table. Only one had hair that was not closely cropped.

Finally, the screen blazed white. The projector hummed and dust mites floated in its beam. Chairs squeaked as their occupants stretched and reoriented toward one another.

The speaker rose and crossed to the wall. When the overhead lights came on I recognized him as Special Agent Frank Tulio, a graduate of the recovery course from years back. He spotted me, and a smile spread across his face.

“Tempe. How’s it hanging?”

Everything about Frank was precise, from his razor-cut gray hair, to his compact body, to his immaculate Italian-made shoes. Unlike the rest of us, throughout the bug and body exercises Frank had remained perpetually well groomed.

“Can’t complain. Are you still with the Chicago office?”

“Up until last year. I’m here now, assigned to CIRG.”

Every eye was focused on us, and I was suddenly conscious of my current state of cleanliness and coiffure. Frank turned to his colleagues.

“Does everyone know the great bone doctor?”

As Frank made introductions, those around the table
smiled and nodded. Some I recognized, others I did not. One or two made jokes about past episodes in which I’d played a role.

Two of those present were not affiliated with the academy. The fuller hair I’d spotted belonged to Kate Brophy, supervisor of the Intelligence Unit of North Carolina’s State Bureau of Investigation. Kate had been the SBI’s expert on outlaw motorcycle gangs for as long as I could remember. We’d met in the early eighties when the Outlaws and Hells Angels were at war in the Carolinas. I’d identified two of the victims.

At the far end of the table a young woman typed on what looked like a stenotype machine. Next to her Martin Quickwater sat behind a laptop computer. His face was broad, with high cheekbones, and eyebrows that angled up at the ends. His skin was the color of fired brick.

“I’m sure you two foreigners know each other,” said Frank.

“Actually, we don’t,” I said. “But that’s why I’m intruding. I need to speak to Constable Quickwater.”

Quickwater graced me with approximately five seconds of attention, then his eyes went back to his computer screen.

“Good timing. We’re ready for a break.” Frank looked at his watch, then crossed back to click off the projector. “Let’s get some caffeine and regroup at three-thirty.”

As the agents filed past me one of the members of NCAVC made an exaggerated show of squaring his fingers and peering through, as though focusing on me through a viewfinder. We’d been friends for a decade and I knew what was coming.

“Nice do, Brennan. Do you get a deal from your lawn man? Hedges and hair trims, one price?”

“Some of us do real work, Agent Stoneham.”

He moved on, laughing.

When only Quickwater and I were left, I smiled and began a fuller introduction.

“I know who you are,” said Quickwater in softly accented English.

His abruptness surprised me, and I fought back an equally impolite rejoinder. Perhaps being sweaty and uncombed had made me touchy.

When I explained that LaManche had been trying to reach him, Quickwater slipped his pager from his belt, checked the screen, then tapped it hard against his hand. Shaking his head and sighing, he reattached the device to his waistband.

“Batteries,” he said.

The constable watched me intently as I repeated what LaManche had said. His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. When I’d finished, he nodded, then turned and left the room.

I stood for a moment, wondering at the man’s odd demeanor. Terrific. I not only had two vaporized bikers to piece together, I now had Constable Congenial as an associate.

I picked up my pack and headed back to the woods.

No problem, Mr. Quickwater. I’ve cracked tougher nuts than you.

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Deadly Décisions
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