He worked the keys again and more strings appeared, these converging on a point less than two feet above the floor.

"My opinion is that he was struck near the corner of the room, fell to the floor, and was then hit repeatedly. After that he was placed in the chair and shot."

"Struck with what?"

Gilbert pooched out his lips. "Pfff. Not my call."

"Why bludgeon him then shoot him?"

"Definitely not my call."

"If he was dragged, wouldn't that have left a trail?"

"The assailant may have wiped it up. Besides, there was so much blood everywhere, and so many people on the scene the floor was useless."

"And the burning may have disguised some of it."

"At least on the carpet. We may go in with Luminot, but it's not going to change what the spatters tell me."

I was thinking about that when he spoke again.

"There's something else."

"There's more?"

Again he worked the keys. Again a mist of high-velocity blood spatter filled the screen. But a portion of the cloud was missing, like a stencil with a cut out pattern.

"This is another shot of the wall behind the victim's head."

"It looks like someone took a cookie cutter to it."

"This is called a void pattern. It's produced when an object blocks the path of blood and is then removed."

"What object?"

"I don't know."

"Who removed it?"

"I don't know"

As I hurried back to my office, Dorsey's words provided voiceover for Gilbert's images.

Amateur Hour. Whoever did Cherokee is going to walk.

I grabbed my phone and punched in a number. A secretary told me Jacques Roy had flown to Val-d'Or and would be unavailable until Monday. Impatient, I asked for Claudel. Neither he nor his Carcajou partner was in. I thought of pagers, again decided the situation was not sufficiently urgent, and left messages for everyone.

I had just replaced the receiver when the phone rang. "Should I be sending the world's biggest fruit basket?" "Hi, Harry."

As usual my sister sounded as though she'd just completed some event requiring intense exertion.

"Why are you out of breath?"

"Akido."

I didn't ask.

"Is my baby boy driving you back to the solace of drink?"

"He's fine, Harry."

"Are you always this cheerful on Fridays?"

"I just heard something disturbing. What's up.

"I suppose you know that Kit and Howard went at it again."

"Oh?" I suspected as much, but hadn't pressed my nephew.

"It's the golf cart all over again."

I remembered that episode. When Kit was fifteen he'd stolen a cart from the pro shop at Howard's country club. It was found the next morning, half-submerged in a water hazard on the fifteenth hole, with half a bottle of tequila in the back compartment. Daddy went ballistic and son lit out. A week later Kit showed up in Charlotte. The last leg of hitchhiking had not gone well, and he owed ninety-six dollars to a taxi driver. Katy and Kit bonded immediately, and my nephew stayed the summer.

"What was the fight about?"

"I'm not sure, but it involved fishing gear Is he behaving himself?"

"Actually, I haven't seen that much of him. I think he's made friends here."

"You know Kit. Well, if you could let the little buckaroo stay just a little while I'd appreciate it. I think he and his daddy need some distance and some time.

"Doesn't Howard live near Austin?" "Yes."

"And Kit's in Houston with you?" That seemed like distance to me.

"See, that's the problem, Tempe. I've had this trip to Mexico planned for a long time, and I'm supposed to leave tomorrow. If I cancel I'll lose my deposit, and Antonio will be really torqued. Of course, say the word and that's what I'll do."

"Uh. Hm."

I wondered if Antonio was the akido link. With Harry a new man usually meant a new interest.

"I would hate to leave Kit unsupervised and in my home for a week, and at the moment I can't send him to his daddy And as long as he's with you anyway and you say he's no problem…"

She let the sentence dangle.

"You know I love having Kit." But not necessarily this week, I thought.

"Tempe, if this is just the least little tiny bit inconvenient you just say so and I'll cancel this trip quicker than-"

"I do want to know how much parental control is expected."

"Parental control?" She sounded completely at a loss.

"Guidance? Parenting? It's a lonely job, but does someone have to do it?"

"Get real, Tempe. Kit's nineteen. You can parent until Tinkerbell bites the Pope, but that boy's born to boogie and that's what he's gonna do. I just need to have him check in daily and verify that he is physically fit and not wanted by the authorities. And that he is not using my home as a convention center for underage boozers. He didn't grow up in the Partridge family you know."

The Partridge family had not entered my mind.

"But that doesn't mean you shouldn't make him chop cotton. Make sure he keeps his belongings orderly and does the dishes now and again."

I pictured the clothing heaped in my living room.

"In fact, I'm gonna call him myself and make sure he understands that your home is not a port of entry for any old thing he wants to drag in."

"How long will you be in Mexico?"

"Ten days."

"What if he wants to head home before you get back?"

"No problemo. Howie's given him about eleven hundred credit cards. Just make him understand that an early return means Austin, not Houston, and don't let him go off all depressed. You're good at that, big sister. And you know how crazy he is about you."

Sweet-talkin' Harry.

"I'll keep that in mind when he pawns Gran's silver. Have a good time. And leave a number where you can be reached,"

As I was hanging up C]audel appeared in the doorway, his face so taut the bones seemed to push out on the tissue. I watched him cross to the chair opposite my desk.

Great.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Claudel"

I didn't expect a greeting. I didn't get one.

"You made an unauthorized visit to the jail."

"Did Mr. Dorsey tell you about our conversation?" I asked innocently

"You interrogated my prisoner"

"He's your personal property?"

"You are not homicide, you are not even a detective." Claudel fought to keep his voice even. "You have no business involving yourself in my case."

"Dorsey called me.

"You should have referred him."

"He called me because he felt you would not listen.~~

"He is just using you to interfere with my investigation."

"Why won't you even consider that you may be on the wrong track, Claudel?"

"You are out of your league and I don't have to explain to you."

"This thing with Dorsey is a very weak bust."

"But it is my weak bust, madam, and not yours."

"You are convinced Cherokee was murdered by bikers," I said evenly "And I am on temporary assignment to Carcajou."

"I am doing what I can to alter that," said Claudel, his outrage barely concealed.

"Really" I felt blood rise to my cheeks.

"I'm not going to argue the point, Ms. Brennan. Stay out of my investigation."

"I do not take my orders from you!"

"We will see."

"We worked together once, with good success."

"That does not make you a detective, or entitle you to act directly in a case assigned to me.

"You cannot overestimate how much you underestimate me, Monsieur Claudel."

He straightened, dropped his chin, and took a deep breath. When he spoke again his voice was calm.

"Any further exchange is pointless." I agreed.

He walked toward the door, his back stiff as a dressage rider's. Before leaving, he turned, raised his chin, and spoke down his nose.

"There is one other thing that I should tell you, Ms. Brennan." I waited.

"George Dorsey was charged with first-degree murder this morning."