Chapter 36

I was under water and Lyle Crease was speaking to me. Seaweed undulated from below, like strands of hair on a submerged corpse. Here and there a shaft of sunlight penetrated the murky gloom, illuminating tiny particles floating around us.

My neck hurt. I opened my eyes then lifted and rotated my head, gingerly working the kink from my cervical vertebrae. My office was dark except for a pale fluorescence oozing through the glass beside the door.

How long had I slept? I strained to see my watch.

When I noticed the figure outside my door an alarm went off in my head. I froze, watching and listening.

The floor was still, except for my heart drumming against my ribs.

The figure stood motionless, a silhouette framed by low-level light spilling from my lab.

My eyes dropped to the phone. Should I call security?

My hand was on the receiver when the door swung inward.

Jocelyn's face looked ghostly. She was dressed in black, and the pale oval head seemed to float, a disembodied jack-o'-lantern with dark holes for eyes and mouth.

I stood, not wanting to give her the advantage of height.

She didn't answer.

"Puis-je vous aider?" I asked. May I help you?

Still, she said nothing.

"Please turn on the light, Jocelyn."

The command brought forth a response where the questions had failed. Her arm rose, and the office was thrown into brightness.

Her hair clung damply to her neck and face, and her clothes were corrugated, as if she'd been sitting a long time in a hot, cramped space. She sniffed and ran the back of a hand under her nose.

"What is it, Jocelyn?"

"You're just letting them slide." Her voice was hard with anger.

"Who?" I asked, confused.

"I thought you might be different."

"Different from whom?"

"Nobody gives a shit. I hear cops joke about it. I hear them laugh. Another dead biker. Good riddance, they say. It's cheap trash removal."

"What are you talking about?" My mouth felt dry.

"It's these cops who are a joke. Wolverines. Pfff." She puffed air through her lips. "Dickheads would be more like it."

I was stunned by the hatred in her eyes.

"Tell me why you're upset.

There was a long silence while she studied my face. Her gaze seemed to focus then withdraw as if grabbing my image for testing in some mental equation.

"He didn't deserve what he got. No fuckin' way." The obscenities sounded odd in French.

Quietly I said, "If you don't explain I can't help you."

She hesitated, taking a final tally, then the angry eyes fixed on mine.

"George Dorsey didn't kill that old man."

"Cherokee Desjardins?" She answered with a shrug. "How do you know?"

She frowned, deciding if the question was a trap.

"Anyone with the IQ of celery would know that." "That's not terribly convincing."

"A real mechanic would have done it right." "What does that mea-"

She cut me off "Do you want to hear this or not?"

I waited.

"I was there that night." She swallowed.

"I was hardly in the door when some guy showed up, so I went into the bedroom. He and Cherokee started talking, friendly at first, but pretty soon I heard shouting, then slamming and banging. I knew something was coming down, sol hid in the closet."

"Why were you there, Jocelyn?"

"Cherokee was gonna sponsor me in the Kiwanis," she sneered.

"Go on."

"I hunkered in until things quieted down, then when I thought the guy was gone, I started to split. That's when I heard the gunshot. Jesus."

Her eyes slipped past me to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. I tried to imagine what for her was memory.

"Then I heard the guy banging drawers and flinging crap around. I figured he was a smackhead looking for Cherokee's rock, and I nearly shit my shorts, 'cause I knew the stuff was in the bedroom with me.

"When I smelled smoke it was time to haul ass, junkie or no junkie. I smashed the window dropped to the alley, and ran to the corner. Now here's the weird part. When I cut around the building and looked up the block, the little roach was still outside Cherokee's pad, scratching at something in the mud. Then a car turned onto the street and hetook off."

"What was he looking for?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Then what?"

"When I was sure he wasn't coming back I walked over and poked around."

There was a long silence. Then she dropped a purse strap from her shoulder, dug inside, and withdrew a small, flat object.

"I found this where the guy was squatting." She thrust it at me.

I unfolded a pharmacy sack and removed a photograph framed in cheap plastic. Two men smiled through a mist of spattered blood, inner arms entwined, outer arms raised, middle fingers pointing skyward. The one on the right was Cherokee Desjardins, robust and full of life.

When I recognized the man on the left my throat tightened and my breath came in short, quick spurts. Jocelyn went on speaking but I didn't hear hen

torn bag beside it. When the headlights hit him he bolted like a jackrabbit."

My thoughts raced. Images flashed.

… why the fuck he wanted it. But go figure what burns in a junked-out head."

I saw a face.

… wish I'd gotten a look at him." I saw a baseball cap.

… this son of a bitch get away with it." I saw flecks of gold circling in a watery vortex… didn't deserve a shiv up his ass."

I pulled myself back to the present and willed my face neutral.

"Jocelyn, do you know a newscaster named Lyle Crease?" "English?"

"Yes."

"I don't watch English TV Why are you asking me that? Look, I'm trying to tell you Dorsey didn't whack Cherokee."

"No," I agreed. "He didn t.

But I had a pretty good idea who did.

When Jocelyn left I phoned Claudel. He was not in, but this time I hung up and dialed his pages

Urgent enough, I thought, as I entered my number. When Claudel called back I relayed Jocelyn's story. "Can she identify the man?"

"Never saw his face."

"Fan tastique."

"It's Crease."

"How can you be sure?"

"The cap found in Desjardins' apartment had a USC logo. Crease went to school there."

"We've alread-"

"Did Charbonneau tell you about the dandruff?" "Yes."

"I had the pleasure of dining with Crease not too long ago. He has enough dandruff to open a ski hill."

"Motive?"

I described what I'd seen in the photo.

"Holy Mother of Christ."

Rarely had I heard Claudel blaspheme.

"What's this woman's relationship to Dorsey?"

"She was not receptive to personal inquiries."

"Can she be trusted?" His breath sounded moist against the mouthpiece.

"She obviously has a habit, but I believe her"

"If she was terrified, why hang around?"

"She probably thought the intruder dropped drugs and she had a shot at a free score."

"Michel Charbonneau told me of your conversation." More breathing. "I think it's time to net this Mr. Crease."

When we disconnected I phoned for air reservations. Willing or not, Kit was on his way to Texas. Until then, I wasn't going to let him out of my sight. I arrived home to find Kit in the shower.

"Have you eaten?" I shouted through the door when I heard the sound of the water stop.

"Not much."

O.K, podna. I, too, can cook pasta.

I made a run to Le Faubourg for scallops and greens. Back home I sautéed the seafood with onions and mushrooms, then mixed and added a yogurt-mustard-lemon-dill sauce. I ladled the mollusk concoction over angel-hair pasta, and served it with a baguette and tossed salad.

Even Kit was impressed.

We talked as we ate, but said little.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Pretty good."

"What did you do?"

"Not much."

"Did you stay here?"