Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 42

"Why would anyone choose Lyle over Robert?"

"It's his middle name.

"Anyway, Robby got a hog and a nod from the brothers, and roared off with the pack."

"Did he finish the degree?"

"He completely dropped from sight. He attended cla.s.ses for a month or two, then his professors never heard from him again."

"There's no record of where he was? Driver's license? Tax return? Credit card application? Blockbuster members.h.i.+p?"

"Nada. Then Crease resurfaced in Saskatchewan in '89, working the crime beat for a local paper and doing some on-air stories for the evening news. Eventually he was offered the job at CTV and relocated to Quebec."

"So Crease was interested in bikers as a student. That was the Ice Age, remember?"

"Apparently Crease left Saskatchewan in a bit of a hurry."

"Oh?"

"Ever hear of Operation CACUS?"

"Wasn't that an FBI sting using informants inside the h.e.l.ls Angels?"

"Informant. Tony Tait joined the Alaska chapter in the early eighties then rose through the ranks to national prominence. He wore a wire for the bureau the whole time."

"Angels Forever, Forever Angels."

"I guess Tony preferred cash."

"Where is he now?"

"In witness protection if he's smart."

"What does this have to do with Crease?"

"It seems the Mounties had their own investigation going in the eighties."

"Are you telling me Lyle Crease was an RCMP informant?"

"No one will talk and I've found nothing on paper, but I've always heard we had someone inside for a while. When I leaned on a couple of long-timers, they wouldn't confirm, but they didn't deny."

He paused.

"And?" I prodded.

"This is just for us, Brennan."

"But I share everything with my hairstylist."

He ignored that.

"I run my own sources on the street. s.h.i.+t, I can't believe I'm telling you this."

I heard rattling as he switched the receiver to his other hand.

"Word is someone was definitely going to church with the Angels back then, and the guy was American. But it was a two-way street."

"The snitch was working both sides?"

"That's the story my sources gave up."

"Risky."

"As a cerebral hemorrhage."

"Do you think the plant was Lyle Crease?"

"How else does a guy completely bury six years of his life?"

I thought about that.

"But why would he reappear in such a public line of work?"

"Maybe he figures visibility confers protection."

For a moment no one spoke.

"Does Claudel know this?"

"I'm about to give him a call."

"Now what?"

"Now I dig deeper."

"You'll question Crease?"

"Not yet. We don't want to spook him. And Roy owns Claudel's a.s.s until this funeral is over. But then I'll get him to help me take a run at the guy."

"Do you think Crease was involved in the Cherokee murder?"

"There's no evidence of that, but he may know something."

"That cap didn't belong to Cherokee or Dorsey."

"How do you know that?"

"The inside is covered with dandruff."

"So?"

"Dorsey shaved his head and Cherokee was bald from chemo."

"Not bad, Brennan."

"Gately and Martineau were killed during the time Crease was underground."

"True."

"And Savannah Osprey."

Silence hummed across the wire.

"What about asking Rinaldi?"

"Frog?"

"Yeah, Frog. He was willing to spill his guts about the Gately and Martineau graves. Why not ask him about Cherokee? He might know something."

"Claudel says they've questioned Frog until they're blue in the face. He was willing to trade the St-Basile-le-Grand bodies because they're old news. He doesn't think the brothers will take him out for that. On anything recent he turns into a potted palm.

"Look, I'll get Claudel to help me flush Crease once the circus is over tomorrow. And, by the way, Brennan, keep your head low. Bandidos patches have been spotted in town, and there are rumors the Angels may make a move. Don't-"

He hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Well, your nephew might want to check out the action."

My cheeks burned. Claudel had discussed Kit with his c.u.m buddies.

"My nephew won't be anywhere near that funeral."

"Good. A Bandidos presence could force a show of strength by the Angels. Might turn hairy."

We'd hardly hung up when I started worrying. How could I keep Kit away if he was intent on going?

What did Morin want to say about LaManche? Had my old friend died?

Could Ryan be in immediate danger? Had helping me compromised his cover? Had I put him in peril as I had George Dorsey?

I laid my head on the fuzzy green surface of my desk blotter and slowly closed my eyes.

36.

I WAS UNDER WATER AND WAS UNDER WATER AND L LYLE C 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 gla.s.s 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.

"Oui?"

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? 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 s.p.a.ce. 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?"

"n.o.body gives a s.h.i.+t. 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.