by Kathy Reichs
“And meeting with me got him killed.” I bit down on my lip.
“Dorsey was killed because his brothers feared he was about to turn on them. Had it not been you, he’d have contacted someone else.”
I felt myself swallow.
“Do you believe Dion’s letter?”
“Largely, yes. We’d already had reason to suspect Lecomte in the Marcotte-Toussaint murders. We are keeping him under close surveillance. The prosecutor feels that what you heard Dion scream as she was shot is not enough to arrest him now, but in time, we will know.”
“Undoubtedly Jocelyn was the leak at our lab.”
“She got the position there to spy for the Heathens, but wasn’t averse to an occasional chat with the press.”
“When approved by the home office.”
“Yes.”
Claudel drew air through his nose, exhaled.
“These biker gangs are the mafia of the new millennium, and have tremendous power over those attracted to them. Jocelyn Dion was among those who feed at the bottom of the chain, the hookers, the pimps, the strippers, the petty street dealers. She probably needed clearance to take her mother to Sunday Mass.
“One rung up are the more successful entrepreneurs, the chop shop operators, the fences, the bar owners, those who are allowed to hang around because they wash dirty money or perform some service useful to the club. Climb higher and one finds the full-patchers who run their own drug cells. At the very top are men with links to cartels in Mexico and Colombia, and to their counterparts in gangs worldwide.”
I’d never seen Claudel so animated.
“And who are these degenerates who make their living off the weak? Most have neither the moral nor intellectual ability to complete a traditional educational process or function in an open market. They use women because, deep down, they fear them. They are uneducated, self-deluded, and, in many cases, physically inadequate, so they have themselves tattooed, create nicknames, and band together to reinforce their shared nihilism.”
He took a deep breath and slowly shook his head.
“Sonny Barger is in retirement, probably writing his autobiography. Millions will buy the book, and Hollywood will make a film. The Wild Ones will be romanticized anew, and the myth will deceive another generation.”
Claudel rubbed his face in his hands.
“And the flow of drugs will continue to our school yards, and to the ghettos of the hopeless.”
He shot his sleeves, straightened each gold cuff link, and stood. When he spoke again, his voice was hard as tempered steel.
“It is ironic. As the Angels carried out their slaughter at the cemetery, their opponents were sending forth assassins of their own. I do not know which of these subhumans killed George Dorsey, and I do not have the evidence to prove that Lecomte shot Jocelyn Dion, Spider Marcotte, and Emily Anne Toussaint, but I will. One day I will.”
He looked me dead in the eyes.
“And I will not rest until this evil is driven from my city.”
“Do you believe that can be done?”
He nodded, hesitated, then, “We will be a team?”
Without hesitation, I nodded back.
“Oui.”
THE NEXT MORNING I SLEPT LATE, WENT TO THE GYM, THEN brought coffee and doughnuts home and shared them with my sister. When Harry left for the hospital, I phoned the lab. There were no anthropology cases, so I was free to reactivate the plan interrupted by Claudel’s visit.
I soaked the sweaters, then launched myself full speed at the refrigerator. Items older than one month, I threw away. Ditto for anything that could not be identified.
My mood was better than it had been in weeks. Claudel had come around once again to admitting my value as a colleague. I was confident that he, Charbonneau, and Quickwater would pursue the investigation until the Dorsey and Dion killers were behind bars.
I had apologized to Martin Quickwater, and the man seemed to hold no grudge. He’d even smiled in my direction.
LaManche was recovering.
Savannah Osprey’s murder had been resolved, and her bones were heading to her family.
Katy would be home in two weeks. My nephew was going to be fine, in every sense of the word.
And my hair was showing signs of growth.
The only shadow in my life was cast by worry over Ryan’s safety. He had broken cover to save my life, and I prayed that action would not cost him his. I hoped fervently it had not been another deadly decision.
Right perfection wrongly disgraced.
The line still brought tears to my eyes.
I knew Ryan couldn’t contact me, and had no idea when I would see him again.
It didn’t matter. I could wait.
I tossed a lump of old Cheddar into the garbage bag.
But it might take time.
Two jars of congealed jelly. Out.
I would definitely need that theme song.
I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathy Reichs is forensic anthropologist for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina, and for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale for the province of Quebec. She is one of only fifty forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology and is on the Board of Directors of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. A professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, Dr. Reichs is a native of Chicago, where she received her Ph.D. at Northwestern. She now divides her time between Charlotte and Montreal and is a frequent expert witness in criminal trials. Her first novel, Déjà Dead, catapulted Dr. Reichs to fame when it became a New York Times bestseller and won the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel. Deadly Décisions is her third novel featuring Temperance Brennan.
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