Deadly Decisions Read Free

cabinet.
    “At least that will give you some space to take notes. Do you need to close the door?”
    “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
    My host nodded, then disappeared down the hall.
    I took a deep breath, made a mental shift to French, and dialed.
    “Bonjour, Temperance.” Only LaManche and the priest who baptized me have ever used the formal version. The rest of the world calls me Tempe. “Comment ça va?”
    I told him I was fine.
    “Thank you for calling back. I fear we have a grisly situation up here and I am going to need your help.”
    “Oui?” Grisly? LaManche was not prone to overstatement.
    “Les motards. Two more are dead.”
    Les motards. Bikers. For more than a decade rival outlaw motorcycle gangs had been battling for control of the drug trade inQuebec. I’d worked on several motard cases, gunshot victims who had also been burned beyond recognition.
    “Oui?”
    “So far, this is what the police have reconstructed. Last night three members of the Heathens drove to the Vipers’ clubhouse with a powerful homemade bomb. The Viper working the surveillance cameras spotted a pair approaching with a large bundle between them. He took a shot and the bomb exploded.” LaManche paused. “The driver is in the hospital in critical condition. For the other two, the largest portion of tissue recovered weighs nine pounds.”
    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.