Deadly Decisions Read Free Page A

I could make out half a dozen figures seated around a central table. Some heads turned in my direction as I eased into a chair against the side wall. Most eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
    For the next thirty minutes I saw LaManche’s premonition brought to life in horrifying detail. A bombed-out bungalow, tissue spattered on the walls, body parts strewn across the lawn. A female torso, face a red mass, skull bones mushroomed by a shotgun blast. The blackened chassis of a sports utility vehicle, one charred hand dangling from a rear window.
    A man seated to the right of the projector commented about biker gang wars in Chicago as he clicked through the presentation. The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t make out the features.
    More shootings. Explosions. Stabbings. Now and then I scanned the silhouettes around the table. Only one had hair that was not closely cropped.
    Finally, the screen blazed white. The projector hummed and dust motes floated in its beam. Chairs squeaked as their occupants stretched and reoriented toward one another.
    The speaker rose and crossed to the wall. When the overhead lights came on I recognized him as Special Agent Frank Tulio, a graduate of the recovery course from years back. He spotted me, and a smile spread across his face.
    “Tempe. How’s it hanging?”
    Everything about Frank was precise, from his razor-cut gray hair, to his compact body, to his immaculate Italian-made shoes. Unlike the rest of us, throughout the bug and body exercises Frank had remained perpetually well groomed.
    “Can’t complain. Are you still with the Chicago office?”
    “Up until last year. I’m here now, assigned to CIRG.”
    Every eye was focused on us, and I was suddenly conscious of my current state of cleanliness and coiffure. Frank turned to his colleagues.
    “Does everyone know the great bone doctor?”
    As Frank made introductions, those around the table smiled and nodded. Some I recognized, others I did not. One or two made jokes about past episodes in which I’d played a role.
    Two of those present were not affiliated with the academy. The fuller hair I’d spotted belonged to Kate Brophy, supervisor of the Intelligence Unit of North Carolina’s State Bureau of Investigation. Kate had been the SBI’s expert on outlaw motorcycle gangs for as long as I could remember. We’d met in the early eighties when the Outlaws and Hells Angels were at war in the Carolinas. I’d identified two of the victims.
    At the far end of the table a young woman typed on what looked like a stenotype machine. Next to her Martin Quickwater sat behind a laptop computer. His face was broad, with high cheekbones, and eyebrows that angled up at the ends. His skin was the color of fired brick.
    “I’m sure you two foreigners know each other,” said Frank.
    “Actually, we don’t,” I said. “But that’s why I’m intruding. I need to speak to Constable Quickwater.”
    Quickwater graced me with approximately five seconds of attention, then his eyes went back to his computer screen.
    “Good timing. We’re ready for a break.” Frank looked at his watch, then crossed back to click off the projector. “Let’s get some caffeine and regroup at three-thirty.”
    As the agents filed past me one of the members of NCAVC made an exaggerated show of squaring his fingers and peering through, as though focusing on me through a viewfinder. We’d been friends a decade and I knew what was coming.
    “Nice do, Brennan. Do you get a deal from your lawn man? Hedges and hair trims, one price?”
    “Some of us do real work, Agent Stoneham.”
    He moved on, laughing.
    When only Quickwater and I were left, I smiled and began a fuller introduction.
    “I know who you are,” said Quickwater in softly accented English.
    His abruptness surprised me, and I fought back an equally impolite rejoinder. Perhaps being sweaty and uncombed had made me touchy.
    When I explained that LaManche had been trying to reach him, Quickwater slipped