Kathy Reichs - Deadly Descisions

"You take care," he said with a meaningful look. What I took was a long shower

Later, scrubbed and smelling of sandalwood, I checked my e-mail. There was nothing earth-shattering. I offered suggestions for problems submitted by students, sent an opinion to a pathologist inquiring about an oddly shaped skull, and replied to my three nieces in Chicago. Daughters of Pete's sisters, the teenagers were avid computer buffs, and kept me informed of happenings within my estranged husband's extended Larvian family.

Finally I thanked a colleague at the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology who'd forwarded a particularly amusing photo. The case involved a pig and a high-rise building.

At one-thirty I logged off and tried Isabelle. Predictably, she was not in.

Looking for an excuse to be outside, I set out to buy jumbo shrimp at the poissonnerie. I'd gone less than a block when I was stopped dead, distracted by photos at Coiffure Simone.

I stared at the woman in the black and white. She looked good. Stylish, but neat. Professional, but jaunty.

Jesus, Brennan. You sound like copy for a shampoo ad. Next you'll be telling yourself you're worth it.

I had told Kit I'd scheduled a haircut.

I studied the poster, estimating the amount of maintenance the style would require. I thought it could pass my ten-minute rule.

I started to move on, caught my reflection in the glass. What I saw was light-years from poster lady.

How long had it been since I'd tried a new do?

Years.

And the salon was offering a special Sunday discount.

Five dollars off. Right. You'll save about three-fifty U.S.

A new haircut could boost your spirits.

It could be a disaster

Hair grows back.

That last came straight from my mother

I pushed open the door and went in. Hours later I was eating dinner with the Discovery channel. On the screen, male kangaroos kickboxed over control of the mob, On the hearth, Birdie eyed me silently, curious, but keeping his distance.

"Hair grows back, Bird."

I dipped a shrimp and popped it into my mouth, wishing it would happen before Kit got home.

'And I could use your support," I informed him.

If the new look was to have buoyed my spirits, the experiment had been a catastrophe. Since returning home I'd been thinking of ways to avoid public contact. Thanks to developments in telecommunication I had many options. I'd use telephone, fax, and e-mail. And lots of hats.

By ten I was feeling as low as I had on Friday evening. I was overworked, underappreciated, and my never-was lover turned out to prefer the robbers over the cops. My boss had collapsed, my nephew was out with the sleaze of the year, and I now looked like I'd been attacked by a Weed Eater

Then the phone rang and things got terribly terribly worse.

"Claudel ici"

"Yes," I answered, too surprised to switch to French.

"I thought you should know George Dorsey was attacked about two hours ago.

'Attacked by whom?"

"He's dead, Ms. Brennan. Murdered because of your meddling."

"Me?"

I was speaking to a dial tone.

The rest of the evening I was too distracted to focus on coherent thought. I barely acknowledged Kit's return and report that he had had a really good time.

"Murdered because of your meddling." That was unfair Dorsey had asked to see me. What if he had asked for Claudel or Charbonneau or Quickwater? This was a prison murder of someone who was a threat to others. Those things happen. I didn't cause it. Claudel was unfair. I tossed and turned all night and repeated "unfair"

The next morning I was a work by seven-thirty, others wouldn't arrive for an hour, and the building was graveyard quiet. I cherished the calm and planned to take full advantage of it.

I let myself into my office, slipped on a lab coat, and crossed to the anthropology lab. Unlocking the door to the storage room, I pulled out the box containing Savannah's remains. I intended to get straight to work and let the Claudel matter arise in whatever manner he chose to raise it.

I laid the skull and femora on the table, and began the painstaking process of reinspecting every millimeter of bone under magnification and strong light. Though doubtful, I hoped to find something I'd missed. Perhaps a tiny nick or scrape that would tell me how the bones had been separated from the rest of the body.

I was still at it when someone knocked at the door. When I looked up Claudel stood framed in the glass. As usual his spine was ramrod straight, his hair as perfect as a studio shot of Douglas Fairbanks.

"Nice tie," I said, opening the door.

It was. Pale violet, probably designer silk. A good choice with the tweed jacket.

"Merci," he mumbled with all the warmth of a pit bull.

I laid down the femur, clicked off the fiber-optic light, and stepped to the sink.

"What happened to Dorsey?" I asked as I washed my hands.

"A Philips screwdriver happened to him," he replied. "The guard was outside reading while Dorsey showered. Probably catching up on his professional journals."

I pictured the man with the little rat teeth.

"The guard heard a change in the noise of the water, so he took a look-see. Dorsey was facedown in the drain with twenty-eight holes in his upper body."

"Jesus."

"But Dorsey didn't die right away," Claudel continued. "He shared a few thoughts on the ride to the hospitaJ. That's why I felt I should come by."

I reached for a paper towel, surprised that Claudel was being so open.

"The paramedic didn't get it all, but he caught one thing." Claude] lifted his chin a little.

"Brennan."

My hands froze.

"That's it?"

"He said he was busy keeping Dorsey alive. But he noticed the name because of his dog."

"His dog?"

"He's got an Irish setter named Brennan."

"It's a common name.

"Maybe in Galway, but not here. You did talk to Dorsey about Cherokee Desjardins, did you not?"

"Yes, but nobody knows that." "Except everyone at Op South." "We were in a private interrogation room. Claude] was silent. I pictured the corridor, with the holding tank just ten feet away.

"I suppose I could have been spotted." "Yes. These things have a way of getting back." "Getting back to whom?" "Dorsey was a Heathens hang-around. The boys wouldn't be happy if they thought he was launching a self-preservation movement."

I felt tension rise up my neck at the thought I might have triggered the attack.

"I don't think Dorsey killed Cherokee," I said, bunching up the towel and tossing it into the trash.

"You don't?"

"No."

"I suppose Dorsey claimed he was innocent as the Easter Bunny"

"Yes. But there's more.

He gave me an uncertain look, then folded his arms across his chest.

'All right. Let's hear it.

I told him about the blood spatter.

"Does that sound like a biker hit?"

"Things go wrong.

"Bludgeoning? Don't hit men usually come in shooting?"

"The last biker pulled from the river was hammered to death. So was his bodyguard."

"I've been thinking about that void pattern behind Cherokee s head. What if he was killed for whatever was removed?"

"There were a lot of people milling around that scene. Someone could have knocked the thing out of position. Or maybe the neighbor snatched it."

"It was covered with blood."

"I'll talk to her anyway." Finite at the best of times, Claudel's patience was clearly evaporating.

"And why would Cherokee let someone in?" I pressed on. "Maybe the hit man was a buddy from the old days." That made sense.

"Has ballistics gotten anything?" He shook his head.

"Who's heading the Spider Marcotte investigation?"

"That and the little girl fell to Kuricek." Sipowicz.

"Any progress?" Claudel raised both palms.