Kathy Reichs - Deadly Descisions

Until seeing Emily Anne I'd forgotten about the Fontaine murder. That incident had taken place in December of 1995 ott the West Island, and involved the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine. Olivier's death had raised a cry of public outrage, which led to the creation of Operation Carcajou, the multiagency task force devoted to the investigation of biker crime.

"Temperance, I can't-"

"I'll do whatever is needed. I'll work on my own time, between cases. If Carcajou is like everyone else they're probably shorthanded. I could do data entry or historic case searches. I could liaison among agencies, maybe work links to intelligence units in the U.S. I cou-"

"Temperance, slow down." He held up a hand. "This is not something I am in a position to do. I will speak with Monsieur Patineau."

Stephane Patineau was director of the LSJML. He made final decisions for the crime and medico-legal labs.

"I will not let any involvement with Carcajou interfere with my normal duties."

"I know that. I promise I will speak with the director first thing Monday morning. Now go home. Ronne fin desemaine."

I wished him a good weekend, too. Quebec winters end much differently from those in the Carolina Piedmont. Back home spring slips in gently, and by the end of March and the beginning of April flowers begin to bloom and the air is soft with the warmth of summertime emerging.

Les quebeois wait six weeks longer to plant their gardens and window boxes. Much of April is cool and gray, and the streets and sidewalks glisten with melted ice and snow. But when spring appears it does so with breathtaking showmanship. The season explodes, and the populace responds with an enthusiasm unmatched on the planet.

Today that vernal performance was weeks away. It was dark and a light rain was falling. I zipped my jacket, lowered my head, and made a dash for the car. The news came on as I was entering the Ville-Marie Tunnel, the Toussaint murder the lead story. That night Emily Anne was to have received an award in a lower-school writing competition. She'd titled her winning essay: "Let the Children Live."

I reached over and turned off the radio.

I thought of my plans for the evening and was glad I'd have someone to buoy my spirits. I vowed not to talk shop with Ryan.

Twenty minutes later I opened my apartment door to the sound of a ringing phone. I glanced at my watch. Six-fifty. Ryan would be here in forty minutes and I wanted time for a shower.

I walked to the living room and threw my jacket on the couch. The machine clicked on and I listened to my voice request a short message. Birdie appeared at the exact moment Isabelle came on.

"Tempe, if you're there, pick up. C'est important." Pause. "Merde!"

I really didn't want to talk but something in her voice made me reach for the handset.

"Hello, Isa-"

"Turn on the television. CBC."

"I know about the Toussaint child, I was at the lab-"

"Now!"

I picked up the remote and clicked on the set.

Then I listened in horror.

Lieutenant-detective Ryan had been under investigation for several months. He has been charged with possession of stolen goods and with trafficking and possession of controlled substances. Ryan surrendered peacefully to GUM officers this afternoon outside his home in the Old Port. He has been susp ended from duty withoutpaypendingafull investigation.

And now some other stories that we've been following. Jn financial news, the proposed merger of-"

"TEMPE!" Isabelle's bark snapped me back. I raised the receiver to my ear.

"C'est lui, n'est-ce pas? Andrew Ryan, rimes contre La Personne, Sureté du Québec?"

"It's got to be a mistake."

As I said the words my eyes flew to the message light. Ryan hadn't called.

"I'd better go. He'll be here soon.

"Tempe. He's in jail."

"I've got to go. I'll call you tomorrow"

I hung up and dialed Ryan's apartment. No answer. I called his pager and entered my number. No response. I looked at Birdie. He had no explanation.

By nine I knew he wasn't coming. I'd called his home seven times. I'd phoned his partner, with the same result. No answer. No response.

I tried grading the final exams I'd brought from UNC-Charlotte, but couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept going back to Ryan. Time would pass and I'd find myself staring at the same essay in the same blue book, my mind absorbing nothing the student had written. Birdie nestled in the crook of my knees, but it was small comfort.

It couldn't be true. I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it.

At ten I took along, hot bubble bath, zapped a carton of frozen spaghetti, and took it to the living room. I chose CDs I hoped would cheer me, and placed them in the player. Then I tried reading. Birdie joined me again.

No good. Same loop. Pat Conroy might as well have been printed in Nahuatl.

I'd seen Ryan's image on the screen, hands cuffed behind his back, uniformed cops on either side. I'd watched them angle his head forward as he bent to slide into the cruiser's backseat. Still, my mind wouldn't accept it.

Andrew Ryan was seiling drugs?

How could I have been so wrong about him? Had Ryan been dealing the whole time I'd known him? Was there a side to the man that I'd never seen? Or was it all a terrible mistake?

It had to be a mistake.

The spaghetti cooled on the table. I had no stomach for food. I had no ear for music. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and the Johnny Favourite band played swing that could make a gulag get up and dance, but it did nothing to brighten my mood.

The rain fell steadily now, drumming the windows with a soft ticking sound. My Carolina spring seemed very far away.

I twirled a forkful of pasta, but the smell made something in my stomach recoil.

Andrew Ryan was a criminal.

Emily Anne Toussaint was dead.

My daughter was somewhere on the Indian Ocean.

I often phone Katy when I'm feeling down, but for the past few months that had been difficult. She was spending her spring on Semester at Sea, circling the world aboard the S.S. Universe Explorer The ship wouldn't return for another five weeks.

I took a glass of milk to my bedroom and cracked the window and stared out, thoughts swirling like five o'clock traffic.

The trees and bushes looked like black shadows through the dark glistening mist. Beyond them I could see headlights and the shimmer of neon from the corner de-panneur. Now and then cars swooshed by, or pedestrians hurried past, their heels clicking on the wet sidewalk.

So routine. So normal. Just another rainy night in April.

I let the curtain fall back and crossed to my bed, doubting my world would return to normal for a very long time. I spent the next day in constant activity. Unpacking. Cleaning. Shopping for food. I avoided radio and television, glanced only briefly at the paper

The Gazette featured the Toussaint murder: SCHOOLGIRL KILLED IN BlOODY SHOOT-Out Beside the headline was a blowup of Emily Anne's fourth-grade photo. Her hair was braided and bowed at both ends with large pink ribbons. Her smile showed gaps that adult dentition would never have the chance to fill.

The picture of Emily Anne's mother was equally heartbreaking. The camera had caught a slim black woman with her head thrown back, mouth wide, lips curled inward in a cry of agony. Mrs. Toussaint's knees were buckled, her hands clasped below her chin, and on either side, a large black woman supported her Unspeakable grief screamed from the grainy image.

The story gave few details. Emily Anne had two younger sisters, Cynthia Louise, age six, and Hannah Rose, age four Mrs. Toussaint worked in a bakery. Mr. Toussaint had died in an industrial accident three years earlier. Born in Barbados, the couple had immigrated to Montreal, seeking a better life for their daughters.