Had she created it during one of her midnight sorties to the morgue? I pictured Briel shooting a bullet into Marilyn Keiser’s corpse. The image was appalling.
For the next half hour I considered and reconsidered my shocking epiphany.
Could this really be?
Nothing else fit.
The phone rang as the full scope of Briel’s treachery was sinking in.
“How’s it hanging, buttercup?”
I was too upset to nitpick Ryan’s endearment. Without asking about his day, I relayed everything I’d learned. Chris Corcoran’s bullet track case in Chicago. Miranda Leaver, alias Marie-Andrea Briel. Sebastien Raines’s violent and unsavory past. Heliomolar. 1984. The tooth swap. The phalanges theft.
“The call to Edward Allen was the kickoff for Briel’s plan to torpedo me.”
“What’s the motive?”
“To enhance her reputation. To lend dazzle to Body Find so it can generate contracts with the government, private companies, and lawyers.”
“I can see gunning for Ayers, if you’ll pardon the expression, but why go for you?”
“In France, pathologists do everything, anthropology, odontology, whatever. It’s an archaic approach to forensic medicine, but there you have it. While taking her short course, Briel probably developed delusions of grandeur.”
“She thinks she can do bones and you are competition.”
“That’s my theory.”
“If you’re right about all this, Briel is looking at a hard slap. Tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, improper handling of human remains.”
“Good for starters.”
“What’s your plan?”
“First I’ll take it to Hubert. If he’s nonreceptive, I’ll go to LaManche. This is serious. Briel’s actions could cause serious blowback on Keiser and Villejoin. On every case she’s worked.”
So far the conversation had been all about me.
“What’s happening with the investigation?”
“Florian Grellier picked Adamski out of a lineup. Says he’s definitely the bar buddy who talked about a grave at Oka. We’ve got a Canadian Tire clerk says he sold a garden spade to Adamski the day Anne-Isabelle Villejoin was murdered. We’ve got a gas station attendant says he sold kerosene to Adamski the week Keiser went missing. There’s a waitress puts him in Memphremagog about that time. The net’s closing.”
“How about Poppy?”
“A judge cut paper. A team’s tossing her place in Saint-Eustache as we speak.”
“Claudel is still working Adamski?”
“It’s harder now that the hairbag’s lawyered up. But the crown prosecutor feels the confessions on Keiser and Villejoin are solid. Adamski’s still not budging on Jurmain. Also insists he never shot anyone.”
“So my Briel theory fits.”
“Like a pair of commandos. How’s Birdcat?”
I told Ryan about my latest encounter with Sparky.
“You want Sparky to have an encounter with the long arm of the law?”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
There followed one of those awkward pauses. Then, “Want company tonight?”
The offer dropped my stomach. I wanted nothing more than Ryan snoring at my side.
But no. It didn’t yet feel right.
I deflected the hit with humor.
“Whose?” I asked.
“Why do I put up with you, Brennan?”
“My scintillating wit and awesome good looks. Neither of which will win a high star count tonight.”
“I’ll award you my unwavering five.”
“Thanks. But I’m staying cloistered with Birdie. When I shared Sparky’s comments on his vocal carrying power, the little guy decided to get the band back together with new amps. I need to talk him down.”
After disconnecting, I returned to my computer and opened a file. I wanted my ducks in perfect formation for tomorrow’s face-off with Hubert.
I’d been at it an hour when movement caught my eye. I glanced into the hall.
Birdie was doing crouching panther.
“Bird.”
The cat didn’t move.
“What is it, fur ball?”
Birdie flattened his ears.
Flashback. The shattered window.
A chill spread through my body. Small neck hairs upright, I crept down the hall and peered into the bedroom.
On the drawn shade, backlit by a street lamp, was a human silhouette. Close. Very close.
New adrenaline started making the rounds.
“Sparky! You sonovabitch!”
I grabbed a sneaker and blasted out the front door, thumbing the bolt so the lock wouldn’t engage. Firing around the hall corner to an emergency entrance in back, I hip-slammed the release bar, pushed through the door, and jammed the shoe into the crack.
The temperature was still mild, but the dampness was biting. Goose bumps quickly puckered my arms.
Snow melted on the strip of lawn below my bedroom and study. I remembered searching that grass with the cops. Lamplight winked from a few missed shards, reminders of the assault on my home.
My psycho neighbor was nowhere to be seen.
Hugging my torso, I crept across the yard, already regretting my impetuousness in flying out coatless.
“Sparky!”
My voice sounded loud in the after-snow hush.
“Where the hell are you?”
I stopped.
Listened for movement.
A car whooshed by on the street, tires spinning up slush. Water dripped somewhere.
My eyes swept the yard.
In the peach glow of an alley light, the bushes looked like humped-up coral. The pine needles wore designer pink coats that were slowly dissolving.
“Show your face. I know you’re out here.”
No response.
