I was under water and Lyle Crease was speaking to me. Seaweed undulated from below, like strands of hair on a submerged corpse. Here and there a shaft of sunlight penetrated the murky gloom, il uminating tiny particles floating around us.

My neck hurt. I opened my eyes then lifted and rotated my head, gingerly working the kink from my cervical vertebrae. My office was dark except for a pale fluorescence oozing through the glass beside the door.

How long had I slept? I strained to see my watch.

When I noticed the figure outside my door an alarm went off in my head. I froze, watching and listening.

The floor was stil , except for my heart drumming against my ribs.

The figure stood motionless, a silhouette framed by low-level light spil ing from my lab.

My eyes dropped to the phone. Should I cal security?

My hand was on the receiver when the door swung inward.

Jocelyn's face looked ghostly. She was dressed in black, and the pale oval head seemed to float, a disembodied jack-o'-lantern with dark holes for eyes and mouth.

I stood, not wanting to give her the advantage of height.

She didn't answer.

"Puis-je vous aider?" I asked. May I help you?

Stil , she said nothing.

"Please turn on the light, Jocelyn."

The command brought forth a response where the questions had failed. Her arm rose, and the office was thrown into brightness.

Her hair clung damply to her neck and face, and her clothes were corrugated, as if she'd been sitting a long time in a hot, cramped space. She sniffed and ran the back of a hand under her nose.

"What is it, Jocelyn?"

"You're just letting them slide." Her voice was hard with anger.

"Who?" I asked, confused.

"I thought you might be different."

"Different from whom?"

"Nobody gives a shit. I hear cops joke about it. I hear them laugh. Another dead biker. Good riddance, they say. It's cheap trash removal."

"What are you talking about?" My mouth felt dry.

"It's these cops who are a joke. Wolverines. Pfff." She puffed air through her lips. "Dickheads would be more like it."

I was stunned by the hatred in her eyes.

"Tel me why you're upset."

There was a long silence while she studied my face. Her gaze seemed to focus then withdraw as if grabbing my image for testing in some mental equation.

"He didn't deserve what he got. No fuckin' way." The obscenities sounded odd in French.

Quietly I said, "If you don't explain I can't help you."

She hesitated, taking a final tal y, then the angry eyes fixed on mine.

"George Dorsey didn't kil that old man."

"Cherokee Desjardins?" She answered with a shrug. "How do you know?"

She frowned, deciding if the question was a trap.

"Anyone with the IQ of celery would know that."

"That's not terribly convincing."

"A real mechanic would have done it right."

"What does that mea -- "