"Isn't this a little different from their normal method of dispatch?"

Claudel turned in my direction, his face pinched into its usual chil y expression.

"Excuse me?"

"Isn't the shotgun off from the MO for a biker hit? And the botched fire?"

Charbonneau cocked an eyebrow and shrugged both shoulders. Claudel said nothing.

"This seems so messy," I pressed on, determined to make a contribution. "In the cases I've reviewed the hits were pretty efficient."

"Things happen," said Charbonneau. "Maybe the perp was interrupted."

"I guess that's my point. Don't bikers research their victims and pick settings where they know they won't be interrupted?"

"With a dead biker who was freelancing in the drug trade, we do not need to search the membership roster at the Unitarian church to find our hit man."

Claudel's voice was cool.

"Nor should we slam our brains shut after the first theory drifts into them," I said caustical y Claudel gave me a look implying infinitely strained patience.

"You may be very good at digging up bodies and measuring bones, Ms. Brennan. But those skil s are not at the heart of this homicide investigation."

"It's hard to find a hit man if you don't know who's been hit, Monsieur Claudel. Are you going to put his face back together?" Anger made my face burn.

"That wil not be a problem here. Fingerprints should suffice."

I knew that, but Claudel's arrogance was bringing out the worst in me.

Charbonneau crossed his arms and blew out a deep breath.

Claudel checked his watch and I saw the flash of a gold cuff link. Then the arm dropped to his side.

"Sergent-detective Charbonneau and I wil drop you off." His voice indicated he would not be discussing the case further on this occasion.

"Thank you."

We crossed the room and I took one last look at the chair where Yves "Cherokee" Deslardins had died. It was empty now, but a port-colored cloud marked the place where his head had rested. Dark rivulets curved from each lobe, like the talons on a raptor greedy for a kil .

Claudel held the door and I exited to the corridor, gripping my bags so tightly my nails bit into the heels of my hands. Stil annoyed with Claudel's superior attitude, as I swept past him I couldn't resist one last gibe.

"As you know, Monsieur Claudel, I am the lab's liaison to Carcajou. You have a professional obligation to share ideas and information with me, like it or not, and I expect nothing less."

With that I strode down the hal and descended into sunlight.

Chapter 20

Though we drove through bright sunlight, my thoughts were dark. When I had volunteered for the Carcajou unit it had been to help solve the Emily Anne shooting, not to join the murder-of-the-day club. I rode in back, my mind shifting between Yves "Cherokee" Desjardins and Savannah Claire Osprey, victims as different as Charlie Manson and the Sugarplum Fairy.