Since Sergent-détective Jean Bertrand had died while on duty, he was given ful state honors. La Direction des Communications of the Sûreté du Québec had informed every police force in North America, using the CPIC system in Canada and the NCIC system in the United States. An honor guard flanked the casket at the funeral parlor. The body was escorted from there to the church, from the church to the cemetery.

While I had expected a large turnout, I was astounded by the mass of people who showed up. In addition to Bertrand's family and friends, his felow SQ officers, members While I had expected a large turnout, I was astounded by the mass of people who showed up. In addition to Bertrand's family and friends, his felow SQ officers, members of the CUM, and many from the medico-legal lab, it looked like every police department in Canada, and many in the United States, had sent representatives. French and English media sent reporters and TV crews.

By noon, the bits of Bertrand that passed for his corpse lay in the ground at the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery, and Ryan and I were winding our way down the mountain toward Centre-vile.

'When do you fly out?' he asked, splitting off Côte-des-Neiges onto rue St-Mathieu.

'Eleven-fifty tomorrow morning.'

'I'l pick you up at ten-thirty.'

'If you're aspiring to a position as my chauffeur, the pay is lousy.'

The joke plunged to its death before I'd finished saying it.

'I'm on the same flight.'

'Why?'

'Last night the Charlotte PD busted an Atlanta lowlife named Pecan Bilie Holmes.'

He dug a pack of du Maurier's from his pocket, tapped one out on the steering wheel, and placed it between his lips. After lighting up with one hand, he inhaled, then blew smoke through both nostrils. I lowered my window.

'Seems the Pecan had a lot to say about a certain telephone tip to the FBI.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The next few days felt like a plunge on the Mind Eraser at Six Flags. After weeks of the slow climb, suddenly everything broke. But there was nothing amusing about the ride.

It was late afternoon when Ryan and I touched down in Charlotte. In our absence, fal had caught on, and a strong breeze flapped our jackets as we walked to the parking garage.

We drove directly downtown to the FBI office at Second and Tryon. McMahon had just returned from interviewing Pecan Bilie Holmes at the jail.

'Holmes was coked to the eyebals when they hauled his butt to the bag last night, yeling and screaming, offering to rol over on everything back to a Little League game his team threw in the fourth grade.'

'Who is this guy?' Ryan.

'A thirty-eight-year-old three-time loser. Hangs on the fringes of the Atlanta biker scene.'

'Hels Angels?'

McMahon nodded.