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“At the time of his accidental death, Been had significantly outstayed the allotted time on his visa.”
“It wasn’t accidental.”
My declaration was met with a series of irritated nasal breaths.
“Been was murdered,” I added, picturing Claudel’s indrawn lips and clenched nostrils.
After several more raspy inhalations, he said, “Go on.”
I explained the entrance and exit holes. The absence of water in the lungs and trachea that would have indicated drowning.
“Bullet trajectory suggests Been was shot in the chest. And that his assailant might have been taller than he was. I’m guessing Been’s sheet lists him at five-five to five-seven.”
Claudel made a sound in his throat. I took it as confirmation. Perhaps encouragement to continue.
“Been’s killer probably planned to use the fireworks to cover the sound of the gunfire. The storm and lightning were a bonus.”
Claudel said nothing
Recalling the spider/octopus tattoo, I asked, “Did Been have gang connections?”
“Here? Or in the islands?”
Perfect opening.
I told Claudel about Musgrove’s imminent arrival. Promised that, should the TCI detective contact me first, I would provide her with Claudel’s mobile number.
Then, quickly, “Have a nice weekend, detective.”
I disconnected, knowing Claudel might object to meeting with Musgrove. And that he’d have zero interest in the quality of my Saturday and Sunday.
MONDAY, JULY8
Ryan and I stayed home Saturday night and ate atoute garnieAngela pizza while watchingTrue Grit. He and Birdie are classic movies fans. The cat likes comedies. Ryan prefers westerns. Not sure how they made their choice.
The weather stayed warm and sunny. On Sunday, we took a hike up Mont Royal, the small hillock les Montrealais call “the mountain.” Along with every other ambulatory resident of the city.
That evening, Ryan and I blew a chunk of our budget on dinner at Le Club Chasse et Pêche on rue Saint-Claude. The setting was elegant, the food exquisite. The only drawback was the restaurant’s location. Being in the old port triggered flashbacks of Deniz Been’s body parts rising from the river.
Monday morning, I found a woman awaiting my arrival in the lobby of the SQ building. Her hair was glossy black and cropped to jaw length. Thick bangs covered her forehead. Her eyes were hazel,her pale skin tanned and creased by too much time in the sun or too little blocker. I guessed her age at a bump north of forty.
The woman rose upon seeing me. I knew who she was before her self-introduction.
“Dr. Brennan?” Musgrove extended a hand in my direction. “Detective Tiersa Musgrove. I go by Ti.”
We shook. Musgrove’s grip was somewhere in the bench vise range.
“Temperance Brennan,” I said, smiling. “Call me Tempe.” Then for lack of a better opener, “Your flight was okay? Your hotel?”
“Yes, brilliant. I took your suggestion and am staying on rue Peel.” Musgrove’s English was, well, English. However, face-to-face, I detected something more exotic in her cadence.
“Shall we get you signed in?” I asked.
Stepping to the window, I explained to the officer on duty that Musgrove was a visiting member of law enforcement. She presented ID and was given a temporary pass. Together we rode to the twelfth floor and walked to my office.
“Please.” I gestured to the chair facing my desk.
Musgrove sat, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. In the light of my office window, I noticed that a crescent moon darkened her right lower lid, either a birthmark or a bruise. She’d made an effort with concealer, but the blemish still peeked through.
