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Luc?
Musgrove dug an iPhone from her satchel and scrolled to the Notes app. “In a place called Terrebonne?”
I nodded. “Terrebonne is a town northwest of the island of Montreal.”
“The girlfriend’s name is Émilie Gaudreau. She’s a receptionist at a nail salon. They met when Gaudreau was vacationing in TCI. While in Canada, Been crashed at Gaudreau’s flat.”
“Does Claudel have a theory on who shot Been?”
“He’s thinking the kid may have gone freelance and begun selling drugs in a hood where he shouldn’t have. That one of your local lads took exception and popped him.”
“Did Claudel interview Gaudreau?”
“He did. Gaudreau said Been knew almost no one in Quebec. That he had no ties to any gang, at least none of which she was aware. She claimed they mostly hung out at her flat watching TV. She denied knowing anything about illegal drugs.”
“No surprise there.”
Changing course, Musgrove asked if I was married, had kids, the usual polite inquiries of a new acquaintance. I replied in the negative concerning marriage, asked the same of her. She said she had an ex, added that she usually referred to him as “shithead.”
I was about to follow up on that intriguing declaration when a voice came over the intercom instructing us on the positioning of our seat backs and tray tables. As everyone prepared for landing, a thought occurred to me.
“Did Claudel ask why Been was alone on that bridge the night of the fireworks?”
“Gaudreau said that they’d quarreled the day before. That they’d sort of broken up.”
“Sort of?”
Musgrove smiled. “Our minds work alike. I posed that very question. Luc said those were Gaudreau’s exact words.”
“What doyouthink?” I asked after a pause.
Musgrove’s signature “who knows?” shrug was somewhat constrained by her seat belt and the tight space. “Been was a bit of a cock-up back home. But as far as I know, he never dealt drugs.”
The plane began its final descent. Giselle reached over to clutch my wrist. I patted her hand.
The wheels had barely kissed the tarmac when Musgrove’s mobile pinged a series of incoming texts. A lot of them. She hit the icon and glanced at the screen.
Her brows dipped and her lips tightened. “Bloody hell.”
“Bad news?” I asked.
The hazel eyes rolled up to mine below the dark bangs. She nodded, once, quick. Drew a breath.
“Yesterday at dawn, fishermen spotted a small boat drifting about a mile off the far western tip of Provo.” Musgrove spoke so softly I had to strain to hear her. “The fishermen notified the marine branch of the RTCIPF.”
“Royal Turks and Caicos Islands Police Force?”
“Yes. Sorry. Several people were on board, including at least one child. All are dead and have been for some time.”
“Jesus.” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.
“My IO had no further information. Investigating officer,” she added when I looked perplexed.
The plane stopped taxiing. A bong sounded. Around us, passengers began gathering their belongings.
Musgrove looked at me, earnest as a preacher on Sunday morning. “I hate to ask. I imagine it will be grim. But since you’re here, we could really use your help on this.”
“Of course.”
