Death Du Jour by Reichs Kathy

Author:Reichs, Kathy [Reichs, Kathy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: London : Arrow, 2005.
Published: 1999-11-14T05:00:00+00:00

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK ON MONDAY MORNING TRAFFIC was heavy on the Woods Memorial Bridge. The sky was overcast, the river choppy and slate green. The news on the car radio predicted light rain and a high of seventy-two for the day. Ryan looked out of place in his wool trousers and tweed jacket, like an arctic creature blown to the tropics. He was already perspiring.

As we crossed into Beaufort, I explained jurisdiction in the county. I told Ryan that the Beaufort Police Department functions strictly within the city limits, and described the other three municipalities, Port Royal, Bluffton, and Hilton Head, each with its own force.

“The rest of Beaufort County is unincorporated, so it’s Sheriff Baker’s bailiwick,” I summed up. “His department also provides services to Hilton Head Island. Detectives, for example.”

“Sounds like Quebec,” said Ryan.

“It is. You just have to know whose turf you’re on.”

“Simonnet phoned her calls to Saint Helena. So that’s Baker.”

“Yes.”

“You say he’s solid.”

“I’ll let you form your own opinion.”

“Tell me about the bodies you dug up.”

I did.

“Jesus, Brennan, how do you get yourself into these things?”

“It is my job, Ryan.” The question irked me. Everything about Ryan irked me lately.

“But you were on holiday.”

Yes. On Murtry. With my daughter.

“It must be my rich fantasy life,” I snapped. “I dream up corpses, then poof, there they are. It’s what I live for.”

I clamped my teeth and watched tiny drops gather on the windshield. If Ryan needed conversation he could talk to himself.

“I may need a little guidance here,” he said as we passed the campus of USC-Beaufort.

“Carteret will take a hard left and turn into Boundary. Go with it.”

We curved west past the condominiums at Pigeon Point, and eventually drove between the redbrick walls that enclose the National Cemetery on both sides of the road. At Ribaut I indicated a left turn.

Ryan signaled, then headed south. On our left we passed a Maryland Fried Chicken, the fire station, and the Second Pilgrim Baptist Church. On our right sprawled the county government center. The vanilla stucco buildings house the county administrative offices, the courthouse, the solicitors’ offices, various law enforcement agencies, and the jail. The faux columns and archways were intended to create a low-country flavor, but instead the complex looks like an enormous Art Deco medical mall.

At Ribaut and Duke I pointed to a sand lot shaded by live oaks and Spanish moss. Ryan pulled in and parked between a Beaufort City Police cruiser and the county Haz Mat trailer. Sheriff Baker had just arrived and was reaching for something in the back of his cruiser. Recognizing me, he waved, slammed the trunk, and waited for us to join him.

I made introductions and the men shook hands. The rain had dwindled to a fine mist. “Sorry to have to put one through your basket,” said Ryan. “I’m sure you’re busy enough without foreigners dropping in.”

“No problem at all,” Baker replied. “I hope we can do something for you.”

“Nice digs,” said Ryan, nodding toward the building housing the Sheriff’s Department.

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