KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

“Was she a smoker?”

“According to Claudel, yes.”

Ayers worked on the second half of her sandwich. I ate the remainder of my salad, then switched subjects.

“Briel’s student is here but Briel’s in Laval educating young minds.”

Ayers snorted air through her nose. “No she’s not. Our wunderkind is downstairs educating herself.”

“Oh?”

“She came in as I was leaving, asked if she could look at Keiser. For the experience.”

“She’s something.” I laughed.

“She is.” No trace of a chuckle.

Ayers stirred her coffee. Tapped the rim of her cup. Laid down her spoon. “Sorry about earlier.”

“No problem,” I said.

“You’re right, though. The atmosphere in our section has turned to shit.”

“Because LaManche is gone?”

Ayers considered. “No. That’s not it.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t want to tell tales. But I will say office tension is the reason Emily quit to work for the coroner.”

“What do you mean?”

Ayers shook her head. “Ask Emily.”

“She called me last week. Told me about Briel and Joe going back out to Oka, then urged me to get back up here fast. Never mentioned leaving the lab.”

“Talk to her.”

I vowed to do that as soon as possible.

Then events started crashing and the world seemed to veer off its orbit.

WHEN I RETURNED TO MY LAB, YOUNG SOLANGE DUCLOS WAS gone. Either Briel had corralled her, or the kid had left for the day. I didn’t much care. I had tables full of bones and a coroner with a shortage of patience.

Naturally, it was an afternoon of interruptions.

I’d hardly stowed my purse when Claudel appeared. Anxious to resume my analysis of the Lac Saint-Jean vics, I asked few questions, just let him talk.

“ L’équipe du service d’incendie has finished with Keiser’s cabin.”

Claudel referred to the arson boys, members of the chemistry section who determined cause and point of origin in suspicious fires.

“They picked up traces of accelerant on the carpet and sofa.”

Arson.

“What was used?”

“They’re working on it.”

“Ayers couldn’t tell if Keiser was breathing when the place went up,” I said.

“This is not my first homicide. Dr. Ayers and I have discussed her findings.”

Well, hot damn for you. I didn’t say it.

I was settling with the Lac Saint-Jean vics when my cell phone buzzed in my lab coat pocket. I checked caller ID.

Perry Schechter. So badgering can pay off.

Unfortunately, the lawyer’s “confidential information” was not the breakthrough for which I’d been hoping. While sorting Edward Allen’s papers, Schechter had found a scribbled note containing a phone number beginning with a 514 area code. The accompanying message consisted of one word. Rose .

After disconnecting, I did a reverse look-up using [http://whitepages.com] whitepages.com. The number came back “unpublished or unlisted.”

I called a contact at the SQ. He said he’d run the line and get back to me.

Ten minutes later he did. The number traced to a pay phone at the gare Centrale on rue de la Gauchetière Ouest.

Great. Montreal’s downtown railroad station.

But Schechter’s info wasn’t totally useless. It told me two things.

Thing one: la gare Centrale accommodated both long-distance VIA rail routes and hookups to city and suburban metro lines. So my accuser could be a commuter, an out-of-towner, or a local desiring anonymity. Now I was getting somewhere.

Thing two: pay phones still exist. Who knew?

It was four fifteen when I finally got to refocus on the Lac Saint-Jean vics.

The lull didn’t last.

I was opening the file of the younger son, Valentin, when male laughter razored into my concentration.

Ryan.

Joe.

Since the pathology, histology, and anthropology-odontology labs are all interconnected, I figured Ryan had entered at the far end and was cutting through toward my domain.

Rustling over the past hour had signaled that Joe was doing paperwork at his desk, directly in Ryan’s path. I assumed the two were discussing carburetors or sports scores, or enjoying one of those frat-boy jokes that elicit the singularly annoying conspiratorial Y-chromosome guffaw.

The younger Lac Saint-Jean child, perhaps Valentin Gouvrard, was represented by two vertebrae, three partial long bones, a calcaneous, a handful of cranial fragments, and three isolated teeth. Ignoring the buddy-boy sniggers drifting in from next door, I arranged the sparse little collection.

Preservation was awful. A combination of soaking and wave action had removed most identifiable anatomical landmarks, and breakage had rendered accurate measurement impossible.

But the teeth allowed confirmation of my age estimate of six to eight. Here’s why.

Unlike sharks or gators, humans are granted only two sets of choppers. Kids sport twenty. Grown-ups expand the assemblage to thirty-two by adding premolars and wisdom teeth.

Replacement goes thus. Around age six, the first permanent molars join the kiddy lineup. Around eleven or twelve the eight baby molars give way to eight adult premolars. During the teens and early twenties, two more adult molars join the back of each arch. No need to describe the incisor and canine action up front. We all know how that mess unfolds.

The younger child’s first permanent and second baby molar had been recovered, both from the lower jaw on the right. Also the second baby molar from the upper right. I set the baby teeth aside.

I was examining the adult molar when a shadow fell on my hand. I glanced up.

Ryan looked uncharacteristically formal in a dark navy suit and crisp white shirt. His pale yellow tie had sprightly blue dots.

“Natty,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Court day.”

“Your testimony went well?”

“Wowed ’em.”

“With your modesty.” I returned the tooth to its vial. “Buttering up my assistant?”

“Not sure he’s butterable.”

“Meaning?”

“When I said you were thermally challenged he got all defensive, said I was being rude.”

My left brow floated up.

“I was making a joke.”

“Perhaps Joe is one of those people who believe that being rude is rude. Why the comment on my climatic capabilities, anyway?”

“Mr. Touchy was looking at pictures of a utility tunnel or something. I asked about it, just making conversation, couldn’t have cared less. He described some nutball hobby. I said he must love the cold. He said that’s what Dr. Brennan thought. I said-”

I raised a silencing hand.

Ryan took the hint. “Gouvrard antemorts gonna put this to bed?”

I shook my head. “So far the file’s of limited use. Mama had migraines and bellyaches. Daddy had a rash. The older kid broke an arm, but I don’t have those bones. Daddy smashed his foot but I don’t have those bones.”

“Find anything exclusionary?”

“No. The ages and adult genders play. Ditto the injury patterns. The bone quality is crap, but consistent with forty years underwater.” I wiggled upturned fingers, indicating frustration. “There’s just nothing unique, nothing to make me comfortable with a positive ID. Anything new on Villejoin?”

“Grellier’s been leafing through mug shots the past couple days. Thinks he may have spotted his bar buddy. Punk name of Red O’Keefe. Aka Bud Keith. Aka Sam Caffrey. Aka Alex Carling. Creative guy. Usually these toads stick with the same initials. Makes it easier to keep the monogrammed tea towels.”

“What’s his story?”

“Four-time loser, all petty stuff.”

“O’Keefe’s in jail now?”

Ryan shook his head. “Been on the street since 1997. Served his full stretch, so he’s not on anyone’s call sheet. Former PO says his last known address was in Laval. While we’re running him to ground I’ll cross-check his rich list of monikers against names in the Jurmain and Villejoin files.”