KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

Ryan again used silence.

O’Keefe flipped his tuque, flipped it again. Smoothed it with one hand. Then, “This guy Grellier’s a crackpot. You got nothing. Screw you.”

“Screw me?” Quietly.

O’Keefe lunged forward, temples pulsing with tiny veins. “You reading me on this? I don’t know no one named Grellier. Got nothing to do with dead old ladies. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about murder, you dumb shit.”

“You can wipe your ass with any more questions.”

The two men glared at each other, noses inches apart. Tense silence crammed the tiny room. This time Ryan broke it.

“An officer will bring you pen and paper. You can write, can’t you, Red? Don’t sweat the spelling and punctuation.”

O’Keefe slumped back and kicked out his feet. The hooded eyes again crawled to me.

“Your little friend don’t say much, but she’s smokin’.”

Ryan scribbled in his spiral, tore off the sheet, and slapped it on the table.

“I’ll need proof of your whereabouts on these dates.” Pure ice. “Take your time. I know your social calendar probably stays packed.”

Ryan got to his feet. I followed.

“And don’t make travel plans.”

A reptilian smile curled O’Keefe’s lips. “That was good.” Pointing at Ryan. “Got that Horatio Caine thing going. Get you some aviator shades, you’re on your way.”

Ryan and I walked to the door.

O’Keefe spoke again to our retreating backs.

“Smokin’ doc, you come to the station I’ll slip you a wax job.”

“IMPRESSION?” RYAN ASKED.

“I need a shower.”

“He said you were smokin’.”

“The guy has good hair.”

“Yeah. I noted that. Walmart clothes. Wall Street do.”

It was past two, and the cafeteria was deserted. Ryan and I had just bought vending machine sandwiches. My ham salad looked like it might have been made during the Tet Offensive.

“Volatile personality.”

“Agreed. The guy’s coolness itself, then suddenly the temper slips its leash.”

“Do you think he’s dirty?”

Ryan set his briefcase on a table by the machine, pulled out and opened a file.

“O’Keefe was straight up on one thing. He’s got no history of violence. There are some sealed juvies in here. I could get those if I need them. His first arrest was in ’sixty-eight. Purse snatching. Got probation.” He flipped pages. “Busted in ’seventy-two for passing bad paper, more probation. Did his first slap in Bordeaux from ’seventy-five to ’seventy-eight. Credit card fraud.” More pages. “Bump in the late eighties in Halifax, another in the early nineties in Edmonton. Credit cards both times. Last jolt was back here in Quebec, ’ninety-six to ’ninety-seven.”

“Where’s O’Keefe from?”

“Moncton. Real name’s Samuel Caffrey.”

“What does he do when he’s not serving time?”

“Works various cons. Picks up jobs at day labor centers. Doing shift work for factories, working for local moving companies. Occasionally takes on part-time employment, like pumping gas.”

“He ain’t who he used to be.” I mimicked O’Keefe.

“Imagine that.”

We had the thought simultaneously.

“I’ll check to see if anyone moved in or out of the Villejoin neighborhood around the time of the attack,” Ryan said.

“Or had their house painted.”

“Or roof repaired.”

“M. Keith.” As we crossed toward the elevators. “The name’s not that common in Quebec.”

“No it isn’t. I plan to float O’Keefe’s picture around Pointe-Calumet, see if any of the Villejoin neighbors remember him.”

I told Ryan about my conversation with Ayers.

“Is Briel really that good?” First the phalanges, now the bullet track. He didn’t say it.

“She blew it on sorting the Lac Saint-Jean vics.”

“How’s that going?”

“I plan to finish with the younger kid tout de suite .”

I was punching for an elevator when a question occurred to me.

“You said the Villejoins had a savings account, right?”

Ryan nodded.

“How did they pay the bills they recorded in their ledger?”

“I can find out. Why?”

“We know they didn’t have credit cards or a checking account. They didn’t use the Internet. Maybe they kept cash in the house.”

“Go on.”

“Say they hire a handyman, pay him. He sees the stash in the cookie jar, decides to return later and help himself. Maybe one of the sisters surprises him, things go south-”

I let the thought hang.

A ghost of a smile played Ryan’s lips.

“Not bad, Brennan.”

It was as if the gods were conspiring against me. Or at least one among them had a grievance.

Arriving upstairs, I found Duclos in my lab, idly thumbing through her osteology manual. Today the beyond-yellow hair was pulled into dual ponies, one sprouting from each side of her head. The lipstick was mauve.

I set down my half-eaten sandwich.

“Where is Dr. Briel?”

“Preparing for her interview.” Perhaps in deference to her boss’s upcoming appearance on CTV, Duclos was speaking English. “Is that cool, or what?”

“Two words, Ms. Duclos. Self starter.”

Duclos’s face went utterly blank.

“Is there nothing you could be doing?”

“Oh.” Nervous giggle. “The teeth are in the cabinet. I couldn’t get to them.”

Valid point. Though no one gave a rat’s petootie about Bergeron’s dental collection, he insisted on keeping it under lock and key. Only Joe and I were privileged. Should one of Bergeron’s students need entrée in his absence we’d each been granted access to the treasure. Woo-hoo!

I dug in my purse, then went to the closet to liberate the tub.

Duclos looked up at me, awaiting direction.

“Compare deciduous to permanent.” Terse. Duclos was not my responsibility. Having to mentor her was making me cranky.

“Baby molars have bulbous crowns and slender, divergent roots.” She spoke as though reading text.

“Yes.” I dug an example from the tub and handed it to her.

Pointing the crown north and the roots south, she wiggled the molar through the air. “The itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout.” The nursery rhyme sounded strange in her accented English.

I finished the last of my sandwich, bunched the cellophane.

“The front teeth have scallopy biting edges, right?”

I shook my head, wondering what seasoning had been used in the ham salad.

“Not always.” I tapped a finger on the Bass book.

“No sweat. I’ll look it up.”

I turned to the youngest Lac Saint-Jean kid.

More frustration. Joe had X-rayed the bones but had failed to take films of the teeth. After twenty minutes of searching, I found him in the break room downstairs, outside the morgue.

I was probably too abrupt. What the hell? It was late, and so far I’d gotten little accomplished.

Joe agreed to shoot apicals. Cooly.

Back to the twelfth floor.

Duclos and I worked side by side in silence. Now and then my stomach rumbled. Once she offered gum. I declined.

Some folks suffer headaches, others allergies, others gastric distress. I occasionally trip paths A and B. Never C. Thus, when hit with digestive symptoms, I’m totally flummoxed.

By late afternoon I needed something.

After trying Ayers, the secretaries, and the receptionist, I finally bummed an antacid from Morin. He insisted on describing the autopsy he’d just completed. It was three ten when I finally got back to the Lac Saint-Jean vics.

Joe had yet to collect the dentition for X-ray.

Feeling guilty about my brusqueness, I arranged the teeth on trays, separated by person. Twelve for the adult female, all in the lower jaw. Twenty-one for the adult male, some in mandibular, some in maxillary fragments. None for the older child. Three for the younger child, all isolated.