Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

Today’s teasing stemmed from an incident in which I’d been dragged from a fire and deposited bum-up. My leopard-skin panties had saluted the world. Though the episode had occurred several years earlier, it was still the top choice for source material.

Ignoring the witty repartee, I continued on course.

Ryan was at his desk, one haunch resting on the edge. A man sat opposite him. No yellow-striped pants or gray shirt, but I assumed he was the Mountie from Edmonton.

And no. He wasn’t wearing red serge, jodhpurs, and a Stetson. That garb is strictly ceremonial.

A word about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, RCMP, or in French, the Gendarmerie royale du Canada, GRC. The world calls them Mounties. Internally, they refer to themselves as the Force. Too many Star Wars movies, you say? Nope. The tradition goes back much further.

The RCMP is unique in that it functions at the national, provincial, and municipal levels, providing federal policing services to all of Canada and, under contract, to three territories, eight provinces, more than 190 municipalities, 184 aboriginal communities, and three international airports.

While the two most populous provinces, Ontario and Quebec, maintain their own provincial forces, the Ontario Provincial Police and the Sûreté du Québec, all the others rely on the RCMP to some extent. In the three territories, Yukon, Nunavut, and the Northwest Territories, the Mounties are the only game in town.

Confusing? To complicate matters further, some large cities, such as Edmonton, Toronto, and Montreal, have their own municipal police departments.

Just think of the FBI, state troopers, the sheriff’s department, city cops. Same deal.

Ryan’s visitor was sitting with his back to me, elbow cocked over the arm of the chair. Graying temples suggested some mileage.

Hadn’t Ryan said the guy was a sergeant? So the Force wasn’t fast-tracking him into the OCDP, the Officer Candidate Development Program. I wondered if he’d plateaued in his career. If, like many NCOs, he’d grown resentful of the “white shirts,” as the noncommissioned called the commissioned officers.

Whatever. Though unimpressive if working at headquarters in Ottawa or at a divisional HQ, sergeant was a decent enough level for a member in the field.

So why was Ryan looking at the guy like he was barf on the sidewalk?

Drawing close, I took in more detail. Though of average height, the sergeant was powerfully built, with arms and a chest that stretched his shirt to the limit.

Ryan said something I didn’t catch. His visitor responded, tilting his head so that his chin went forward and up.

The odd mannerism jostled a gaggle of cells where a memory was stored.

I slowed. No way.

The sergeant reached out and placed a Styrofoam cup on Ryan’s desk. His left hand flashed into view for a moment.

My pulse went off the map.

FOR A MOMENT I CONSIDERED RETREAT. FLIGHT BACK UPSTAIRS to my lab. But my higher centers were already lobbing words like “professional” and “adult.”

Sergeant Oliver Isaac Hasty. Other than deeper laugh lines and the graying-temples thing, he hadn’t aged a bit. No loosening of the jaw. Not an extra ounce of fat.

Ollie had been a corporal back then, on temporary-duty assignment to the FBI Academy in Quantico. Behavioral science training or some such. I’d been teaching a body recovery workshop to special agents.

Ollie and I met over beers in the Boardroom. He was Canadian. I was considering an offer to consult to the LSJML in Montreal. All that week he’d provided insight into my strange neighbors to the north.

The chemistry was blistering, no denying that. But I found Ollie’s view of himself something of a put-off. No matter the topic, Corporal Hasty was an expert, and others knew little.

When the course ended, I headed home to North Carolina, libido frustrated but self-esteem intact. When his training concluded, Ollie drove to Charlotte to visit. No invitation. In Ollie’s world, rejection was not an option.

My marriage had just imploded, and I was still shattered by Pete’s betrayal. And living alone for the first time in two decades. Horny divorcée-to-be. Brawny Mountie. Eros can be denied only so long. Though I wasn’t nuts for Ollie, for a solid week our slap-and-tickle burned down the house.

So what happened? you ask.

Ollie was twenty-nine. I was, well, a wee bit older. I lived in Dixie. He lived in Alberta, damn far away. Neither he nor I wanted to go steady, so no future get-togethers were planned.

We exchanged brief letters and phone calls for a while; no e-mail back then. Eventually, predictably, the thing just died.

And here he was. Sitting face-to-face with player number two in my very short lineup of postmarital lovers.

Hearing footsteps, both men looked my way.

“Dr. Brennan.” Ollie rose and spread both hands, the left missing most of its fourth digit.

“Sergeant Hasty.” Ignoring the invitation to hug, I extended a palm. As we shook, I tried to recall how the finger was lost. Weird, but that’s where my mind went.

“I understand you two know each other.” Ryan remained butt-leaning on the desk.

“Dr. Brennan and I met in Quantico.” Ollie’s liquid brown eyes held mine. “When was that?”

“A long time ago.” I willed my cheeks not to flame.

“Dandy,” Ryan said. “Shall we discuss Annaliese Ruben?”

As I slipped past Ollie and took a chair to his left, I wondered what Ryan knew. Had our long-ago dalliance come up in the course of conversation about Annaliese Ruben? Surely Ollie would not be so crass.

Was Ollie’s history with me the source of Ryan’s current coolness? Ridiculous. At best it had been an episode of catch-and-release, old news by the time I came to Montreal. And Ryan and I had pulled the plug on our relationship over a year ago. He couldn’t be so childish as to harbor a grudge about a fling that happened before he and I met. Could he? Besides, if he knew, it would have been very recent news to him, his iceberg demeanor already in place.

“Let’s,” said Ollie.

“How about we start with why you’re here,” said Ryan.

“Two reasons. First, there’s an outstanding warrant on Ruben. You say she’s here in Quebec. Second, Ruben is an HRP reported missing from my turf. As a member of the Project KARE task force, I have to follow leads on MPs who fit that profile.”

Without waiting for a response, Ollie snapped open the brass clasps on his briefcase, withdrew a folder, and flipped its cover. I noticed that the file held two thin pages.

Worrisome thought. Had Annaliese Ruben’s disappearance been investigated at all? Cared about?

“The report was filed as a front-desk walk-in,” Ollie began. “Reporting party was Susan Forex, street name Foxy.”

“Odd move for a hooker,” Ryan said.

“Foxy’s an odd chick.”

“You know her?”

“I do. But Foxy’s bellying up wasn’t all that strange. The ladies in Edmonton are scared shitless.”

“Rock and a hard spot. Cops or crazies.”

Ollie gestured agreement. “A rookie named Gerard took Forex’s statement. Forex claimed Ruben was boarding at her house. According to the summary, Ruben had a date to see a john she described as a big spender. The meet was to be at the Days Inn downtown.”

Ollie was plucking relevant information out of the file.

“Ruben never came home. Four months later, Forex decided to report her missing.”

“Took her a while to get worried,” Ryan said.

“How long were they roommates?” I asked.

“Maybe half a year.”