206 BONES

On and on. Over and over. Faces. Names. Rose Jurmain. Anne-Isabelle and Christelle Villejoin. Marilyn Keiser. Myron Pinsker. Florian Grellier. Red O’Keefe-Bud Keith. Sparky Monteil. Achille, Vivienne, Serge, and Valentin Gouvrard.

The glowing orange digits said 1:15, then 2:18, 2:43, 3:06.

Then the alarm was chirping.

In a fog, I rolled over and palm-smacked the button.

The next sound I heard was a ringing phone.

Groggy, I reached out and dragged the handset to my ear. Clicked on.

“Mm.”

“You OK?” Ryan.

“Dandy.”

“Just checking.”

“Jesus, Ryan.” Sitting upright. “What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen.”

I checked the clock.

“Shit!”

“You coming in? I’ve got some more-”

“Thirty minutes.”

Flying across the room, I yanked undies from the bureau, then threw on yesterday’s jeans and sweater. In the bathroom I had a thirty-second moment with the Sonicare, splashed water on my face, yanked my hair into a pony, and bolted.

25

I MISSED STAFF MEETING BY ALMOST TWO HOURS. ON THE ERASABLE board, the square by Morin’s name said Temoignage. Testimony. I wondered if it was the same trial for which Ryan had been subpoenaed.

Sprinting down the hall, I happened to glance to my right. Natalie Ayers’s door was ajar. She was at her desk.

My first reaction was surprise. Normally the pathologists were downstairs by that time of morning.

It took a moment for details to register.

Ayers was sitting with elbows on the desktop, shoulders hunched, head hanging between upraised hands. Discarded tissues littered the blotter.

Reversing, I gently pushed the door inward.

“Natalie?”

Ayers’s head snapped up.

I looked into eyes that were red and swollen.

“Has something happened?”

Ayers shook her head, tried faking a smile. It was a lame attempt.

“What is it?” I prodded.

The teary eyes drifted over my shoulder out into the hall.

Without waiting for an answer, I closed the door, took a chair, and assumed a listening posture. Message: I’m here until you talk.

Ayers drew a shaky breath. Plucked a clean tissue. Leaned back.

“I screwed up on Keiser.”

I wiggled my fingers. Give me more.

“The poor woman was shot.” Ayers’s mascara was everywhere, her face an ink drawing left under a tap.

“Go on.”

“I checked the X-rays, looked for exit and entrance wounds, fragments, you know the routine. There wasn’t a single indication of a gunshot wound. Nothing. Nada.”

I nodded.

“She must have been rising up, or maybe doubling over to protect herself. The bullet was small caliber, entered at the shoulder, ran longitudinally down the right erector mass, and exited without nicking a bone or organ. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You snagged the track by making cross-sectional cuts?”

“I didn’t snag anything.” Ayers swallowed. “Wonder girl found it.”

“Briel?” I masked my surprise poorly.

Ayers nodded, causing tears to breach her lower lids. She jabbed the wadded tissue at her cheeks.

“When?”

“During her pajama-party autopsy session last night.”

“You gave her permission to examine Keiser?”

Ayers nodded. “I figured hell, why not? She’s an eager beaver, wants to learn.”

“Did Briel report the discovery to you?”

Ayers snorted her contempt. “How would that advance her precious career?”

“She went straight to Hubert?”

“What do you think?”

I thought she probably had.

“And get this. Hubert’s given her permission to speak to the press.”

“When?”

“Tonight.” She told me the name of the show. I’d heard of it, but never watched it. “Should make for great viewing. They’ll probably sell the movie rights.”

“How did the media learn Keiser had been found?”

Ayers shrugged both shoulders while blowing her nose hard.

“Why would Hubert allow Briel to go on air?”

Ayers flapped her tissue-free hand. “You’ve been away. You don’t understand. The Keiser and Villejoin investigations have been going nowhere. The cops and the coroner have been taking heat. Finding Keiser makes everyone look like they’re working hard.”

“Sonovabitch,” I said.

“Sonovabackstabbingupyoursbitch.”

Back in my office, I sat motionless, tiny wings fluttering in my brainpan. My lower centers were trying to snag my attention. Why? What word or name had triggered the feeling?

Briel? Keiser? Hubert? Media? Gunshot wound?

Hard as I coaxed, the moth-notion refused to venture into the light of conscious thought.

I was still swinging mental nets when my desk phone shrilled.

Ryan skipped the preliminaries.