“That rat-brained little prick.” Headlights moved across his face, distorting lines and planes rigid with anger.
“This should dampen that line of reasoning.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sure Davenport's reaming me has nothing to do with you or Bertrand. That was a sidebar to his real agenda.”
“Which is?”
“I have every intention of finding out.”
Ryan's jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“Powerful people.”
His palms rubbed up then down his jeans, then he reached over and took my hand.
“Sure I can't buy you dinner?”
“I need to collect my cat.”
Ryan dropped my hand, flipped the handle, and got out of the car.
“I'll call you in the morning,” I said.
He slammed the door and was gone.
* * *
Back at the Annex, my answering machine flashed four messages.
Anne.
Ron Gillman.
Two hang-ups.
I dialed Gillman's pager. He phoned back before I'd filled Birdie's bowls.
“Krueger says you've got a match on the DNA.”
My stomach and tonsils changed places.
“He's sure?”
“One chance in seventy godzillion of error. Or whatever figures those guys throw around.”
“The tooth and foot come from the same person?” I still couldn't believe it.
“Yes. Go get your warrant.”
I dialed Lucy Crowe. The sheriff was out, but a deputy promised to find her.
There was no answer in Ryan's room.
Anne picked up on the first ring.
“Figure out who your bomber is?”
“We figured out who it isn't.”
“That's progress. How about dinner?”
“Where's Ted?”
“At a sales meeting in Orlando.”
My cupboard would have made Mother Hubbard proud. And I was so agitated I knew sitting at home would be sheer torture.
“Foster's in thirty minutes?”
“I'll be there.”
Foster's Tavern is a subterranean hideaway with somber wood paneling and tufted black leather rising to midwall. A carved bar wraps around one end, battered tables fill the other. Blood cousin to the Selwyn Avenue Pub, the tavern is small, dark, and flawlessly Irish.
Anne had the Guinness stew and Chardonnay. Were I in the game, I'd have gone for a black and tan, but Anne always had Chardonnay. I ordered corned beef and cabbage, a Perrier with lime. Normally I ask for lemon, but the green seemed more fitting.
“So who's been ruled out?” Anne asked, fingertipping a speck from her wine.
“I can't really discuss that, but there's other progress I can tell you about.”
“You've figured out the early temperature history of the solar system.”
She flicked the particle. Her hair looked blonder than I remembered.
“That was last week. Did you lighten your hair?”
“A mistake. What's this progress?”
I told her about the DNA hit.
