I cut a second slice of bone from the highest intact point on the tibia, tagged and sealed it. If the foot remained unidentified, I would attempt a more precise age estimate using histological features. But microscopic analysis would have to wait. Slides were being made at the ME facility in Charlotte, and the backlog was monumental.
I rebagged the foot, returned it to the body tracker in charge of the case, and moved on, continuing with a day identical to the previous four. Hour after hour I sorted bodies and body parts, probing their most intimate details. I didn't notice when others came and went, or when daylight dimmed in the windows high above our heads.
I'd lost all track of time when I glanced up to see Ryan rounding a stack of pine caskets at the far end of the fire station. He walked to my table, his face as tense as I'd ever seen it.
“How's it going?” I asked, lowering my mask.
“It'll be a bloody decade before this is sorted out.”
His eyes were dark and shadowed, his face as pale as the flesh that lay between us. I was shocked by the change. Then, realization. While my grief was for strangers, Ryan's pain was personal. He and Bertrand had partnered for almost a decade.
I wanted to say something comforting, but all I could think of was “I'm so sorry about Jean.”
He nodded.
“Are you all right?” I asked gently.
His jaw muscles bulged, relaxed.
I reached across the table, wanting to take his hand, and we both looked at my bloody glove.
“Whoa, Quincy, no gestures of sympathy.”
The comment broke the tension.
“I was afraid you'd pocket the scalpel,” I said, snatching up the implement.
“Tyrell says you're done for the day.”
“But I—”
“It's eight o'clock. You've been here thirteen hours.”
I looked at my watch.
“Meet me back at the temple of love and I'll update you on the investigation.”
My back and neck ached, and my eyelids felt like they'd been lined with sand. I placed both hands on my hips and arched backward.
“Or I could help you”—When I returned to vertical Ryan's eyes locked onto mine and his brows flicked up and down—“relax.”
“I'll be asleep before I hit the pillow.”
“You've got to eat.”
“Jesus, Ryan, what is this concern with my nutrition? You're worse than my mother.”
At that moment I spotted Larke Tyrell waving at me. He pointed to his watch then made a slicing movement across his throat. I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.
Telling Ryan that I'd take the briefing, and only the briefing, I zipped the remains into their pouch, made notes in the disaster victim packet, and returned everything to the body tracker. Stripping down to my street clothes, I washed and headed out.
Forty minutes later Ryan and I sat with meat loaf sandwiches in the kitchen of High Ridge House. He'd just voiced his third complaint concerning the absence of beer.
“The drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty,” I replied, pounding on a ketchup bottle.
“Says who?”
“According to Ruby, the Book of Proverbs.”
“I will make it a felony to drink small beer.” The weather had cooled and Ryan was wearing a ski sweater, the cornflower blue a perfect match for his eyes.
“Did Ruby say that?”
“Shakespeare.
“Your point being?”
“Like the king, Ruby is being autocratic.”
“Tell me about the investigation.” I took a bite of my sandwich.
“What do you want to know?”
“Have the black boxes been recovered?”
“They're orange. You have ketchup on your chin.”
“Have the flight recorders been found?” I blotted my face, wondering how a man could be so attractive and so annoying at the same time.
“Yes.”
“And?”
