Claudel. Just what I needed.
Only it wasn’t.
Standing six feet two, wearing khakis, fawn linen, and a tweed jacket, Ryan looked like a cross between Pierce Brosnan and the older guy in an Adidas ad. He shook his head at the Diet Coke in my hand and the sugar powdering my desk blotter.
“The woman is a swirling mass of contradiction.”
“I have eclectic tastes.”
“Your tastes must confuse the hell out of your pancreas.”
“It’s
Ryan looked surprised at the sharpness of my response.
“Catching you at a bad time, cupcake?”
“I was expecting someone else.” I set down the can.
“I’m hearing that a lot lately.”
“Honey bun?”
“That I am other than your expectations.”
“I thought someone might be calling with information on a case.”
“Once more I’ve dashed hopes of which I know nothing.”
“You sound like Winston Churchill,” I said, slumping back in my chair.
“That is nonsense up with which I will not put.”
“A for grammar, D-minus for clarity.” I pressed powdered sugar onto the tip of my finger.
“Winnie said it.”
“You repeated it.”
“How are things going with Claudel?” Ryan leaned against the doorjamb and crossed arms and ankles. As usual, I found my eyes drawn to his. No matter how often I experienced it, the intensity of the blue always caught me off guard.
“Claudel’s running on a limited supply of brain cells. The few he has need to e-mail each other regularly to maintain contact.”
“And the system is down?”
“I haven’t heard from Claudel today. Actually, I’m looking forward to sharing something with him.”
I licked sugar from my finger and dipped more from the blotter.
“You going to share it with Honey Bun?”
“LaManche authorized expenditure for a special test I requested.”
“Without passing it by Authier?”
I nodded.
“LaManche can be a rascal. What test?”
“Carbon 14.”
“As in mummies and mastodons?”
I walked Ryan through the short course I’d given LaManche, but decided against mentioning the strontium isotope analysis. Too iffy.
“How far out for results?”
“Hopefully, no more than a week. LaManche suggested I move on to the third skeleton. Basically, he’s telling me to forget about PMI for now.”
“Not bad advice.”
“It’s frustrating.”
“Goes with the job.”
Ryan’s beeper sounded. He checked the number and clipped the gizmo back on his belt.
“Granted, these kids didn’t die last week, or even last month,” I went on. “But I can’t shake the thought that time is being wasted. I just have a bad feeling about this case.”
“Why?”
I told Ryan about Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent.
“What exactly did she say?”
“That she knew what had gone on in that building.”
“Which was?”
