After downloading and completing the proper forms, I packaged the Sprite can, the tissues, a molar, and a plug from the girl's right femur. Then I went in search of LaManche.

The chief listened, fingers steepled below his chin. Evangeline. Obeline. Agent Tiquet. The Whalen brothers. Jerry O'Driscoll's p.a.w.nshop. Tom Jouns.

LaManche raised some points for clarification. I answered. Then he called the coroner.

Hippo was right. No way, Jose.

I leveled with LaManche about my personal agenda. Reluctantly, he granted my request to pay for the tests out of pocket.

LaManche informed me I had one new case. Nothing urgent. Long bones had been found near Jonquiere. Probably old cemetery remains.

He updated me on the Doucet situation. The psychiatrist had concluded that Theodore was mentally incompetent. Since no cause of death could be established for Dorothee or Genevieve, charges were not being laid.

I outlined the cold cases Hippo and Ryan were working, and described my involvement in them. The MP's, Kelly Sicard, Claudine Cloquet, and Anne Girardin. The DOA's from the Riviere des Mille iles, Dorval, and Lac des Deux Montagnes. The phone rang as I was explaining the possible link to Phoebe Jane Quincy.

LaManche raised two palms in apology. What can one do?

Back in my lab, I directed Denis to send the DNA samples by Federal Express. Then I phoned the lab and begged for expedition. The man said he'd do what he could.

I was grabbing my purse when I remembered one of LaManche's questions.

"Ou se situe l'ile-aux-Becs-Scies?"

Where was it, indeed? I'd been unable to find the island anywhere in the New Brunswick atlas.

And what did the name mean? Island of what? Perhaps the maps I'd consulted used an English translation.

I pulled out my Harrap's French-English dictionary.

I knew scie scie translated "saw." I'd encountered the word countless times on requests for a.n.a.lysis of dismembered corpses. I wasn't so sure about translated "saw." I'd encountered the word countless times on requests for a.n.a.lysis of dismembered corpses. I wasn't so sure about bec bec.

Lots of choices. Beak. Bill. Snout. Mouth. Nose (of tool). Nozzle (of tube). Lip (of jug). Spout (of coffeepot). Peak (of bicycle saddle). Mouthpiece (of clarinet).

Who can explain the French mind?

I checked for alternate meanings of scie. scie.

Nope. Saw was pretty much it. Radial, wood, circular, hack, power, jig, turning, chain, scroll. Distinctions were handled with modifiers.

Island of Beaks Saws. Island of Snouts Saws. Island of Peaks of Bicycle Saddles Saws.

I gave up. Better to ask Hippo.

Cormier's apartment was located a block from his studio, in a white-brick box lacking a single redeeming architectural detail. Air conditioners jutted from all four floors, whirring and dripping. Gold script above the gla.s.s entrance provided the building's name: Chateau de Fougeres.

Good concept, but nary a fern in sight.

Ryan's Jeep was parked at the curb. Up the block I spotted a dark blue Taurus. The plate told me the vehicle was SQ.

The Chateau's outer vestibule had collected the usual unwanted fliers and brochures. Stepping around them, I pressed the b.u.t.ton beside Cormier's name. Ryan buzzed me in.

The lobby was furnished with a brown plastic sofa and green plastic ferns. OK. I'd jumped to judgment on the flora.

I rode the elevator to the third floor. Doors stretched to my right and left along a gray-tiled corridor. I checked the number Ryan had given me: 307. The unit was unlocked.

The kitchen was to my right. Ahead was a parquet-floored living room. To my left a short hall gave onto a bedroom and bath. Mercifully, the place was small.

And clean. Every surface gleamed. The air smelled mildly of disinfectant.

Though heat and humidity fought for dominion outside, inside the temperature barely topped sixty-five. Cormier kept his AC cranked.

Terrific. After yesterday's sweatshop, I'd worn a sleeveless top and shorts. I could feel squadrons of goose b.u.mps gathering for action.

Ryan was in the bedroom talking to the same CSU techs who'd GPR'ed the dog in the barn. Chenevier was dusting for prints. Pasteur was rifling drawers. Ryan was searching the closet. Their faces looked tense.

We exchanged bonjour' bonjour' s. s.

"No Hippo?" I asked.

"He's at the studio." Ryan was checking the pockets of a very dingy trench coat. "I'll roll that way when I finish here."

"Finding anything?"

Ryan shrugged. Not really.

"The guy has some sweet electronics." Chenevier chin-c.o.c.ked the bedroom's west wall. "Check it out."

I returned to the living room.

The west end of the room was overfurnished with a discount-store chair-sofa-coffee-end-table grouping. The plasma TV was the size of a billboard.

A gla.s.s and steel workstation ran the length of the east wall and shot some distance up the north. On it sat a cable modem, a keyboard, a flatbed scanner, and a twenty-inch LCD monitor. A CPU tower occupied the corner on the floor.

I watched lights flicker on the modem, thinking. Something didn't track. Cormier had high-speed Internet at home, but ran his business out of envelopes and manila folders?

The wireless mouse glowed red. I jiggled it and the monitor flashed to life. Blue background. Black cursor blinking in a rectangular white box.

"Does the search warrant cover the computer?" I called out.

"Yeah." Ryan left the bedroom and joined me. "I spent a couple of hours trolling when I first arrived."

"Cormier doesn't use pa.s.sword protection?"

"Genius uses his last name."

I moved aside. Ryan sat and hit a few keys. Notes sounded, and the screen changed to the familiar Windows desktop. The wallpaper was a cityscape, taken at night from an overlook on Mont Royal. The picture was good. I wondered if Cormier had snapped the shot.

I recognized most of the icons. Word. HP Director. WinZip. Adobe Photoshop. Others were unfamiliar.

Ryan right-clicked the green Start Start b.u.t.ton on the bottom tool bar, then clicked on b.u.t.ton on the bottom tool bar, then clicked on Explore, Explore, followed by followed by My Doc.u.ments My Doc.u.ments. A list of files and dates filled the screen. Correspondence. Expenses. Mail Order. My Alb.u.ms. My Archives. My eBooks. My Music. My Pictures. My Videos. Upcoming Events. Correspondence. Expenses. Mail Order. My Alb.u.ms. My Archives. My eBooks. My Music. My Pictures. My Videos. Upcoming Events.

"I checked every folder, every file. Tracked what Internet history I could. I'm no expert, but it looks like a whole lot of harmless c.r.a.p."

"Maybe Cormier's clean."

"Maybe." Ryan didn't sound convinced.

"Maybe the guy's just what he appears to be."

"Which is?"

"A low-end photographer with a high-end PC."

"Uh-huh."

"Maybe Cormier's such a Luddite he got talked into buying way more than he needs."

Ryan ducked his chin.

"It does happen," I said.

"Cave canem."

"Beware of the dog? You mean caveat emptor caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware. Both are Latin proverbs, not quotes."

The way-too-G.o.dd.a.m.n-blue eyes held mine.

Something sparked in my chest. Ryan's lips tightened.

We both looked away.

"I called Division des crimes technologiques." Ryan changed the subject. "Guy should be here any time."

As though on cue, the techie walked in. Only it wasn't a guy.

"Tabarnouche. Traffic's the s.h.i.ts." The woman was tall and thin, with lank blond hair that cried out for a stylist. "Already preparation for the festival's gumming up the streets." Traffic's the s.h.i.ts." The woman was tall and thin, with lank blond hair that cried out for a stylist. "Already preparation for the festival's gumming up the streets."

The Festival international de jazz de Montreal takes place in late June and early July. Every year it paralyzes a major chunk of centre-ville.

The woman extended a hand to Ryan. "Solange Lesieur."

Ryan and Lesieur shook.

The hand came to me. Lesieur's grip could have fractured billiard b.a.l.l.s.

"This the system?"

Without waiting for an answer, Lesieur seated herself, gloved, and began clicking keys. Ryan and I moved behind her for a better view of the monitor.

"I'll be awhile." Lesieur spoke without looking up.

Fair enough. I, too, refused to work with breath on my neck.

Chenevier was still tossing the bedroom. Pasteur had shifted to the bath. Sounds of his search drifted up the hall. The ceramic clunk of a toilet tank cover. The squeak of a medicine cabinet door. The rattle of tablets in a plastic tube.

While gloving, Ryan and I decided to start in the kitchen.

I'd finished going through the refrigerator, when Lesieur spoke.

Abandoning his utensil drawer, Ryan went to her.

I carried on in the kitchen.

Four stainless steel canisters lined one counter. I opened the smallest. Coffee beans. I ran a spoon through them, found nothing of interest.

"This system can accommodate multiple hard drives, boosting capacity to one point five terabytes."

Ryan asked a question. Lesieur responded.

The second canister contained a brown sugar geodite. I poked at it. If anything was inside, we'd need a hydraulic drill to free it.

Lesieur and Ryan droned on in the next room. I took a moment to listen.

"A gigabyte equals one billion bytes. A terabyte equals one trillion trillion bytes. That's a friggin' locomotive. But all this toad's doing is surfing the Net, storing a few files?" bytes. That's a friggin' locomotive. But all this toad's doing is surfing the Net, storing a few files?"

I refocused on the canisters. The third held white sugar. My spoon churned up no booty.

"He's not an engineer. He's not storing videos. Why's he need all that capacity?" Lesieur.

"Guy's a gamer?" Ryan.

"Nope."

The largest canister was filled with flour. Too deep for the spoon.

"And what's up with the scanner?" Lesieur.

"He's not storing images?" Ryan.

"None that I've found."

Removing a stack of bowls from an upper cabinet, I extracted the largest and put the others back.

Ryan said something. Lesieur responded. The exchange was lost to the rattling of china.