"And the autopsy revealed zip."

LaManche and I had discussed his findings at lunch. There hadn't been much to discuss.

"The lungs were too far gone to know if she was breathing when she went into the water. Marine scavengers took care of her eyes, so there's no way to check for petechiae."

Petechiae are red pinpoint hemorrhages caused by leaky capillaries under increased venous pressure. Since sustained compression of the neck causes the backup of blood returning to the heart, the presence of petechiae on the skin of the face, and particularly around the eyes, is strongly suggestive of strangulation.

"So she could have been dead when she went into the water."

"I could try playing around with diatoms."

"I know you're going to tell me what those are."

"Unicellular algae found in aquatic and damp terrestrial habitats. Some pathologists believe the inhalation of water causes penetration of diatoms into the alveolar system and bloodstream, with subsequent deposition in the brain, kidneys, and other organs, including the bone marrow. They see the presence of diatoms as indicative of drowning."

"You sound skeptical."

"I'm not convinced diatoms can't make their way into any submerged body, drowned or not. Neither is LaManche. But there is another application. Many diatom species are habitat specific, so a.s.semblages found in or on bodies can be compared with a.s.semblages found in control samples taken from different locations. Sometimes specific microhabitats can be identified."

"Use diatoms to narrow where the body's been. Salt water. River bottom. Swamp. Estuary."

"That's the general idea. But it's a long shot."

"Sounds good."

"Before boiling I removed bone samples for DNA testing. I could have a marine biologist check the marrow in those. Also the sock."

Ryan spread both hands, palms up. "Case practically solved."

I raised questioning brows.

"The girl died near the river or someplace else. She was alive or dead when she entered the water. If alive, she fell, jumped, or was pushed, so manner of death is suicide, homicide, or accidental."

"Unless she had a stroke or heart attack," I said, knowing the only categories left were "natural" and "undetermined."

"Unless that. But this is a teenager."

"It happens."

Ryan did show up that night. I'd showered and blow-dried my hair. And, yes, I confess, applied mascara and lip gloss and a spritz of Alfred Sung behind each ear.

The buzzer warbled around nine. I was reading about FTIR spectroscopy in the Journal of Forensic Sciences Journal of Forensic Sciences. Birdie was performing his evening toilette on the far end of the couch. Losing interest in intertoe s.p.a.ces, he padded along to the foyer.

The security screen showed Ryan in the vestibule, birdcage at his feet. I buzzed them in, welcomed both warmly. After greeting and ear scratching the cat, Ryan accepted my offer of a beer.

While I poured Moosehead and Diet c.o.ke, Ryan settled Charlie on the dining room table. Birdie a.s.sumed his sphinx pose on one of the chairs, head up, paws in-curled, every sense fixed on the cage and its occupant.

Charlie was in top form, perch hopping, seed spewing, head c.o.c.king right then left to eyeball the cat. Every now and then he'd fire off a line from his repertoire noir noir.

Ryan took Birdie's end of the couch. I took mine, feet tucked under my b.u.m. Again, we established that our daughters were good. Lily was waiting tables at Cafe Cherrier on Rue Saint-Denis. Katy was doing a summer Spanish course in Santiago, Chile.

My Montreal condo is small. Kitchen, bedroom, den, two baths. Only the main living area is s.p.a.cious. French doors open from opposite sides, the north set to a central courtyard, the south to a Lilliputian-sized patch of gra.s.s.

Stone fireplace. Gla.s.s dining table. Yellow and blue Provencal sofa and loveseat. Cherry-wood moldings, window trim, and mantel.

As we talked, Ryan's eyes roved from object to object. Pictures of Katy. My younger sister, Harry. My nephew, Kit. A ceramic plate gifted from an old woman in Guatemala. A giraffe carving purchased in Rwanda. Rarely did his gaze meet mine.

Inevitably, we drifted into shop talk. Safe, neutral ground.

Ryan had been working special a.s.signments since the death of his partner several years earlier. He described his current investigation.

Three girls missing. Two others found in or near water. And now there was the Lac des Deux Montagnes floater. Six in all.

I told Ryan about the burn victim, the Doucets, and the Rimouski skeleton en route to my lab. He asked who was responsible for the latter. I described my meeting with Hippo Gallant.

Ryan said Hippo was inputting on his missing persons and DOA's. Thus, we drifted into the inevitable Hippo stories. The time he left his gun behind in a gas station men's room. The time he pulled a suspect from a culvert and ripped his pants up the a.s.s. The time a collar took a dump in the back of his cruiser.

Conversation was genial and friendly. And brotherly as h.e.l.l. No mention of the past or future. No body contact. The only references to s.e.x were those made by Charlie.

At ten-thirty Ryan rose. I walked him to the door, every cell in my brain screaming that what I was debating was a lousy idea lousy idea. Men hate being asked what they're feeling. I hate it, too.

Not for the first time, I ignored the advice of my instincts.

"Talk to me, Ryan." I laid a hand on his arm.

"Right now Lily-"

"No," I blurted. "It's more than Lily."

The cornflower blues refused to meet mine. A beat pa.s.sed. Then, "I don't think you're over your husband."

"Pete and I have been separated for years."

Ryan's eyes finally locked home. I felt something hot coil in my belly.

"Operative word," he said, "'separated.'"

"I hate lawyers and paperwork."

"You were a different person when you were with him."

"The man had been shot."

Ryan didn't reply.

"My marital status never mattered in the past."

"No. It didn't."

"Why now?"

"I hadn't seen you together."

"And now that you have?"

"I realize how much you care." Before I could speak Ryan added, "And how much I care."

That stunned me. For a moment I could think of nothing to say.

"Now what?"

"I'm trying to get by it."

"How's it going?"

"Not well."

With that he was gone.

As I lay in bed, emotions battled inside me. Resentment at the feeling that Ryan had suckered me in. All the asking. Then the striving to keep things light.

Annoyance at Ryan's cowboy-done-wrong act.

But Ryan had one valid point. Why didn't I divorce Pete?

I take offense slowly, store insult until the end of time. Ryan is the opposite, affronted quickly, but quickly forgiving. Each of us reads the other well.

Ryan was light-years beyond feeling slighted or piqued. His signals were unmistakable.

So, mostly, I felt sadness. Ryan was pulling away.

A tear slid from the corner of one eye.

"OK, wrangler." Spoken aloud in my party-of-one bed. "Adios."

7.

H ARRY HAS LIVED IN ARRY HAS LIVED IN T TEXAS SINCE DROPPING OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL her senior year. Long story. Short marriage. Her concept of phone etiquette goes something like this. I'm up. I want to talk. Dial. her senior year. Long story. Short marriage. Her concept of phone etiquette goes something like this. I'm up. I want to talk. Dial.

The window shade was oozing toward gray when my cell phone sounded.

"You awake?"

I squinted at the clock. Six-fifteen. Like a pilot whale, Harry needs approximately five hours of sleep nightly.

"I am now."

My sister once had this motto printed on a T-shirt: Never complain, never explain. Never complain, never explain. While she's lax on the front end, she's crackerjack on the back, following her whims and offering no apologies for the outcome. While she's lax on the front end, she's crackerjack on the back, following her whims and offering no apologies for the outcome.

She offered none now.

"I'm going to Canyon Ranch." Harry is blond, leggy, and trying hard to look thirty. Though that checkpoint was cleared a decade ago, in kind light, in the right clothes, she succeeds.

"That makes how many spas this year?"

"Rump's dragging, t.i.ts are starting to look like thirty-eight longs. Gotta eat sprouts and pump iron. Come with me."

"I can't."

"I'm selling the house."

The abrupt shift left me off balance. "Oh?"

"b.u.t.t-pie was an egregious error."

I a.s.sumed b.u.t.t-pie was husband number five. Or was it six? I dug for a name. Donald? Harold? Gave up.

"I think I hinted the man wasn't a girl's dream come true."

"You hinted he was stupid, Tempe. Arnoldo isn't stupid. Problem is he's got just one string on his fiddle."

Harry loves s.e.x. Harry is also easily bored. I didn't want to hear about Arnoldo's violin.

"Why sell the house?"

"It's too big."

"It was too big when you bought it."

Husband number something was an oil man. I never quite learned what that meant, but their brief nuptials left my sister well oiled, indeed.

"I need a change. Come help me look at real estate."

"I really can't."

"Working on a juicy one?"

I considered, decided against mentioning the Rimouski skeleton. Once ignited, Harry is nonextinguishable. Besides, there was no evidence of an Evangeline Landry connection.