"Tempe, I take back every mean thought I ever had about you." With that, Summer teetered off into the night.

Falling asleep, I wondered: Can one take back thoughts? Take them back from whom? To what end?

Monday morning, Birdie woke me by chewing my hair.

Fair enough. I'd FURminated off half of his undercoat.

After steeling myself with a quadruple espresso, toaster waffle, and wedge of cantaloupe, I phoned Pete.

"Summer came by my place last night."

"Did she."

"She was upset."

"I expect she was."

"Look, Pete. I did as you asked. She talked, I listened."

"Seems you did more than just listen."

"I offered no advice, rendered no opinion."

"That wasn't her take."

I struggled to be tactful. "Summer has her own way of viewing the world."

"You turned her into a crazoid."

She had a huge head start. I didn't say it.

"What did you do to make her so touchy?" Pete asked.

"She's concerned about your lack of interest in the upcoming nuptials."

"Who cares about napkin color? Or the flavor of frosting? Or the shape of a cake?"

"Your fiancee."

"It's like some monster has taken possession of her mind."

Not much to take. Again I kept it to myself.

"You shouldn't have told her I hate weddings," Pete said.

"I didn't. I simply said you weren't big on ceremony."

Pete had skipped his high school, college, and law school graduations. Our own marriage extravaganza was organized by my mother, Daisy Lee. Right down to the pearls on the napkin holders, which rested on the china, which complemented the linen tablecloths trimmed with alabaster lace. Pete had simply shown up at the church.

"What do you recommend?" Pete asked wearily.

Stun gun?

"Fake it," I said. "Pick ivory or white. Raspberry or cherry."

"She always disagrees with my choice."

"At least you've made the effort."

"I don't need this shit at my age."

Hell-o.

"Pete?"

"Yeah."

"Did she really call you a snideybutt?"

Dial tone.

After the bout with my ex, I needed physical exertion.

Birdie watched as I laced on my Nikes.

"What do you see in that bimbo?" I asked.

No response.

"She has the depth of a powder-room sink."

The cat offered nothing in his defense.

The weather was still August-hot. Eight-fifteen and already eighty-two degrees.

I opted for the short course and ran the loop up Queens and through the park. By nine-thirty I was back home, showered, and dressed.

Thinking Slidell might call with information on Lynn Hobbs, I worked through e-mail and paid some bills. Then I read an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences on the use of amino acid race-mization rates in dentition for the estimation of age. Light stuff.

By eleven the phone hadn't rung.

Needing a change of venue, I opted for the MCME. I'd finish my report on the landfill John Doe, then package the bone plugs. Should DNA analysis be needed, the specimens would be ready to go.

I'd barely hit my office when Tim Larabee burst through the door.

The look on his face told me something was wrong.

"WHERE'S THE JOHN DOE?" LARABEE'S BLOODSTAINED SCRUBS suggested he'd already been cutting.

Not surprising. Mondays can be hectic for coroners and MEs. Especially Mondays coming off hot summer weekends.

"Sorry?"

"MCME 227-11. Barrel boy. When you finished on Saturday, what did you do with him?" There was a sharp edge to Larabee's voice.

"I told Joe to return the body to the cooler."

"It's not there."

"It has to be."

"It's not."

"Did you ask Joe?"

"He's off today."

"Call him."

"He doesn't answer."

Slightly annoyed, I hurried to the cooler and yanked the handle. The door whooshed outward, carrying with it the smell of refrigerated flesh.

Five stainless-steel gurneys sat snugged to the far wall. Four others occupied the sides of the room. Six held body bags.

As I stepped inside, Larabee watched from the hall, sinewy arms folded across his chest. Moving from bag to bag, I checked case numbers.

Larabee was right. MCME 227-11 was not present.

Shivering and goose-bumped, I exited and closed the door.

"Did you look in the freezer?"

"Of course I looked in the freezer. No one's in there but the oldman Popsicle we've had for two years."

"A corpse can't just walk away."

"Indeed."

"You didn't sign a release for removal of the body?" I asked. Stupid. But this was making no sense.

Larabee's scowl was answer enough.

"You did your autopsy Saturday morning. I finished with my skeletal analysis around four Saturday afternoon. The body must have been moved after that."

Tight nod.

My mind sorted through possibilities.

"It couldn't be a funeral-home mix-up. They don't do pickups on Sundays."

"And everyone else is accounted for."

"When did you notice the John Doe missing?"

"About an hour ago. I went into the cooler to collect a gunshot case."

"Was anyone in here over the weekend? Cleaning crew? Maintenance? Repair service?"

Larabee shook his head.

"Joe was on duty?"

"Yes."

When alone on night shift, Joe sleeps on a cot in the back of the men's room. Closed door. Bad ears. An army could march through and he wouldn't hear a thing.

"Is it possible someone broke in?" I asked.

"And stole a corpse?" Larabee sounded beyond skeptical.

"It happens." Defensive.

"Body snatchers would have needed to disarm the security system."

"And tinkering is supposed to trigger an alarm."

"Supposed to." Larabee's tone affirmed his cynicism about modern technology.

"Let's check for signs of forced entry."

We did.

Found none.

"This is insane." I was at a loss for more ideas.

"There's something I should tell you." Larabee and I were standing beside the roll-on scale at the receiving dock.

I looked a question at him.

"Let's go to my office." Now the ME sounded nervous.

We entered and Larabee closed the door. He sat behind his desk. I took a chair facing him.

"As I was leaving on Saturday, I got tagged by the FBI."

I took a wild guess. "Special Agents Williams and Randall?"