Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(38)

Another aviation miracle. The flight landed early. The bookend punctuality made me mildly uneasy.

Exiting the airport, I was hit by a wind corkscrewing straight off the tundra. I admit it—I gasped. No matter how often it happens, I’m never prepared for that first frigid slap.

Ryan and I shared a taxi from Dorval. At his insistence, I was dropped first. I suppose it made sense. My condo is in Centreville. His is across the St. Lawrence in a concrete LEGO curiosity called Habitat 67.

Ryan offered to collect me in the morning. Happy to avoid the Métro, and frostbite, I accepted.

Digging for keys, I was aware of the taxi lingering at the curb, exhaust billowing like a small white cumulus in the red glow of the taillights. I was touched. Though I knew we had no future together, it meant something that he still cared about my safety.

My condo was cold and dark. Before removing my inadequate autumn-in-Dixie jacket, I thumbed the lever on the thermostat left. Way left. The hum of the furnace sounded loud in the stillness.

After a slapdash facial and dental effort, I threw on sweats and dropped into bed.

I dreamed about snow.

I awoke to bright sunlight leaking around the edges of the shade. Knew the day would be colder than crap.

The cupboard was bare, not even coffee. Rather than hike to the corner dépanneur, I skipped breakfast.

Ryan phoned at 7:55 as he was making the turn onto my street. I dug out my Kanuk jacket, mittens, and a scarf. Pulled on boots and set forth.

I was right. The air was so crisp, it felt like tiny crystals sliding in and out of my nose. The sun was a tight white ball hanging low in an immaculate blue sky.

I scurried to Ryan’s Jeep and climbed in.

Ryan never tired of teasing about my inadequacy in dealing with polar climes. Today he said nothing. His skin looked gray, and a dark half-moon sculpted each lower lid.

Congealed blood marked a spot on Ryan’s chin that he’d nicked while shaving. I wondered if he’d slept. If so, I guessed he’d dreamed about the Lily-shaped void now forever in his life.

I also wondered if he’d called ahead to his squad, or if he’d opted to appear unannounced. Either way, I suspected he was dreading the upcoming encounter.

You’ve got it. I asked about neither.

Traffic was surprisingly light across Centreville and through the Ville-Marie Tunnel. By eight-fifteen we were parked at the édifice Wilfrid-Derome, a T-shaped high-rise in a working-class neighborhood just east of the city center.

Here’s how the place works.

For almost twenty years I have served as forensic anthropologist for the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médicine legale, the central crime and medico-legal lab for the province of Quebec. Charlotte, North Carolina? Montreal? Right. The commute is a bitch. A story for another time.

The LSJML occupies the top two floors of Wilfrid-Derome, twelve and thirteen. The Bureau du coroner has ten and eleven. The morgue and autopsy suites are in the basement.

Ryan is a lieutenant-détective with the provincial police, the S?reté du Québec. The SQ has the rest of the building.

After entering the front doors, we swiped our security cards and passed through thunk-thunk metal gates. Ryan took an elevator to the Services des Enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, located on the second floor. I waited for the restricted LSJML/Coroner elevator.

I ascended with a dozen others mumbling “Bonjour” and “Comment ?a va?” At that hour, “Good morning” and “How’s it going?” are equally perfunctory no matter the language.

A woman from ballistics asked if I’d just come from the Carolinas. I said I had. She queried the weather. When I answered, my fellow passengers groaned.

Five of us exited on the twelfth floor. After crossing a marble-floored lobby, I swiped a different security card, then swiped it again to pass into the medico-legal wing. The board showed only two pathologists present, Jean Morin and Pierre LaManche, the chief. The others were testifying, teaching, or absent on personal leave.

Continuing along the corridor, I passed pathology and histology labs on my left, pathologists’ offices on my right. Through observation windows and open doors, I could see secretaries booting up computers, techs flipping dials, scientists and analysts donning lab coats. All the world slamming down coffee.

The anthropology/odontology lab was last in the row. There I used an old-fashioned key to enter.

My previous visit had been almost a month earlier. My desk was mounded with letters, flyers, and ads. A packet of prints from a Division d’identité judiciaire photographer. A copy of Voir Dire, the LSJML gossip sheet. One demande d’expertise en anthropologie form.

After removing my copious outerwear, I skimmed the anthropology consult request. Bones had been found in a farmer’s field near Saint-Chrysostome. If the remains were human, LaManche wanted a full bio-profile, estimated PMI, and trauma analysis.

Inwardly groaning, I walked to the side counter and opened a brown paper bag stamped with SQ identifiers. The contents included a partial tibia, a phalange, and one rib. Nothing human in the lot. That was why LaManche hadn’t phoned me in Charlotte. He knew. But perfectionist that he was, the old man had held the bones for my evaluation.

After getting coffee, I returned to the lab and dug three dossiers from a gray metal filing cabinet around the corner from my desk. LSJML-38426, LSJML-38427, LSJML-38428. The numbering system was different, but the covers were the same neon yellow as at the MCME.