ATURDAY MORNING, RYAN HELPED ME CHECK OUT OF THE HOSPITAL. Drove me home. Settled me on my couch. Lit a fire. Made lunch.

My ankle ached. My cheek was congealed tar. I had a lump on my occipital that could wrestle as a heavyweight. The Weeki Wachee Mermaids were still doing wheelies in my brain.

What the hell? I needed nurturing.

Over tomato soup and peanut butter on toast, we treaded safe conversational ground.

Ryan told me that on Wednesday results had come back on my Lac Saint-Jean vics. The adult female’s femur had produced sufficient organic material to sequence mitochondrial DNA.

“Did the brother provide a sample?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And?”

“Being congenial pays off. You have a reputation for being congenial. People like you.”

“Ryan.” I gave him the steely-eyed look. Squinting irritated the scab on my face.

“In deference to your recent excellent adventure, an SQ officer drove the sample from Sainte-Monique to Montreal personally. The DNA boys leapfrogged it to the front of the queue.”

“And?”

A grin spread over Ryan’s face.

“Tell me.”

The grin widened.

Leaning forward, I punched Ryan’s bicep.

“Give the lady a gold star.”

“Yes.” I arm-pumped the air. It hurt. “The Clemenceaus and Blackwater, not the Gouvrards.”

Mostly, we discussed the growing evidence against Adamski.

A warrant had been served and an SIJ team had tossed Poppy’s condo in Saint-Eustache. Much to her displeasure.

“A hollow beneath a waterbed produced a duffel containing two thousand dollars.”

“From the Villejoins’ pantry?”

“Could be. Someone’s checking for prints, looking for trace DNA.”

“Prints would be good. Trace DNA is a long shot.”

“Better than—”

“No shot at all. Poppy didn’t know about the money?”

“You think she’d have left it there after Adamski’s arrest?”

“Did SIJ find anything else?”

“A shovel in the garage. A sedimentologist is comparing dirt from the blade to samples you collected from Christelle’s grave at Oka.”

“Any blood?”

“Biology is looking at a stain. Trace evidence has some hairs. The garage was also home to a lovely little chain saw. A botanist is comparing gunk from the teeth to pine logs stacked in the Villejoins’ backyard.”

“Wowzer.”

“Wowzer. If Adamski’s confession is kicked, the crown prosecutor wants beaucoup backup.”

The buzzer sounded. Again. Ryan answered the door, returned bearing yet another gift. I’d already received a gazillion flowers, a pajama-gram from Ayers, and a fruit basket from Santangelo. This time it was a floral arrangement the size of Denver.

Ryan set the vase on the table and handed me the card.

“Claudel,” I read.

“What’s he say?”

“Claudel.”

“See. He likes you.”

Ryan took our dishes to the kitchen, then we rifled Santangelo’s basket. A clementine for me, a banana for Ryan.

“Adamski admitted to forging Keiser’s old-age pension checks. Discovered all three in her purse. After cashing them, he tossed the purse into a Dumpster on Saint-Laurent and found himself a bar.”

“Open a tab. It’s on my dead wife.” My voice conveyed the disgust I felt.

“He’s holding firm on Rose Jurmain. Denies killing her. Adamantly.”

“So the original coroner’s finding was probably correct. Rose over-drank, underdressed, wandered off, and died of exposure.”

“Adamski’s only admission concerning Jurmain is that her disappearance triggered the idea of going after his former wife. That and news coverage of elderly victims in upstate New York.”

“And getting away with murdering the Villejoins.”

“And that.”

“What’s happening on the Joe-Briel-Raines front?”

“They’ve turned on each other like hyenas on a carcass. Ballistics is checking out a Browning twenty-two semiautomatic pistol found in Briel’s condo. They’ll all go down.”

“Was Raines involved?”

“Indirectly. Body Find was his baby. He brainwashed Briel into believing that if she gained celebrity status it would get the venture off the ground. Also, he called Edward Allen.”

“Briel’s a viper,” I said.

“Let’s not be overly harsh. Briel believed she was neither setting a criminal free nor convicting an innocent person. She was knifing some colleagues to promote herself, but that doesn’t make her Adamski, unless you think she really did want Joe to kill you. Also, once the jig was up, she was instrumental in your rescue.”

“Probably to avoid being an accessory to murder.”

“Probably.”

The fire had died to embers. Ryan got up to poke them.

“It’s people like Briel who give forensic science a bad name,” I said.

“Adamski’s dirty and he’s going away for a very long time, but Briel’s actions make you wonder.” Ryan spoke without turning to face me. “How many guilty have gone free, and how many innocent have been convicted because of bad police or forensic work?”

“You’ve heard of the Innocence Project?”

Ryan nodded.

“In the last twenty years there have been over two hundred exonerations in the U.S., some involving inmates on death row. More than a quarter, fifty-five cases with sixty-six defendants, involved forensic testing or testimony that was flawed. And those stats don’t begin to tell the whole story.”

Ryan added a log. Embers spiraled, Lilliputian fireworks in the dim hearth.

“Forensic science is popular right now, and people with minimal or no training are hot to be players. Briel is a perfect example. She learned a little about bones and hung out her shingle as an anthropologist.”

“With predictable results,” Ryan said.

“Whether it’s bad methodology, sloppy performance, or intentional misconduct, jurors can’t always spot junk science. If an expert wears the white lab coat, it’s science.”

Returning to the couch, Ryan sat closer.

“Cops and lawyers have the same problem,” he said. “How are we average joes supposed to know who’s legit?”

“That’s the point of board certification. Every field has it now. The American Board of Forensic Anthropology, Engineering, Entomology, Odontology, Pathology, Toxicology, etc. Accreditation is a rigorous process.

“Board certification isn’t a perfect answer, Ryan. Sure, some incompetents slip through, just as in law or medicine. But it’s a start. Those letters behind a scientist’s name aren’t just for show. They’re hard-earned. And they’re a message that an expert has undergone peer scrutiny and meets a high set of ethical standards. And being certified in one field doesn’t mean you’re an expert in another.”

“Briel’s not certified in forensic anthropology.”

“Of course she isn’t. It takes a PhD and years of experience to qualify for ABFA candidacy. Being a pathologist doesn’t make you an anthropologist, or vice versa.”

For several moments we listened to the hiss and pop of the logs.

My eyes drifted to a bouquet on the dining room table. LaManche. His gift had been the first to arrive.

“This would never have happened on LaManche’s watch,” I said. “He’d never use a noncertified expert.”

“The old man would have seen through Briel,” Ryan agreed.

“I hope he’s doing well,” I said.

“So do I.”

Ryan took my hand. Firelight danced in his eyes and bathed his face with a warm, honey glow.

“Are we, buttercup? Doing well?”

I hesitated.

“Yes, dandelion.”

I smiled.

“Very well, indeed.”