orty minutes later I was passing between shoulder-high hedges on a walkway leading to double glass doors. A logo was centered in each pane, with company information printed below. French on top, English underneath in smaller font. Very québécois.

It had taken thirty minutes to drive, another thirty to find the address. The RP Corporation was one of a half dozen enterprises housed in two-story concrete boxes in a light-industrial park in St-Hubert. Each structure was gray, but expressed its individuality with a painted stripe circling the building like a gift ribbon. RP's bow was red.

The lobby had the glossiest floor I've ever tread. I crossed it to an office to the left of the main entrance. When I peeked in, an Asian woman greeted me in French. She had shiny black hair cut blunt at the ears and straight across her forehead. Her broad cheekbones reminded me of Chantale Specter, which reminded me of the girl in the septic tank. I felt the familiar cringe of self-blame.

'Je m'appelle Tempe Brennan,' I said.

Hearing my accent, she switched to English.

'How may I help you?'

'I have a three o'clock appointment with Susanne Jean.'

'Please have a seat. It won't be a moment.' She picked up and spoke into a receiver.

In less than a minute Susanne appeared and crooked a finger at me. She was about my weight, but stood a full head taller. Her skin was eggplant, her hair plaited into a trellis pattern for three inches around her face. In back it hung in long, black cornrows, bundled together with a tangerine binder. As usual, Susanne looked more like a fashion model than an industrial engineer.

I followed her back into the lobby, then through a second set of double doors opposite the main entrance. We crossed a room filled with machines. Several white-coated workers adjusted dials, studied monitors, or stood watching the technology do whatever it did. The air was packed with muted whirs, hums, and clicks.

Susanne's office was as sleek as the rest of the plant, with bare white walls and straight teak lines. A single watercolor hung behind her desk. One orchid in a crystal bud vase. One detached petal. One perfect water droplet.

Susanne liked things clean. Like me, she held title to a messy past. Like me she'd done serious tidying up.

While my drug of choice had been alcohol, Susanne's was coke. Though neither of us belonged to the organization, we'd met through a mutual friend who was an AA zealot. That was six years ago. We'd kept in touch, periodically attending a meeting with our common link, or getting together on our own for dinner or tennis. I knew little about her world, she less about mine, but somehow we clicked.

Susanne lowered herself onto one end of an apricot couch, and crossed legs that were at least twelve yards long. I took the other end.

'What do you do for Bombardier?' I asked.

'We're prototyping plastic parts.'

'Volvo?'

'Metal bearings.'

Manufacturing is as mysterious to me as the Okeefenokee. Raw materials go in. Weedwhackers, Q-tips, or Buicks come out. What happens in between, I haven't a clue.

'I know you take CAD data and create solid objects, but I've never really known what kinds of objects,' I said.

'Functional plastic and metal parts, casting patterns, and durable metal mold inserts.'

'Oh.'

'Did you bring the CT scans?'

I handed her Fereira's envelope. She withdrew the contents and began going through the films, holding them up as Fereira had done. Now and then a film bent, making a sound like distant thunder.

'This should be fun.'

'Without getting technical, what will you do?'

'We'll make an STL file of your 3-D CAD data, then—'

'STL?'

'Stereolithography. Then we'll enter the STL file into our system.'

'One of those machines out there?'

'Right. The machine will spread a thin layer of powdered material across a build platform. Using data from the STL file, a C02 laser will draw a

cross-section of the object, in your case a skull, on the layer of powder, then sinter—'

'Sinter?'

'Selectively heat and fuse it. That will create a solid mass representing one cross-section of the skull. The system will spread and sinter, layer after layer, until the skull is complete.'

'That's it?'

'Pretty much. When the skull is done, we'll take it out of the build chamber and blow away any loose powder. You'll be able to use it as is, or it can be sanded, annealed, coated, or painted.'

I was right. Stuff in. Stuff out. In this case what would go in was information taken from Fereira's CT scan. What would come out was a cast of the Paraiso skull. I hoped.

'The technology's called SLS, Selective Laser Sintering.'

'Besides metal bearings and plastic parts, what else do you make?'

'Pump impellers, electrical connectors, halogen lamp housings, automotive turbocharger housing units, brake fluid reservoir parts—'

'O-rings for the Orion nebula.'

We both laughed.

'How long will it take?'

She shrugged. 'Two, maybe three hours to convert the CT scan to an STL file, maybe a day to cast the skull. How about late Monday?'

'Fantastic'

'You look shocked.'

I was. 'I thought you'd say a week or two.'

'This project sounds more interesting than hearing aid housings.'

'And the Guatemalan police will be eternally grateful.'

'Any cute ones down there?'

I pictured Galiano's lopsided face.

'There is one.'

'What about the caballero you're seeing up here?'

I pictured Ryan.

'Pecos Bill's been keeping a low profile.'

Anyway, I'll do your skull myself.' She held up a long, slender finger. 'On one condition.'

'Dinner and drinks on me.' I laughed. 'Tomorrow night?'

'Sounds good. Be warned, girlfriend. I'm gonna hit you up for the priciest mineral water on the menu.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

I entered my lobby to the sight of the caballero supine on its leather love seat, head propped on one arm, lower legs dangling over the other.

'How did you get in here?'

'It's O.K. I'm a cop.'

I set down my cases and grocery bags.

'All right. Let's go with why.'

'It's hot outside.'

I waited.

Ryan sat up and swung his size twelves to the floor.

'These things aren't designed for beings over six foot two.'

'It's a decorative piece.'

'Would be hell for watching the Stanley Cup finals.'

'It's not intended for lounging.'

'What's it good for?'

'Collecting mislabeled mail, drugstore circulars, and back issues of the newspaper.'

'This lobby isn't exactly visitor friendly.' Ryan rubbed the back of his neck.

'There are the potted palms.'

He gave me his forty-something schoolboy grin. 'Missed you.'

'I got in yesterday.'

'I've been on a stakeout.'

'Oh?'

'Drummondville.'

Through the door I heard muted beeps and engine revs. Friday evening rush hour was winding down.

'Owner of a dive called Les Deux Originals decided to expand into the small-arms business. Guess the two moose made him nervous.'

'You never told me you speak Spanish.'

'What?'

'Never mind.'

I picked up my parcels.

'It's been a long day, Ryan.'

'How about dinner tomorrow night?'

'I've made plans.'

'Change them.'

'That would be rude.'

'How about dinner tonight?'

'I just bought shrimp and veggies.'

'I know a scampi recipe that's illegal in four Italian cities.'

I'd bought enough food for two. Actually, I'd bought enough for twelve. I never again wanted a cupboard as bare as the one I'd faced last night.

Ryan stood, spread his hands palms out, and broke into another grin. He was tanned from hours of outdoor surveillance, and the tawny skin made his eyes appear more vivid than usual, a blue beyond the blue human cells can produce.

Normally, with time, even the most stunning beauty grows familiar. It's like watching Olympic figure skating. We grow jaded and forget how extraordinary the grace and beauty truly are. Such was the case with Susanne. I was aware of her elegance, but it no longer surprised me when she entered a room.

Not so with Ryan. His good looks still startled me on a regular basis.

And he knew it.

'Which ones?' I asked.

He looked puzzled.

'Which cities?'

'Turin, Milan, Sienna, and Florence.'

'You've made this scampi?'

'I've read about it.'

'This better be good.'

Ryan went for beer while I changed. Then he grilled the shrimp and I mixed a salad.

During dinner we talked around things, maintaining a safe level of banality. Afterward, we cleared the table and took coffee outside to the patio.

'That really was good,' I said for the second time.

Lights were blinking on in windows across the courtyard.

'Have I ever misled you?'

'Why is this repast banned under Tuscan law?'

He shrugged. 'Maybe I exaggerated a little.'

'I see.'

'It's actually a misdemeanor.'

Beyond the courtyard, the Friday night party was cranking up. Auto horns. Emergency sirens. Weekend revelers, in from their split-levels in Dorval and Pointe Claire. Pounding hip-hop, swelling then receding as cars passed by.

Ryan lit a cigarette.

'How goes Chupan Ya?'

'You remembered the name.'

'The place is important to you.'

'Yes.'

'It must be gut-wrenching.'

'It is.'

'Tell me about it.'

It was like speaking of some parallel universe where rotting bodies took center stage in a morality play too hideous for words. Headless mothers. Massacred infants. An old woman who lived because she had beans to sell.

Ryan listened, the periwinkle eyes rarely leaving my face. His questions were few, always germane. He did not rush or divert, allowed me to unload in my own way.

And he listened.

And I realized a truth.

Andrew Ryan is one of those rare men able to make you feel, rightly or wrongly, that yours are the only thoughts in the galaxy that interest him.

It is the most appealing trait a man can have.

And it was not going unnoticed by my libido, which seemed to be clocking a lot of overtime lately.

'More coffee?' I asked.

'Thanks.'

I went to the kitchen.

Maybe having Ryan drop by wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe I'd been too harsh on the caballero. Maybe I should have used a little makeup.

I did a quick detour to the bathroom, ran a brush through my hair, dabbed on blusher, decided against mascara. Better lashless than hurry-up smudgy.

When I handed Ryan his mug, he reached up and touched my freshly rouged cheek. My skin burned as it had with Galiano.

Maybe it was a virus.

Ryan winked.

I looked at our shadows blended on the brick, my heart thumping on all cylinders.

Maybe it wasn't a virus.

As I resumed my seat, Ryan asked why I'd returned to Montreal.

Back to reality.

I considered what I was at liberty to say about the Paraiso case. I'd already discussed the skeleton with Ryan, but both Galiano and Mrs. Specter had requested confidentiality about the ambassadorial angle.

I decided to tell all, but refer to the Specters only as 'a Quebec family.'

Again, Ryan listened without interrupting. The skeleton. The four missing women, then three, then one. The cat hair. The skull cast. When I finished, there was dead silence for a full minute before he spoke.

'They dragged these girls to lockup just for pinching CDs?'

'Apparently one of them got pretty unpleasant.'

'Unpleasant?'

'Resisting, screaming obscenities, spitting.' Mrs. Specter had shared that little tidbit during one of our airport waits.

'Bad move. What I don't get is why Chantale Specter was held for any time at all in the Op South jail.'

'You know about the ambassador?' I couldn't believe it. I was being so careful to respect the Specters' privacy, and Super Sleuth already had a pocketful of notes.

'Diplomats enjoy immunity,' he went on.

'Diplomatic immunity,' I snapped.

Closing my eyes, I fought back the irritation. Ryan had let me ramble on, knowing he already knew. And why did he know about the Specters?

'Jesus, Ryan. Is there any case I'm capable of working without your input?'

Ryan was intent on his line of thinking.

'Diplomatic immunity doesn't apply in your home country. Why wasn't Chantale out immediately?'

'Maybe she couldn't bear to give back the orange jumpsuit. How long have you known about this?'

'She should have been riding in a limo in less than an hour.'

'Chantale gave a false name. The cops had no idea who she was. How long have you known about the Specter connection?'

Again he ignored my question.

'Who busted her cover?'

'Chantale used her allotted phone call to contact a friend.' Mrs. Specter had told me that, too.

'And the playmate contacted Mommy.'

I drew a deep, dramatic breath.

'Yes.'

And the men in pinstripes decided to let naughty Chantale cool her heels while Mommy burned leather getting to Quebec'

'Something like that.'

Bootfalls echoed off the exterior face of the courtyard wall. A car engine turned over in a parking lot across the alley.

'A couple of hours.'

'What?' I snapped again.

'I've known for a couple of hours. Galiano filled me in this afternoon.' Ryan smiled and gave a little shrug. 'The old Bat never changes.'

When irritated, I grow testy, spit verbal missiles. When angry, red-laser-through-the-brain angry, I go deadly still inside. My mind freezes, my voice flat-lines, and every response becomes glacial.

I had been the topic of a frat boy discussion. The anger switch tripped.

'You phoned Galiano?' Even.

'He called me.'

'Did Detective Galiano have questions about my competence?'

'He had questions about the Specter family.'

There was a moment of arctic silence. Ryan lit a cigarette.

'Did you discuss me in Spanish?'

'What?' My reference to the old days escaped him.

'Never mind.'

Ryan drew deeply, blew smoke upward into the air.

'Galiano had news about a suspect.' He said it matter-of-factly, as though reading the TV listings aloud.

'So he phoned someone with no involvement in the case.'

'He wanted to know what I had on the Specters, and he tried to phone you.'

'Really.'

'He called your cell. That's what I came by to tell you.'

'You're lying.'

'Have you checked your messages recently?'

I hadn't.

Wordlessly, I went inside and dug the phone from my purse. Four missed calls. All from out of area. I hit the button for my voice mail. Two messages.

The first was from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter from hell had a few questions. Could I call him back? I hit delete.

The second was from Bat Galiano.

'Thought you'd like to know. Last night we arrested the scumbag who killed Claudia de la Alda.'