Y THE TIME RYAN DROPPED ME AT MY CONDO WE KNEW THAT Caffrey/Keith/O’Keefe/Carling/maybe Adamski was neither at home nor at work.

Ryan issued a BOL. Be On Lookout. I’d barely cleared the Jeep when he roared off, hands tight on the wheel.

He phoned that night around eight.

“He’s slipped the grid.”

“You’ll get him.”

“I had him.” Ryan’s voice was taut with frustration. “I had the sonovabitch.”

“What did the neighbors tell you?”

“They’re not the type to notice. Or to share insights with cops.”

“What about the gas station?”

“No one’s laid eyes on the guy since Wednesday.”

The day Ryan interrogated him. I didn’t say it.

“I faxed Keith/O’Keefe’s mug shot over to Trois Rivières. They ran it out to the camp near La Tuque where Adamski was staying when he had his fatal boating accident in 2000. It’s the same guy. And the same camp.”

“No shit.”

“They’re the outfit that arranged Bud Keith’s bear hunt during his sabbatical from kitchen duty at the auberge.”

“Good work, Detective.”

Ryan snorted in self-derision. “Except for the part where I let the bastard walk away without so much as a backward glance.”

“He won’t get far.”

“He disappeared in 2000 and didn’t resurface until two years ago. We have no friggin’ idea where the prick was all that time.”

Good point. I didn’t say that, either.

“You confirmed that Adamski’s body was never found?”

“Yeah.” Ryan sounded exhausted. “Apparently he went out on the lake early one morning, alone. They found the boat belly-up, Adamski wasn’t in it. They dragged the lake on and off for a week, found his wallet, hat, his fishing gear. No body.”

“The locals didn’t find that odd?”

“Apparently it’s happened before. This lake’s ninety feet deep in places.”

Sudden flash of the Lac Saint-Jean vics abandoned in my lab. I felt my own stab of guilt. Quentin Jacquème had been waiting forty years for an answer concerning his brother-in-law Achille and the rest of the Gouvrard family.

Monday. First thing. No distractions.

“—gotta tell you. I’m beat.”

I pictured Ryan doing that hair-rake thing with his hand. I imagined the clumps shooting in all directions.

I opened my lips.

Hesitated.

What the hell?

“Would you like to come over?”

“Thanks, Tempe. Really. But I promised Lily I’d pick her up early tomorrow. I can’t screw up. I’d better call it a day.”

“I understand.” I didn’t.

“You know where I’d rather be. It’s just … Please. Ask me again?”

“Sure.” My chest burned. I needed to get off the phone.

Birdie and I watched Pretty Woman on the old-movie channel, then crashed.

Sunday was a day to make Alexander Graham Bell proud. Or rich.

Harry called first, as I was reading the Gazette. She spent twenty minutes telling me about her latest romantic interest, then asked how I was.

I described my run-in with the ham salad.

Harry asked if I’d IDed the bastard who’d smeared my name with Edward Allen Jurmain. I told her I hadn’t. She suggested modification of that party’s genitalia, then asked how things were going with Ryan. To avoid the subject, I talked about the acid atmosphere at the lab, described Briel’s television performance, and recounted my conversation with Santangelo.

Harry ordered me to take the day off, citing some cockamamie theory about germs and stress and karma and longevity. I agreed. Vaguely.

Harry pressed, made me promise. Eventually, I did. I knew my sister. Il Duce would call repeatedly to be sure I was home.

Katy phoned not long after Harry. She was dating a musician named Smooth. Smooth, thirty-two, was from Pittsburgh and played in a band called Polar Hard-on. Needless to say, my daughter’s news caused a setback in my sister’s karmic relaxation regimen.

But I did take things easy. Wrote reports. Plowed through e-mail. Read. Played with my cat.

Took Harry’s calls, reassured her that I hadn’t slipped house arrest.

All the while, I awaited news of Adamski’s capture.

Chris Corcoran rang around four.

Planting a wire on the Stateville inmate had paid off. The cellmate, one Antoine “Pooter” Brown, had provided enough detail to hang himself for Laszlo Tot’s murder. In exchange for consideration in sentencing, Pooter had admitted to being present at Lassie’s killing, and had agreed to roll on his partner.

He and a genius calling himself Slappy spotted Laszlo in a video arcade. They followed him and tried to hijack his car. Laszlo fought back.

Slappy knifed Lassie. Pooter had watched, helpless to stop the attack. Uh-huh.

Following the stabbing, they’d emptied Laszlo’s pockets and stuffed him into his own car trunk. They’d then driven aimlessly, debating their next move. Being from Thornton, Pooter thought of the quarry.

After dumping Laszlo’s body, they’d ditched his car in a suburban mall and taken a commuter train back to the city. On Laszlo’s dime.

When arrested, Slappy fingered Pooter as the blade man. Very original.

Ryan called at six. His mood wasn’t exactly jubilant, but it was a million miles up from the night before.

“Break out the party hats.”

“You got him?”

“We may have picked up his trail.”

“Wowzer!”

“Did you really say that?”

“Where was he?”

“At approximately four p.m. Thursday a man fitting Adamski’s description rented a Hyundai Accent from a Budget agency on Boulevard Décarie. You’ll never guess the gentleman’s name.”

“Miller Moosehead.”

“Good one. Alliterative. But no. Lucky Labatt.”

“Lucky?”

“Lucky Lager.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Jack Nicholson drank it in Five Easy Pieces.”

“Renting a car requires a license, proof of insurance. Could Adamski come up with a new identity so fast?”

“Fake paper is one of his specialties. It wouldn’t have taken him long. Hell, he probably kept extra documents in his underwear drawer. I’ve issued alerts here and nationwide with CPIC. I also notified the boys at the border. They’ll nail him. You going to the lab tomorrow?”

“Oh, yeah. Hubert will be on me like green on Kermit.”

“First wowzer, now a frog metaphor. You must have your strength back.”

“Simile.”

“What?”

“A simile uses words such as ‘like’ or ‘as’ to compare two ideas. A metaphor directly compares seemingly unrelated subjects.”

“Yep. She’s back.”

“The Lac Saint-Jean bones have been sitting since Wednesday when I got sick.”

“Aren’t they the Gouvrards?”

“Probably.”

“You have other possibilities?”

“No.”

I heard a female voice in the background. There was a muffled sound, as though the phone had been covered or pressed to a chest. In seconds, Ryan was back.

“I’ve got to take Lily home.”

“You two had a good day?”

“As good as they get.”

“She’s still angry?”

“As a bee in a bottle. Simile.”

“Keep me up to speed on Adamski?”

“Roger that. Lady in the loop.”

Monday, I fired from bed feeling like I could reforest the Amazon solo. Laszlo’s killers were behind bars in Chicago. Adamski would soon be netted. I was cured. Life was good.

So was the weather. The sky was azure, the sun blinding. The temperature was expected to climb to a balmy 2 degrees Celsius.

Since the streets were clear, I decided to drive. That went well, my arrival did not. Due to the tonnage of snow taking up curb space, street parking around Wilfrid-Derome remained a nightmare.

After circling for twenty minutes, I forked over the cash and pulled into the lot. Big deal. It’s only money.

I rode the day to twelve with cops and LSJML staff exchanging gossip and news of their weekend lives. Briel was in her office. Morin and Ayers had not yet arrived. Neither had Joe.

In my lab, the Lac Saint-Jean vics lay on the counter and tabletops. The Gouvrard file waited on my desk. In my office, the phone was doing some serious flashing.

I decided on a course of action. Phone messages first. Then little Valentin’s antemorts. Then the younger child’s bones.

No caller had left a plea or query requiring my immediate attention. Setting my scribbled list aside, I crossed to the lab and opened the Gouvrard file.

It took only minutes to spot an entry that sent my hopes soaring.

Tetracycline is a powerful antibiotic capable of killing a wide array of bacteria. Unfortunately, if taken during the period of dental formation, the drug becomes calcified in the enamel. The result is permanent overall gray or brown discoloration of the crown, or patterns of horizontal stripes of varying intensity.

In the 1950s, tetracycline was so commonly prescribed this type of staining was widespread. As recently as 1980, the drug was still given to kids and pregnant women.

Bad news for your smile. Good news for a forensic ID.

According to his record, Valentin Gouvrard contracted a streptococcal infection at age seven months. The baby took tetracycline for three weeks.

I flew to my bookcase, yanked down a reference manual, and checked a chart.

The deciduous second molars begin calcification between sixteen and twenty-four weeks in utero for the maxilla, between seventeen and twenty weeks in utero for the mandible. Crown completion occurs at around eleven months for the maxilla, ten months for the mandible.

Quick deductive reasoning.

Observation: Valentin Gouvrard took tetracycline when his baby second molars were forming.

Observation: Adult premolars replace baby second molars around age eleven or twelve. The child on my table died between ages six and eight, and, therefore, had his second baby molars at death.

Deduction: If the child on my table was Valentin, those molars would be discolored.

I checked my inventory. One adult first and two baby second molars had been recovered. Though I’d glanced only briefly at the baby teeth, once when doing inventory, once when laying them out for X-rays, I’d noted nothing but a possible dot of dullness in the enamel of the upper-second kid molar.

I was hurrying to check the remains when the phone rang.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“Monsieur Hubert.”

“I understand you’ve been unwell.”

“I’m tip-top now.”

“Good. Come down to my office.”

“I’ve just found something which may be important in resolving the Lac Saint-Jean case. Perhaps—”

“Get down here, please.” Sharp. “Now.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yeah.” The coroner’s tone could have crisped lettuce. “My whole fucking staff is inept.”