HE SECOND LANDSCAPE WAS IDENTICAL TO THE FIRST. YB. AL. SI.

The material in the filling was consistent with the debris in the facet. And unusual. That suggested that the tub tooth and the Lac Saint-Jean tooth erupted side by side in one child’s mouth.

Sonovabitch!

Two scenarios fountained up in my mind.

Scenario A. Briel read about tetracycline in Valentin Gouvrard’s antemorts, took the stained molars from the tub, and substituted them for the ones found with the Lac Saint-Jean bones.

Scenario B. The Lac Saint-Jean child’s first baby molar somehow migrated to Bergeron’s tub.

Migration was as likely as nooky in church.

My fingers tightened into fists.

Briel had sabotaged my case.

Would others be convinced?

“Consistent with” and “unusual” weren’t enough to nail her. I had to have more.

The elemental spectrum describing the stuff in the filling. That was the key.

Hanaoka’s voice broke through.

“… you could ask around, see if some type of database exists. Do you have a thumb drive? I can save the spectrum to an EMSA format if you like.”

“Yes,” I said, digging a drive from my purse. “Yes I do.”

oOo

It was dark when I left the Wong Building. The snow was still coming down, though not with much gusto.

Instead of returning to my car, I trudged uphill to Strathcona at the corner of University and Pine. Originally headquarters for the medical faculty, the old fortress is currently home to the anatomy department and the school of dentistry.

It was Tuesday, the Tooth Sleuth’s teaching day at McGill. I didn’t make that up. Bergeron actually wears a shirt embroidered with that moniker. And likes it.

I found Bergeron in an office on the second floor. The overheads were off, and a green-hooded bankers’ lamp cast soft yellow light across the carved oak desk.

I outlined the problem, leaving out only the role played by his tub. Bergeron listened, long bony fingers intertwined in his lap. When he nodded understanding, I asked about the existence of a dental materials database.

Bergeron remembered talk of a project at the FBI’s Quantico SEM lab.

He made a call. Explained. Jotted notes. Uttered endless “Uh-huh’s” and “I see’s.” Finally hung up.

Such a database existed. Its developer was now retired, so the software was under the custody of an SEM lab at the State University of New York at Buffalo.

Bergeron made a second call. Again explained the problem.

Uh-huh.

I see.

I was almost wetting my shorts.

Finally the call ended.

The man’s name was Barry Trainer. Bergeron handed me a scribbled e-mail address. If I transmitted the spectrum as an EMSA file, Trainer would run it through the database.

Thanking Bergeron, I practically skipped down the hill.

And hydroplaned.

As I landed, something popped at my wrist. Inside my mitten, I felt hardness between my palm and the sidewalk.

Rising gingerly, I collected my purse, brushed myself off, and continued to my car at a more dignified pace.

Sherbrooke was a clogged artery. Between drumming the wheel and cussing at traffic, I fastened my watch. The crystal looked like I’d smashed it with a hammer.

Thirty minutes later I arrived at my condo. The underground garage was dark and deserted.

I was whrp-whrping my car lock when I thought I heard movement.

A footstep?

I froze.

Another.

Another.

I spun. A figure was emerging from the shadows of one corner.

My brain took in the basics.

Male.

Moving fast.

Instinct short-circuited my adrenaline-pumped nerves.

Whipping my purse, I caught the guy square in the ear.

His hand flew up and he bent at the waist.

“Fucking sonovabitch!”

Shit. Sparky.

“You startled me.”

“You broke my fucking eardrum.”

“Not likely.”

Sparky straightened, ear shielded theatrically. “You’re certifiable, you know that?”

I’d lacked the patience to placate my wounded assistant. I definitely had none to soothe my headcase neighbor.

“You came at me out of nowhere. What are you doing down here?”

“None of your fucking business, but I was getting shit out of my trunk.”

“You have a real way with words.”

Sparky shook his head, then pounded his ear with the heel of one hand. “I’ll probably need a doctor.”

“Send me the bill.”

Shouldering my purse strap, I strode toward the door.

“Wait.” Sparky dogged me, whining to my back. “I’ve got something to say.”

“Put it in writing. I’m busy.”

“Your fucking cat’s driving me nuts. You gotta do something about the meowing.”

Sparky lives one floor up, in the wing across the courtyard. Birdie would have to be electrically amped for his vocals to project that far.

The anger switch tripped.

I pivoted.

Sparky slammed into me.

I pushed him back with a hand to the sternum.

“You’re done with my cat, you sniveling weenie. No more complaints. No more dead birds. No more feces. Got it?”

In the dimness, the planes of Sparky’s face hardened.

“Yeah? We’ll see who’s done.”

Upstairs, I told Birdie what a magnificent feline he was. Then I booted my laptop, downloaded and e-mailed the spectrum to Trainer.

To kill time, I zapped some frozen spinach ravioli. As the microwave hummed, I checked my watch. The digits were obscured by a network of cracks.

“Crap.”

Digging an old Swatch from my dresser, I returned to the kitchen.

I’d finished the pasta and moved to the study when the phone rang. I grabbed it.

“Say you love me.” Chris Corcoran sounded excessively pleased with himself. Ebullient, almost. It was annoying as hell.

“I love you.”

“A lot?”

“What did you find, Chris?”

“You used to be fun.”

“I also used to be queen of the hop.”

“No you weren’t.”

“I’ll ask for a recount.”

“Be that way.” Mock hurt. “You remembered correctly. ML. A pathologist named Miranda Leaver did the anthropology on Laszlo Tot’s bones. Leaver was in Chicago for a one-year postdoc at UIC. No one at the CCME remembers much about her. One tech recalls that while here she got screwed over by her husband, got divorced, and went back to using her maiden name.”

“Briel!”

My yelp sent Birdie shooting down the hall.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Surprised. “After getting dumped, Briel went to France to pick up the shattered pieces. Her therapy? A cram course in bones for nonanthropologists.”

“Where in France?” I could feel my nerves humming.

“Montpellier.”

I grabbed paper and pen. “Do you know the name of the institution—”

“Down, girl. I can dial a phone, too. The program was offered jointly through the University of Montpellier and the Department of Forensic Sciences at the Hôpital Lapeyronie.

“While in Montpellier, Miranda Leaver, now back to her maiden name, Miranda Briel, became more French than the French. Bought très chic shoes, a beret, started saying je m’appelle Marie-Andréa. Eventually, she met a garçon with similar leanings. Or maybe he was the cause of her Gallic reawakening. Who knows?”

Normally, I’d have smiled at Chris’s French pronunciation. I was too torqued by his news.

“An archaeologist.”

“Voilà.”

“His name?” I knew the answer. Just wanted to hear it.

“Sebastien Raines.”

“Did you learn anything about him?”

“While a student, Raines was nailed for pilfering artifacts. Apparently, he beat the snot out of the prof who fingered him. He was kicked from the program and, for a while, moved around working archaeological digs for pay. Eventually he split la République for La Belle Province. He’s reputed to have a temper, and to carry a chip on his shoulder the size of Marseille.”

“Against?”

“PhDs in general, academics in particular.”

My laptop trilled as an e-mail landed. I crossed to it.

BTrainer@buffalo.edu.

“Thanks, Chris. This is really great.”

“Was it this Briel who jammed you up with Edward Allen Jurmain?”

“I think so. Or Raines. He’s her husband now. The two have a scheme to get rich off forensics.”

“Which hop?”

“What?”

“Over which did you reign? There were a lot in the old hood.”

“All of them.”

I clicked open Trainer’s e-mail.

The message was succinct.

Its last line screamed from the page.