Part 2 (1/2)

Kessler crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Rubbed palms on his pants.

I waited.

”He said he was in danger.” Kessler jabbed four fingers at the print. ”Said if anything happened it would be because of this.”

”Mr. Ferris gave this to you?”

”Yes.” Kessler glanced over his shoulder.

”Why?”

Kessler's answer was a shrug.

My eyes dropped back to the print. The skeleton was fully extended, its right arm and hip partially obscured by a rock or ledge. An object lay in the dirt beside the left knee. A familiar object.

”Where does this come from?” I looked up. Kessler was again checking to his rear.

”Israel.”

”Mr. Ferris was afraid his life was in danger?”

”Terrified. Said if the photo came to light there'd be havoc.”

”What sort of havoc?”

”I don't know.” Kessler raised two palms. ”Look, I have no idea what the picture is. I don't know what it means. I agreed to keep it. That's it. That's my role.”

”What was your connection to Mr. Ferris?”

”We were business a.s.sociates.”

I held out the photo. Kessler dropped his hands to his sides.

”Tell Detective Ryan what you've told me,” I said.

Kessler stepped back. ”You know what I know.”

At that moment my cell sounded. I slipped it from my belt.

Pelletier.

”Got another call about Bellemare.”

Kessler sidestepped me and moved toward the family room.

I waggled the print. Kessler shook his head no and hurried down the hall.

”Are you ready to release the Cowboy?”

”I'm on my way up.”

”Bon. Sister's busting her bloomers for a burial.” Sister's busting her bloomers for a burial.”

When I disconnected and turned, the hall was empty. Fine. I'd give the photo to Ryan. He'd have a copy of the list of observers. If he wanted to follow up, he could get contact information for Kessler.

I pressed for the elevator.

By noon I'd completed my report on Charles Bellemare, concluding that, however strange the circ.u.mstances, the Cowboy's last ride had been the result of his own folly. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out. Or down, in Bellemare's case. What had he been doing up there?

At lunch, LaManche informed me there'd be difficulty viewing Ferris's head wounds in situ. X-rays showed only one bullet fragment, and indicated the back of the skull and the left half of the face were shattered. He also informed me that my a.n.a.lysis would be critical since mutilation by the cats had distorted the patterning of metallic trace observable on X-ray.

In addition, Ferris had fallen with his hands beneath him. Decomposition had rendered gunshot-residue testing inconclusive.

At one-thirty I descended again to the morgue.

Ferris's torso was now open from throat to pubis, and his organs floated in covered containers. The stench in the room had kicked into the red zone.

Ryan and the photographer were there, along with two of the morning's four observers. LaManche waited five minutes, then nodded a go-ahead to his autopsy tech.

Lisa made incisions behind Ferris's ears and across his crown. Using scalpel and fingers, she then teased off the scalp, working from the top toward the back of the skull, stopping periodically to position the case label for photographs. As fragments were freed, LaManche and I observed, diagrammed, then gathered them into containers.

When we'd finished with the top and back of Ferris's head, Lisa retracted the skin from his face, and LaManche and I repeated the procedure, examining, sketching, stepping back for pics. Slowly, we extracted the wreckage that had been Ferris's maxillary, zygomatic, nasal, and temporal bones.

By four what remained of Ferris's face was back in position, and Y-shaped st.i.tching held his belly and chest. The photographer had five rolls of film. LaManche had a ream of diagrams and notes. I had four tubs of b.l.o.o.d.y shards.

I was cleaning bone fragments when Ryan appeared in the corridor outside my lab. I watched his approach through the window above my sink.

Craggy face, eyes too blue for his own good.

Or mine.

Seeing me, Ryan pressed his palms and nose to the gla.s.s. I flicked water at him.

He pushed back and pointed at my door. I mouthed ”open,” and waved him through, a goofy smile spreading across my face.

Okay. Maybe Ryan isn't so bad for me.

But I had reached that opinion only recently.

For almost a decade Ryan and I had b.u.t.ted heads in an on-again, off-again nonrelations.h.i.+p. Up-down. Yes-no. Hot-cold.

Hot-hot.

I've been attracted to Ryan since the get-go, but there have been more obstacles to acting on that attraction than there were signers of the Declaration.

I believe in the separation of job from play. No watercooler romance for this senorita. No way.

Ryan works homicide. I work the morgue. Professional exclusion clause applies. Obstacle one.