Page 42 of The Bone Code
Then I told him about last week’s Charleston vics.
It’s often hard to read the old man. Not then. The lines in his face shifted into furrows of doubt.
I pressed on. “There have been advances in DNA since 2006. Improvements in techniques of extraction and amplification. Expansion of databases. The same is true for all forensic protocols. Isotope analysis—”
“What are you proposing, Temperance?” LaManche always uses my full name, emphasizing the final syllable and rhyming it withsconce.
“An exhumation.”
“Did you not take samples back in 2006?”
“The bone was so degraded the results were inconclusive.”
“Can you not use those same specimens now?”
“I can’t find them. I suspect the bone plugs were destroyed during a culling of stored materials back in 2016.” Without my consent. I didn’t add that.
The furrows rearranged. Not in a good way.
“I’ll handle all the arrangements.” I forged on. “But I need your approval.”
LaManche’s shoulders sagged, and his head wagged slowly.
“I am sorry, Temperance. Right now, I cannot divert personnel or funds for the pursuit of such an old case. Dr. Ayers is away due to the death of her mother. Dr. Santangelo will be in Joliette for an extended period. I hope you understand.”
“Of course.” Not bothering to hide my disappointment.
“Should the situation change—” Shrugging, LaManche let the thought hang.
The island of Montreal is shaped like a foot with the toes pointing northeast, the heel southeast, and the ankle angling to the southwest. Hochelaga-Maisonneuve and Centreville are located down by the heel. The borough of Pierrefonds-Roxboro is on the northwest side of the shin, along the Rivière des Prairies. Which is a circuitous way of saying that M. Vachon’s car wasn’t exactly around the corner. By the time I got back to the condo, it was almost seven.
One of life’s joys is the smell of cooking after a long workday. That’s what met me when I opened the front door.
“Honey, I’m home.” AFather Knows Besttrope that always amuses us.
No response. I hung my jacket in the closet and followed the aroma of rosemary and garlic.
Ryan was in the kitchen, looking like someone on day release. His face was flushed, his hair pointing in a million directions. His untucked shirt, liberally speckled with grease, was partially covered by an apron looping his neck and tied at his waist. It saidPatron du thon. Tuna boss. The wit of the rhyme failed to translate to English.
“Nice apron,” I said.
“It belonged to my mother.”
Keeping my views on Mama’s castoff to myself, I crossed to kiss him. Birdie, ever hopeful, didn’t budge from his vigil by the stove.
“Smells delicious,” I said.
“And so it shall be,ma chère. Go.” Shooing me with the hand not holding the spatula. “First seating is at seven thirty.”
“What—”
“Go.”
I went.
Forty minutes later, we were in the window-facing chairs, sipping espressos and digesting the garlic rosemary chicken breasts, mashed potatoes, and broiled asparagus. Ryan hadn’t exaggerated. The meal had been superb.
“The vehicle was in an impound lot,” I said, continuing our discussion of the day’s events.
