“A by-product of gold production. When the mine shut down, the owners walked, leaving a few zillion tons of the stuff.”

“Don’t mining companies have to fork over millions up front to cover the cost of cleanup before they’re granted permits to operate?”

“Ah, the good old days.” Ryan knocked back the last of his coffee. “Listen, if you’re really interested in this stuff, Rainwater says his great-uncle works at the mining recorder’s office, knows everything there is to know on the subject.”

“Sure, I’ll pop right in on a Sunday.”

“Rainwater says the old coot practically lives there. He’s a retired geology prof, and the government cooked up some sort of make-work position for him after he retired. Or something like that.”

“You and Rainwater going to be pen pals when this is over?”

Ryan raised palms and brows. “What? We’ve been thrown together a lot. Gassing passes the time.” He stood. “Can’t let the grass grow. Keep me in the—”

“Got it. Loop.”

So. Lily had blown rehab. Was that the reason Ryan had been so aloof with me? So snarky with Ollie? Not petty jealousy but anguish over his daughter?

My phone cut me off in midponder. Bergeron. I clicked on.

“I have a name for you.”

Chapter 33

“THE DESCRIPTORS GENERATED ONLY ONE MATCH. PROBABLY because a root canal in a third molar is extremely uncommon. Eric Skipper, white male, forty-four, residing in Brampton, Ontario at the time of his disappearance.”

“When did Skipper go into the system?”

“March eighteenth, 2008. Descriptors were provided by Dr. Herbert Mandel of Brampton.”

“Did you contact him?”

“I did. Dr. Mandel informed me that Mr. Skipper had a great deal of dental work, including extractions, restorations, and other root canals. He is sending the record by FedEx.”

“Who filed the MP report?”

I heard paper rustle. “Mr. Skipper’s wife, Michelle. Dr. Mandel says she remains a patient.”

“Did you get her number?”

Bergeron read it to me, and I jotted it down.

“Anything else?”

“I’m an odontologist, Dr. Brennan. Not a detective. From you, I will need the actual X-rays.”

“Coming your way.”

“I will call when the ID is confirmed.”

“Thank you, Dr. Bergeron. I owe you one.”

“You do, indeed.”

I called Maureen King. Voice mail.

It was a nice day. Nothing but sun and temperatures projected to soar into the upper fifties. I decided to visit the coroner’s office.

*  *  *

“Hey, old lady.”

I was on the walk leading to the Searle Building. I stopped and turned.

Binny was across Forty-ninth Street, straddling his bike on the courthouse lawn. The tuque had been replaced by a baseball cap sitting low on his brows. Same sweats. Same sneakers.

“Hey, bozo,” I said.

“Bozo? That the best you can do?” Underlying the bravado was a tension I hadn’t sensed in our previous encounter.

“Good morning, Mr. Binny Mind-Your-Own-Business.”

“You remember good, for a granny.”