“No one’s seen it since the seventies?”

“No.”

“Aren’t records kept on the movement of every specimen?”

“Should be. The rest of that file’s missing.”

“What’s the museum’s explanation?”

“C’est la vie.Few of the current staff were here back then. Varin did the inventory with a graduate student named Yossi Lerner. She thinks Lerner may stil be in Paris. And here’s an interesting twist. Varin thinks Lerner’s either American or Canadian.” That stopped the Whopper midway to my mouth.

“I’m trying to track him down.”

“Bonne chance,”I said.

“I’l need more than luck.”

I told Ryan what Jake had said.

He listened without comment.

We finished our fries.

Back on Van Horne, we watched a man in a long black coat, black hat, knickers, and pale stockings pass a kid in jeans and a Blue Jays jacket.

“Shabbat’s coming on fast,” I said.

“Probably won’t increase the warmth of our welcome in these parts.”

“Probably won’t.”

“Ever done surveil ance?”

I shook my head.

“Gets the blood pumping,” Ryan said.

“So I’ve heard,” I said.

“Miriam might go out.”

“Leaving Dora alone.”

“I’ve yet to speak to Dora alone.”

“We could pick up flowers,” I suggested.

We hit a florist and were back at the Ferris duplex forty minutes after leaving it.

An hour later Miriam walked out Dora’s front door.

9

DORA ANSWERED ON THE SECOND RING. IN THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT,her wrinkled skin looked almost translucent.

Ryan reintroduced us.

The old woman regarded us blankly. I wondered if she was on medication.

Ryan held out his badge.

Dora looked at it, her expression passive. It was obvious she didn’t know who we were.

I offered the bouquet and cookies.

“Shabbat shalom,”I said.

“Shabbat shalom,”she said, more reflex than greeting.

“We’re so very sorry about your son, Mrs. Ferris. I’ve been away, or I would have cal ed sooner.” Dora took my offerings and bent to smel the flowers. Straightening, she inspected the cookies, then returned them to me.

“Sorry, miss. They are not kosher.”

Feeling like an idiot, I put the cookies in my purse.

Dora’s eyes floated to Ryan, then back to me. They were smal and moist and frosted with age.

“You were there at my son’s autopsy.” Slight accent. Maybe Eastern European.

“Yes, ma’am. I was.”

“There’s no one here.”

“We’d like to talk to you, Mrs. Ferris.”

“To me?” Surprise. A little fear.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Miriam’s gone to market.”

“This wil only take a moment.”

She hesitated, then turned and led us through a smoky-mirrored entry to a plastic-covered grouping in a smal sunny living room.

“I’l find a vase. Please sit.”

She disappeared down a hal way to the right of the entrance. I looked around.

The place was a testimonial to sixties bad taste. White sateen upholstery. Laminated oak tables. Flocked wal paper. Wal -to-wal gold semishag.

A dozen smel s bickered for attention. Disinfectant. Garlic. Air freshener. From somewhere a closet or chest threw in a bid for cedar.