He had also studied the Androscoggin: its seasonal hydraulics, its changeable river bottom. In theory, he should have predicted the half-dozen places where a drifting corpse could get hung up. But the search had somehow taken longer than expected, nearly a week, by which time the body was decomposing.

“You must want something,” Rivard said now.

He had the faintest hint of a French accent that he’d worked unsuccessfully to rid himself of. It was an unusual personal tic in a man of my generation.

“I’m reviewing a search and recovery you ran four years ago. Eben Chamberlain. And I wondered if you have time to talk?”

“You’re shitting me.”

“The professor’s daughter-in-law is still unhappy with your findings. She’s making trouble for the department. I’m trying to smooth it over for the colonel.”

This, of course, was a lie. I figured blaming the new head of the Warden Service would give me cover.

It had been Colonel Jock DeFord—formerly Captain Jock DeFord—who had artfully maneuvered Rivard out of law enforcement.

“Screw him.”

“It’ll take ten minutes, tops.”

“I’m at work, Mike. It’s the week before Christmas. Do you know how busy we are?”

I’d heard that Rivard had taken a job at his uncle’s John Deere dealership in Sabattus. He had gone from being a warden lieutenant, on the fast track to become colonel himself someday, to a junior tractor salesman.

“I’m on my way to meet Mariëtte Chamberlain at the professor’s old place in Stratford. I thought I owed it to you to get your side of the story first.”

“You’re going to meet the glamazon in person? Where are you now?”

The nickname didn’t jibe with the ornate letter in my briefcase. I’d pictured my correspondent as a pinched old biddy.

“At the moment, I’m in Canton,” I said. “I’m driving south along the river from Pennacook.”

“Why don’t you swing by the dealership. We can chat in person. Just like old times.”

The sudden friendliness in his tone set off a warning bell. “It’ll mean my back-tracking to get to Stratford later.”

“Not far though.” He paused as if to take a sip of coffee. “How long has it been, Mike? Since we chatted?”

We had never chatted. Even when we’d patrolled together in the same truck for hours on end. He had lectured me about warden tips and tricks. Occasionally he had engaged in lengthy monologues about his shrewish exes or the stupidity of our superiors. But we had never chatted.

The prospect of being in his presence again depressed me. “You just said you were too busy to have this conversation.”

“I can make time for an old friend.”