'A portion of jaw with elaborate bridgework.'

'Fingerprints,' McMahon added.

I took a moment to digest this.

'What does it mean?'

'It could mean a lot of things.'

McMahon caught Cynthia's eye and signaled for the check.

'Maybe the biker boys got a stand-in and Petriceli realy was enjoying a porterhouse in New York last weekend.' Ryan's voice was tempered steel.

'What are you implying?'

'If Petriceli wasn't on that plane it means one of two things. Either Bertrand was persuaded by greed or force to make a career change…'

Ryan took one last pul and added his butt to the sweet potatoes.

'… or Bertrand was murdered.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Back in my room, I treated myself to a long hot bubble bath, folowed by a talcum powder chaser. Only slightly relaxed, but smeling of honeysuckle and lilac, I propped myself in bed, raised my knees to my chest, puled up the blankets, and turned on my phone. I'd missed seventeen cals. Finding no familiar numbers, I dumped the messages and made a cal I'd been putting off.

Though fal break had ended and university classes had resumed the day before, I'd requested continued leave after finding the decomp stain at the courtyard house. I hadn't actualy said it, but neither had I corrected my chair's assumption that I was stil involved in victim processing. In a sense, I was.

But today's media delirium had made me apprehensive. Taking a deep breath, I scroled to Mike Perrigio's number and hit 'dial.' I was about to click off after seven rings, when a woman picked up. I asked for Mike. There was a long pause. I could hear a lot of racket in the background, a child crying.

When Mike came on, he was brusque, almost cold. My classes were covered. Keep checking in. Dial tone.

I was stil staring at the phone when it rang again.

The voice was totaly unexpected.

Larke Tyrel asked how I was. He'd heard I was back in Bryson City. Could I meet with him the next day? Zero-nine-hundred at the family assistance center? Good, good.

Take care.

Again, I sat staring at the little black handset, not knowing whether to feel crushed or buoyed. My boss at the university obviously knew of the news coverage. That had to be bad. But Larke Tyrel wanted to talk. Had the chief ME come around to my position? Had this other errant tissue persuaded him that the great foot controversy did not involve crash remains?

I reached for the chain on the bedside lamp. Lying in a silence filed with crickets, I felt that my issues were at last being resolved. I was confident of vindication, and never questioned the venue or purpose of the morning's meeting.

That was a mistake.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The first thing I noticed on opening my eyes was a sheet of paper wedged against the braided rug.

The clock said seven-twenty.