'Ain't life grand.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

I hadn't told Ryan about Parker Davenport's insinuations concerning himself and Bertrand. I did so now, outside the Adams Mark Hotel. Ryan listened, hands tight on his knees, eyes straight ahead.

'That rat-brained little prick.' Headlights moved across his face, distorting lines and planes rigid with anger.

'This should dampen that line of reasoning.'

'Yes.'

'I'm sure Davenport's reaming me has nothing to do with you or Bertrand. That was a sidebar to his real agenda.'

'Which is?'

'I have every intention of finding out.'

Ryan's jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.

'Who the fuck does he think he is?'

'Powerful people.'

His palms rubbed up then down his jeans, then he reached over and took my hand.

'Sure I can't buy you dinner?'

'I need to colect my cat.'

Ryan dropped my hand, flipped the handle, and got out of the car.

'I'l cal you in the morning,' I said.

He slammed the door and was gone.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Back at the Annex, my answering machine flashed four messages.

Anne.

Ron Gilman.

Two hang-ups.

I dialed Gilman's pager. He phoned back before I'd filed Birdie's bowls.

'Krueger says you've got a match on the DNA.'

My stomach and tonsils changed places.

'He's sure?'

'One chance in seventy godzilion of error. Or whatever figures those guys throw around.'

'The tooth and foot come from the same person?' I stil couldn't believe it.

'Yes. Go get your warrant.'

I dialed Lucy Crowe. The sheriff was out, but a deputy promised to find her.

There was no answer in Ryan's room.

Anne picked up on the first ring.

'Figure out who your bomber is?'

'We figured out who it isn't.'

'That's progress. How about dinner?'

'Where's Ted?'

'At a sales meeting in Orlando.'

My cupboard would have made Mother Hubbard proud. And I was so agitated I knew sitting at home would be sheer torture.

'Foster's in thirty minutes?'

'I'l be there.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Fosters Tavern is a subterranean hideaway with somber wood paneling and tufted black leather rising to midwal. A carved bar wraps around one end, battered tables fil the other. Blood cousin to the Selwyn Avenue Pub, the tavern is smal, dark, and flawlessly Irish.

Anne had the Guinness stew and Chardonnay. Were I in the game, I'd have gone for a black and tan, but Anne always had Chardonnay. I ordered corned beef and cabbage, a Perrier with lime. Normaly I ask for lemon, but the green seemed more fitting.

'So who's been ruled out?' Anne asked, fingertipping a speck from her wine.

'I can't realy discuss that, but there's other progress I can tel you about.'

'You've figured out the early temperature history of the solar system.'

She flicked the particle. Her hair looked blonder than I remembered.