She stared at Milo, gave out a tiny squeak. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth went slack, she pitched backward.

Milo and I both caught her. Her skin was dank, clammy. As she went limp, the paramedics rushed over, looking oddly satisfied.

I-told-you-so nods. One of them said, “It’s always the stubborn ones. We’ll take it from here, Lieutenant.”

Milo said, “You sure as hell will,” and went to call the anthropologist.

CHAPTER
3

Liz Wilkinson had just finished a lecture at the U., would be over in twenty. Milo went to make more calls and I sat with Holly Ruche.

All vital signs fine per the EMTs, but she needed to rest and get down some fluids. They gave me custody of the Gatorade squeeze bottle, packed up and left for an emergency call near the 405 freeway.

The first time I offered the bottle to Holly she clamped her mouth and shook her head. The second time, her lips parted. Several sips later, she smiled and lowered her right hand until it rested atop my left. Her skin had warmed. She said, “I feel much better … you’re a psychologist for victim aid?”

“I do what’s needed, there’s no set routine.”

“I guess I am a victim. Of sorts.”

“It had to be rough.”

“It was horrible. Do you think he’s going to dig up my entire yard?”

“He won’t do anything unnecessary.”

“That sounds like you’re covering for him.”

“I’m judging from experience.”

“So you work with him a lot.”

“I do.”

“Must be … ooh.” She winced, touched her belly. The black jersey of her top puffed. “She’s moving like crazy—it’s a girl.”

“Congratulations.”

“Girls rule.” She grinned. “I’m looking forward to having a little BFF.” Another grimace. “Wow, she’s being really hyper … oh, my … that one smarted a bit, she’s kicking me in the ribs.”

I said, “First baby?”

“You can tell?” she said. “I’m coming across like an amateur?”

“Not at all. You’re young.”

“Not that young,” she said. “I’m thirty-one.”

“That’s young.”

“My mother had me when she was eighteen.”

“That’s younger.”

She laughed, grew serious. “I didn’t want that.”

“Starting so young.”

Her eyes shifted upward. “The way she did it … but I always knew I wanted it.”

“Motherhood.”

“Motherhood, house, yard, the whole domestic-goddess thing … it’s going to be great.” Looking past me, she took in the crime scene techs studying the tree segments. They’d arrived fifteen minutes ago, were waiting for Liz Wilkinson, had placed a white cloth over the blue box. The fabric had settled into an oblong; a deflated ghost costume.

Holly Ruche said, “I can’t have them turning my property into a disaster zone or something. I know it’s not much right now but I have plans.”

Not a word about the tiny bones. I wondered why a married woman would avoid the plural form.