He got up again, searched the pantry, poured himself a bowl of dry cereal. Midway to the bottom, he said, “The bones aren’t why I’m here. I never really thanked you for last year.”

“Not necessary.”

“I beg to differ.” He flushed. “If ensuring my continuing survival doesn’t deserve gratitude, what the hell does, Alex?”

“Chalk it up to the friendship thing.”

“Just because I didn’t get all sentimental doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what you did.” Deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about it every damn day.”

I said nothing.

“Anyway.” He used his fingers to grasp the last few nuggets of cereal. Drawing his big frame to its feet a second time, he loped to the sink, washed the bowl. Said something I couldn’t hear over the water.

When he turned off the spigot, I said, “Didn’t catch that.”

“The T word, amigo. Gracias. Merci. Danke schoen.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Okay … now that we’ve got that out of the way … how’re Robin and the pooch? She working out back?”

“Delivering a mandolin.”

“Ah.”

His jacket pocket puffed as his phone squawked.

Moe Reed’s pleasant voice, tighter and higher than usual, said, “New one, boss.”

“I could use something fresh, Moses.”

“It’s fresh all right,” said Reed. “But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“Why not?”

“More bones, boss. Same neighborhood. Another baby.”

A city worker, part of a crew planning a drainage ditch at the western edge of Cheviot Hills Park, had spotted the scatter of white.

Unruly toss, strewn like trash, barely concealed by bushes. What might pass for dried twigs at a distance was an assortment of tiny skeletal components.

This baby appeared even smaller than the one unearthed in the Ruches’ backyard. The skull was the size of an apple. Some of the bones were as thin as drinking straws and some of the smallest—the phalanges of the hand—were thread-like.

These remnants were clean-looking. Silvery white, luminous in the sunlight.

I thought: Scrubbed clean, maybe polished. Prepared?

The orange-vested laborer who’d found them was a huge, muscular guy named George Guzman who kept dabbing tears.

Moe Reed stood next to him, pad in hand. His expression said he’d been offering continuous sympathy, wasn’t sure he liked that gig. At Reed’s other side stood Liz Wilkinson, impassive but for soft searching eyes, tool cases on the ground next to her, white coat draped over one arm. Ready to have a go at the skeleton but waiting for the coroner’s investigator to release the victim for further analysis.

The C.I. hadn’t shown up yet. Neither had the crime scene techs, but Liz had gloved up in anticipation. She stood right up against Moe, hips pressed against his. Hard to say who was supporting who.

Guzman stared at the white bones and sniffled.

Reed’s mouth twisted. “Okay, thanks, sir.”

“For what?”

“Calling us.”