Page 38 of The Bone Code

“An Angelaspécialfor us.” Raising the pie. “A trinket for your friend.”

“Birdie’s affections can’t be bought.”

“The little guy already idolizes me.”

After setting the toy and the pie on the nightstand, Ryan swooped in and wrapped me in a crushing bear hug. Followed the embrace with a very long, very heartfelt kiss.

Have I mentioned that Ryan is rock-solid fit and five-star good-looking? And that we hadn’t seen each other for almost a month?

I felt a lurch in my stomach. Or, more precisely, somewhere to its south.

I didn’t push him away.

Over pizza, grown cold during our romp in the sheets, Ryan and I discussed the container case. And the reasons the file was so slim.

“The vics had been dead for years. Without names, we couldn’t contact family or known associates. There were no witnesses, no persons of interest. No one knew zip.”

“Or admitted to knowing zip,” I said.

Ryan angled his bottle of Moosehead to acknowledge my point.

“The container washed ashore in a trailer park in Saint-Anicet,” I said.

“Correct. We interviewed the guy who found it.”

“Not one of God’s more intelligent creatures.”

“Basically, a brain stem on two legs. We talked to all the residents of the park and to people living in town and on the neighboring farms. We canvassed every yacht club up and down the shore, ran the owner of every boat registered in the province.”

“Thinking the container had been tossed overboard into the river.”

“We contacted every school in the area. Hell, every school in the province, and then some.”

“There were very few entries on the evidence and property forms,” I said. “The polyethylene sheeting and eighteen-gauge electrical wire were identical to the materials used in Charleston.”

“Here we had the kid’s ring,” Ryan said. “There you found no personal items.”

The buried image rolled over and raised its head. I denied it entry into my higher centers.

“Yes,” I agreed. Then, anticipating Ryan’s question, “No prints on anything. Ditto for the container.”

Ryan reached over to thumb sauce from my upper lip. Maybe cheese.

“Thanks.” Not minding that his hand lingered far too long. “An analysis was done on stones found at the bottom of the container.”

“I forgot about that. Any joy?”

“Common river rocks, found in a bazillion locations.”

“Wasn’t there a snail in there, too?”

“Black and of indeterminate species.” I quoted the malacologist’s summation. “The expert on river hydraulics was equally unhelpful.”

“Lots of parallels to your Charleston vics?”

I laid them all out.

Together we cleared the dishes and ziplocked the leftover pizza. Ryan popped the cap on another Moosehead, and I made myself tea.