"So now Flynn and his pals want an accounting of how their money's been spent. Why the change of heart?"

"For whatever reason, communication breakdown, too busy recruiting lost souls, GMC dragged their collective feet in responding to Flynn's initial inquiry."

"And Flynn doesn't take kindly to being ignored."

"Bingo. So the money is my primary mission. But there's a sideline. Helene's dropped out of sight, and Herron has made no effort to provide Flynn with any explanation of that, either. I think Flynn's interest in Herron may grow partly out of arrogance and wounded pride, partly out of guilt."

"How long has Helene been missing?"

"Flynn hasn't heard from his daughter in over six months."

"What about Mrs. Flynn?"

"Died years ago. And there are no siblings."

"Flynn's just now starting to search for Helene?"

"Their last conversation ended in a fight. Helene said she never wanted him to call her again, so he discontinued attempts at contact. The only reason he's bringing up the Helene issue now is that he's decided to launch a financial investigation and apparently feels I could learn more about Helene's departure at the same time. Or so he says."

I raised my brows in surprise.

"Flynn's a very rigid guy."

"He asked Herron about Helene?"

"Yes. But getting to see the rev is like getting an audience with the pope. Herron's people told Flynn that before Helene left she'd mentioned to some of the GMC staff that she had inquired about a position with a free clinic in Los Angeles. Said it was a larger operation."

"That's it?"

"Flynn managed to harangue the cops into checking with the kid's landlord. She said Helene had mailed her a note stating she was moving on. The envelope contained the key and the last rent owed. Helene had left some things, but nothing of value. Place was just a tiny studio, utilities included."

"What about bank accounts? Credit cards? Cell phone records?"

"Helene didn't believe in worldly possessions."

"Maybe there's nothing more to it. Maybe Helene split for the other coast and hasn't reported in."

"Maybe."

I thought a moment. The whole tale didn't seem to hang true.

"If Flynn was such a big donor, wouldn't Herron have met with him personally?"

"Million and a half smackers big enough? I agree with you. Herron should be falling all over himself helping to locate Helene. Something's weird, and Flynn should have been on top of this before now. But my main job is the money."

Pete drained his cup, then set it on the table.

"In the words of that great humanitarian Jerry McGuire, 'Show me the money.'"

6

AFTER BREAKFAST, PETE LEFT TO FLY HIS FIRST SORTIE OVER GMC. I settled on the veranda, Boyd at my feet, twenty blue books in my lap.

Maybe it was the ocean. Maybe the quality of the take-home exams. I found it hard to concentrate. I kept seeing the grave on Dewees. The bones on the autopsy table. Emma's pained face.

Emma had started to speak outside the hospital, then changed her mind. Was she about to explain what she'd learned on the phone? The call had obviously upset her. Why?

Was she about to say something concerning the skeleton? Was she withholding information? Improbable.

I stuck with grading until I could bear it no longer. Just past one I checked a tide chart, then laced on my Nikes and did a couple of miles on the beach with Boyd. It was not high season, so the "unleashed dog" hours weren't strictly enforced. The chow darted in and out of the surf while I pounded the hardpack left by its retreat. The sandpipers weren't thrilled with either of us.

On the return loop I cut over to Ocean Boulevard and picked up Sunday papers. A quick shower, then Boyd and I inventoried Pete's contributions to the pantry.

Six varieties of cold cuts, four cheeses, sweet and dill pickles, wheat, rye, and onion bread. Coleslaw, potato salad, and more chips than a Frito-Lay factory.

Pete had a lot of shortcomings, but the man could stock a larder.

After constructing an artwork of pastrami, Swiss, and slaw on rye, I popped a Diet Coke and lugged the newspapers out to the veranda.

I spent a blissful hour and a half with The New York Times. And that's not counting the crossword. All the news that's fit to print. You gotta love it.

Having eaten my crusts and whatever pastrami I was willing to share, Boyd dozed at my feet.

Ten minutes into the Post and Courier I nearly lost my sandwich.

Local section. Fifth page, below the fold. Headline pure alliterative art.

Buried Body on Barrier Beach

Charleston , SC. Archaeology students excavating a Dewees Island site dug up more than dead Indians this week. The group, led by Dr. Temperance Brennan of UNC-Charlotte's Anthropology Department, stumbled upon a recent grave occupied by a very modern corpse.

Brennan refused comment on the grisly discovery, but the remains appeared to be those of an adult. According to student excavator Topher Burgess, the body had been bundled in clothing and buried less than two feet below the ground surface. Burgess estimates the grave had been dug sometime during the past five years.

Though police were not called to the scene, Charleston County Coroner Emma Rousseau deemed the discovery significant enough to personally oversee excavation of the grave. A two-term electee, Rousseau has come under criticism recently for the role of the coroner's office in the mishandling of a cruise ship death last year.

Following recovery, the unidentified remains were transported from Dewees to the MUSC morgue. Morgue personnel refused comment on the case.

– Special to the Post and Courier by Homer Winborne

A grainy black-and-white showed my face and Emma's south end. We were on our hands and knees on Dewees.

I flew into the house, Boyd at my heels. Grabbing the first phone in reach, I punched in a number. My actions were so jerky, it took two tries.

Emma's voice mail answered.

"Sonovabitch!"

I waited out the message, moving pointlessly from room to room.

Beep.

"Have you seen today's paper? Happy day! We made the news!"

I hit the sunroom, threw myself onto the couch. Got up. Birdie dropped to the floor and slunk out of sight.

"Forget the Moultrie News. Winborne hit the big time! Charleston Post and Courier. The boy's on the way up!"

I knew I was ranting at a machine. I couldn't stop myself.

"No wonde-"

"I'm here." Emma sounded sluggish, as though I'd awakened her.

"No wonder the little worm forked over his Nikon. He had a backup camera. Probably a whole stash!"

" Tempe."

"An SLR in his shorts! A wide-angle in his ballpoint! A miniature camcorder strapped to his dick! Who knows? We might make Court TV!"

"Are you finished?" Emma asked.

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes."

"And?" I considered crushing the handset.

"And what?"

"You're not furious?"

"Sure I'm furious. My butt looks huge. Are you done venting?"

That's what it was, of course. Venting.

"Our goal is to get the skeleton identified." Emma's voice sounded dull. "Exposure could help."

"That was your line on Friday."

"It still is."

"Winborne's article could tip the killer."

"If there is a killer. Maybe this guy died of an overdose. Maybe his buddies panicked and dumped his body where they thought it wouldn't be found. Maybe we have nothing more serious than a Chapter Seventeen violation."

"I'll bite."

"Improper disposal of a corpse. Look. Someone's probably missing this guy. If that someone is local, he or she may read the piece and make a call. Admit it. You're just pissed that Winborne outwitted us."