"You know what we know." I began clicking through the rest of the pictures. "Any luck locating the brother?"

"We've found seventeen Montagues in the metro area, none on Sullivan's. We're working the list. Saying we find this guy, will Miz Rousseau manage to pull DNA from the barrel DOA?"

"Yes."

Gullet said nothing. Jigswiggered speechless?

"Who runs this clinic in the images you're viewing?" Ryan asked.

"God's Mercy Church," I said.

"I mean on a day-to-day basis. Who's there on the ground?"

Behind me, I felt Gullet reorient toward Ryan. "My apologies, but your affiliation again, sir?"

"Lieutenant-detective, Major Crimes, Quebec Provincial Police," Ryan said.

Gullet was silent a moment, as though thinking about that. Then, "Oh. Canada."

"We stand on guard for thee."

I jumped in.

"I work with Detective Ryan in Montreal. He's visiting in Charleston this week. As long as he's here, I thought I'd get his view of things, just in case I was missing something obvious."

"Homicide?" Gullet asked Ryan.

"Yes. We just change the pronunciation."

"May I ask what brings you to Charleston?"

"Got some time. Thought I'd drop by, help you streamline the department."

Gullet's eyes narrowed maybe the breadth of a hair. Mine narrowed considerably more.

"You been working the murder squad long?"

"Yes, I have."

"You choose that?"

"Yes, I did."

"You know why?"

"Yes, I do."

"Lieutenant Ryan is regarded as one of the best homicide detectives in Quebec," I said. "His input could help. Bring a fresh perspective."

Gullet's body language told me he wasn't buying it. I laid it on thicker.

"I've seen Detective Ryan crack cases that had been stalled for months. He has an uncanny ability to read crime scenes and to penetrate the minds of perps."

"Miz Rousseau good with his involvement?"

"She is."

"Hell's bells, we're going to have more guests than regulars 'fore I know it."

Silence filled the room. I was about to break it when Gullet spoke again. To me.

"He screws up, it's on you. And the coroner."

"I trust him."

"I'm not signing your check, sir. Your input's strictly unofficial."

"And exceedingly discreet," Ryan said. "All homicides interest me, Sheriff, and if I can help without getting in your way, I'd like to."

"Long as we understand each other." Gullet showed not a trace of expression. "Might as well come on around, Detective. Have yourself a look."

Ryan got up and joined us. I set my computer to slide show mode. Gullet spoke as Ryan viewed the images.

"Clinic's on Nassau. GMC owns the building and equipment, provides an operating budget, hires and fires employees, but otherwise stays pretty much hands-off. Place is open Tuesday through Saturday, handles mostly colds and minor injuries. Anything more serious gets routed to a hospital ER. The staff is small, one full-time nurse, one drop-by doc, some cleaning and clerical personnel."

"Who are they?" I asked.

Gullet crossed to his desk, picked up and opened a manila folder.

"Doc's name is Marshall. Nurse is Daniels. Woman named Berry handles paperwork and supplies. Guy named Towery does cleaning."

I was about to ask a question when a woman appeared in the doorway.

"Sheriff, you said you wanted a heads-up on complaints from the Haeberles. Marlene's caterwauling on 911. Says John Arthur's whacking on her again."

"She OK?" Gullet asked.

"John Arthur's on another line. Says Marlene's blinded him in one eye with a wooden spoon."

"They drinking?"

"Does my hound Tyson scratch his fleas?"

"Merry hell." Gullet looked at his watch. "Tell Marlene and John Arthur I'm riding over there myself. And I best not find they've got tequila on board."

The woman withdrew.

"We serve and protect," Gullet deadpanned to Ryan and me. "Even our own blockheaded trailer-trash in-law kin."

"May I save these images?" I asked, pointing to my laptop.

Gullet nodded.

After creating a folder, I uploaded Cruikshank's pictures to my hard drive. As my computer shut down, I changed topics.

"Did you find anything on Willie Helms?"

"I've got an officer asking around at the shelters. Refresh me. What's our interest in this boy?"

"While investigating Helene Flynn, Cruikshank was gathering information on Willie Helms, Unique Montague, and a number of other MPs. I believe he was pursuing something on his own."

"Uh-huh." Skeptical.

"Emma's looking for a dentist who might have treated Helms," I said. "The man on Dewees had a lot of fillings."

"It's one hellacious long shot."

A lot of folks were pointing that out.

"One of the best detectives in Quebec?"

"Don't believe anything I said in there. It was all hype."

"Jigswiggered?"

"You knew what he meant."

Ryan pulled into traffic. For a Saturday afternoon, there was quite a bit. "Is that a bad thing? To swigger a jig?"

"Under certain circumstances."

"Or were plural jigs wiggered? Perhaps he really meant to swig a jigger."

I punched Ryan's arm.

"That's an assault."

"Arrest me."

"Now what?" Ryan asked.

"Cruikshank, Flynn, and Montague all tie in to that clinic, but Gullet doesn't want any wingtipped cowboys harassing the staff."

"I'm strictly a loafer man."

"He meant Pete."

"The cute little tyke."

Twenty minutes later we were back on the Peninsula, in a rundown section between the historic district and the Cooper River Bridge. The quartier featured low brick and frame bungalows, sagging porches stacked with rusted appliances, here and there a plywood-boarded window or door.

Ryan spotted the redbrick building first. Pulling to the curb, he cut the engine.

The clinic was a plain box with rusty ACs jutting from the windows and abandoned lots on both sides. In keeping with the hood, there were no shutters, no signs, not an architectural frill of any kind. The interior blinds were closed, as on the day Cruikshank's photos were snapped.

As we watched, the front door opened, glinting late-afternoon sunlight from the tinted plate glass. An old woman emerged and began picking her way along the walk.

Shielding my eyes with one hand, I scanned up and down Nassau, following sight lines out from the clinic door. Half a block north was a bus shelter. Half a block south was a phone booth. Through the dingy glass I could see the receiver dangling by its cord.

"Pics were probably shot from the phone booth and the bus stop," I said.

Ryan agreed. We got out and crossed the street.

The building looked seedier on actual viewing than it had on the disc. I noticed a window crack patched with gray duct tape. The tape was curled at the edges, suggesting the patch had been there awhile.

Ryan held the door and we both entered. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of alcohol and sweat.

The reception area held rows of Kmart vinyl chairs, two of which were occupied. A woman with a black eye. A kid with one of those unfortunate goatee things on his chin. Both were coughing and sniffing. Neither bothered to look our way.

The receptionist did bother. She was about my age, tall and muscular, with mahogany skin and up-slicked frizz that was black at the roots and bronze at the tips. I assumed this was Berry, CEO of paperwork and supplies.

Running through Cruikshank's images, I spotted Berry in my mind's eye – JPEG 7. The tall black woman with the blond hair.

Seeing us, Berry straightened and set her jaw. Perhaps she'd already given last call. Perhaps our appearance suggested we weren't there for Pepto.

Ryan and I crossed to the reception desk. I smiled at Berry. Her face remained hard as a Hell's Angels logo. She wasn't fingering brass knuckles, but it was close.