“I mean,” she said, looking self-conscious, “if you were going to kill an infant and bury him in a car trunk, why not just kill him here? It would have been easier to kill him than the maid, right? And if he was dead, you wouldn’t need to worry that he’d cry or scream or… cause you any trouble.”

Lefebvre got a thoughtful look on his face.

“The police must have considered that question before now,” Max said. “What’s the answer?”

“Until yesterday,” Lefebvre reminded him, “we thought the Ducanes had probably been the victims of a boating accident-although there were questions, there was no proof that it had been anything else. We thought the child had been kidnapped, to be held for ransom. And perhaps killed when the possibility of ransom disappeared. And we really weren’t sure how Jack Corrigan’s beating figured into anything, other than some kind of connection between the man who assaulted him and the one who murdered Rose Hannon. So, sorry, but no. No ready answers to that question.”

They went into Katy’s room first. O’Connor watched Irene, curious about her reaction to the other woman’s room. “It was her sanctuary, wasn’t it?” she said. “Everything a young 1950s society girl could want…” She strolled around, touching objects as she named them. “Music in high fidelity, color television, books, a comfy bed with baby close by, and…a dog bed? Oh, how sad. What happened to the dog?”

Max and Lefebvre looked to O’Connor.

“The pug? No one knew. I thought it might have run away after the nurse-maid was murdered.”

“No…” Lefebvre said slowly. “No, wait…” He started looking through his envelope of photos again. He pulled out an eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy-a photograph taken at a party. A half-dozen elegantly dressed people stood near a big birthday cake. Happy Birthday, Kathleen! was inscribed in flowing script on the cake. O’Connor immediately recognized the six people-Lillian and Harold Linworth, Thelma and Barrett Ducane, Katy and Todd Ducane. Katy was holding a dog. Her pug.

“The dog was with her!” Irene said. “The Ducanes never came back here that night, right?”

“Right,” Lefebvre said. “Her roadster was at Thelma and Barrett’s home. There were no signs of violence there. We don’t think anyone entered the house. The trouble must have started at the marina or on the boat.”

“So when she got to her in-laws’ home, she either left the dog in the yard there-no, you would have found it. She must have taken it with her.”

“By God,” O’Connor said angrily, as understanding dawned on him. “Woolsey! That dumb bastard can’t tell a dog’s bones from a child’s?”

“You’re saying those could be a dog’s bones in the trunk of the car?” Max asked. “A dead dog, not a baby?” He sat down on the bed, looking pale.

“Hold on, hold on,” Lefebvre said. “We don’t know what happened. And just because we don’t know what happened to a dog doesn’t mean those bones weren’t those of the baby. The dog could have been lost off the Sea Dreamer or thrown overboard. The dog could have run away that night and ended up living on a neighboring farm.”

“Or Mitch Yeager could have pressured or paid off the coroner,” O’Connor said.

“It could also be an honest mistake,” Lefebvre said. “Have you ever seen the bones of an infant that age? I have.” He paused and looked away for a moment. “The bones of a two-month-old baby are so small, so fragile. Found in fragments, as most of these were…a dog breed with a rounded skull… you can’t assume that a preliminary finding couldn’t be honestly mistaken.”

“That’s kind of you, that is!” O’Connor said. “And I understand that you need to keep working with the man.”

“O’Connor…” Irene said, looking between him and Lefebvre.

But it was Max who spoke next. “Perhaps you should tell the coroner that he might want to take another look at those bones and make sure he’s right, because Mitch Yeager is not the only person in Las Piernas who is…concerned. I am concerned. I’m sure my friend Lillian Linworth will also want to know the true facts. As will Auburn Sheffield. If the coroner’s not willing to take a closer, honest look, then tomorrow morning I’m calling…” He looked to Irene.

“The State Attorney General’s office,” she said.

“Yes, the State Attorney General’s office, and asking for an independent investigation.”

“Sounds like a newspaper story to me,” Irene said.

“Oh, it is,” O’Connor said. “And if anyone on the County Board of Supervisors reads the Sunday morning edition of the Express, then they just might finally decide it’s time to replace Old Sheep Dip.”

“Have you thought about the possibility,” Lefebvre said, “that he could be right, that those bones are the baby’s?”

“I consider that slim, knowing who was visiting him,” O’Connor said.

“And what reason would Mitch Yeager have to influence him?”

“I can tell you that,” Irene said. “He hoped to ruin Max’s chances of living independently of him. Mr. Yeager didn’t know the terms of the trust and figured Max would have to give up all his money and become dependent on him again. He’s had big plans for Max.”

“Does that possibility seem likely to you, Max?” Lefebvre asked.

“Absolutely. He wanted me to manage his businesses. Now I don’t have to. He’s furious with me.”

“This will take tact,” Lefebvre said.

“You’re screwed then, aren’t you?” Irene said, and he laughed.

“I don’t mean to get you in trouble,” Max said, “but-”

“Mr. Ducane,” Lefebvre said, putting the photos back into the envelope, “a homicide detective who is at war with the coroner might as well stay home. Give me a day to try to find a way past Dr. Woolsey’s defenses. If I can’t manage it, then I’ll let you know.”

“The crime scene photos,” Irene said.

“What about them?”

“I saw your photographer at work. He took photos of everything-every step of the way. If we’re on to something here, then he probably has a photo of some bone that will give it away. A pug must have… oh, a jawbone, for example, or a nose cavity or some other bones or teeth that are very different in shape from a baby’s, right?”

“Yes, but…”

She held up her camera. “Tell him that before the police had a chance to secure the scene, that nosy broad from the Express took a bunch of photos of the contents of the trunk of that car, and that today I started asking you questions about dog bones.”

“Irene…” O’Connor warned.

“I’m not making news here, O’Connor. That’s the truth. I took a lot of photos. I asked questions about dog bones. I wondered about a killer who would keep a baby alive, just to kill him later in a car trunk. That’s all.”

“Do you know what, O’Connor?” Lefebvre said, touching his chest. “I think I feel a little something here. What is it?” He feigned a look of concentration.

“In a human, it would be a heart. In a jackass, indigestion. But what do you feel?”

“Oh yes, now I know. Sympathy for you.”