“You tricked her, too.”

Stallings neither acknowledged nor denied the accusation.

“Did you imply to Takeela that I’d want her to help you?”

“The kid’s not the sharpest tack in the drawer.”

Anger made my voice sound high and stretched.

“Never call me again.”

When I turned Ryan was staring at me through the partially open swinging door.

“I heard a noise.”

The handheld lay on its convex back, wobbling like an upended turtle. Unconsciously, I’d slammed it to the table again.

“You’re hard on equipment,” Ryan said.

I didn’t answer.

Ryan’s mouth turned up at the corners. “But easy on the eyes.”

“Jesus, Ryan. Is that all you think about?”

“Incoming.” Hunching his shoulders, Ryan ducked from the room.

I sat a moment, wondering. Call Tyrell? Explain that Stallings had lied about our conversation?

Not now. Now, fired though I might be, Jimmy Klapec deserved my full attention. And his father.

And Asa Finney.

I spent another ten minutes puzzling over the SEM scans.

And came up empty.

Frustrated, I decided on a gambit that occasionally worked. When stumped, start over at the beginning.

Opening my briefcase, I pulled out the entire file on Jimmy Klapec.

First I reviewed the scene photos. The body was as I remembered it, flesh ghostly pale, shoulders to the earth, rump to the sky.

I viewed close-ups of the anus, the truncated neck, the carvings in the chest and belly. Nothing but fly eggs.

I shifted to the autopsy shots. Y incision. Organs. Empty chest cavity. Strange striated bruise on the back.

I noted the atypical decay pattern, with more aerobic decomposition than anaerobic putrefaction. As though the body was rotting from the outside in rather than the inside out.

Spreading my bone photos, I reexamined the cut mark in the fourth cervical vertebra. Concave bending. Fixed radius curvature sweeping from, not around, the breakaway point.

The fifth vertebra had one false start. I checked my notes: 0.09 inch in width.

Both neck bones exhibited polish on the cut surfaces. Neither showed entrance or exit chipping.

I slumped back in my chair. The entire exercise had triggered no epiphany with regard to cracking in Haversian canals.

Discouraged, I got up and paced the kitchen.

Why wasn’t Slidell calling back? Had further questioning of Klapec, senior verified or disproved his story? Had they found the gun in the Dumpster? Had they talked to Mrs. Klapec?

I felt genuine sorrow for Jimmy’s mother. First her son, now her husband. The future held no rainbows for Eva Klapec.

I paced some more. Why not? Nothing else was working.

Ryan chose that moment to test the waters.

“All clear?” he asked from the safety of the dining-room side of the door.

“Yes.”

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted.”

Ryan came into the kitchen, followed by Birdie.

“Got it all figured out?”

“No.”

“Chocolate.” Ryan turned to Birdie and repeated the pronouncement. “Chocolate.”

The cat raised a skeptical brow. If a cat can be said to do so.

Turning back to me, Ryan tapped a finger to one temple. “Brain food.”

“There may be a Dove bar in the freezer.”

“What’s a Dove bar?”

“Only the best ice cream treat on the planet.” Then I remembered. “That’s right. They’re not available in Canada.”

“Admittedly, we have some holes in our culture.” Ryan began rummaging in the freezer.

I recalled Tuesday’s morning-after mess in my sink. Maybe not, I thought.

“Yes!” Ryan slammed the door, turned, and flourished two bars. “Two frozen delights.”

I took one and began peeling the wrapper.

Frost cascaded onto my hand.

I stared at it, remembering Ryan’s flip answer.

Water.

Expansion.

Cracking.

Ping!

I flew to the phone.

34

THIS TIME, SLIDELL TOOK MY CALL. HOT DAMN. I WAS AVERAGING two for four.

“Klapec was frozen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how I could have been so dense. It explains everything. The distorted decomp. The lack of scavenging. The paucity of insect activity. The cracking within the Haversian systems.”

“Whoa.”

Ryan was listening while eating his ice cream.

“Of course Klapec decomposed from the outside in. The pattern makes sense if he was frozen. His outer surfaces would have warmed faster than his core.”

“What’s this Haversham thing?”

“Haversian. With the SEM zoomed to a magnification of one thousand, I could see cracks in the tiny tunnels in Klapec’s bones. I couldn’t understand what had caused them.”

“Now you do.”

“What happens when water cools?”

“You get out of the shower.”

I ignored that.

“Most liquids shrink. So does water, until it reaches approximately four degrees Celsius. After that, it expands. When frozen it has expanded roughly nine percent.”

“And this is relevant why?”

“The microfracturing in Klapec’s bone is due to pressure created by ice crystal formation deep in his Haversian canals.”

“You’re saying Klapec was a Popsicle when he was dumped.”

“The killer must have stored his body in a freezer.”

Slidell made the link.

“Meaning Klapec could have died long before Funderburke spotted him at Lake Wylie.”

“Maybe in September, when Gunther saw him arguing with Rick Nelson. Where was Finney around that time?”

“Home alone. And Lingo was ping-ponging all over the state.”

“Did Finney have a freezer in his home?”

“You can bet your ass I’ll find out.”

“It doesn’t confirm that either Lingo or Finney’s our guy.”

“It stretches our window for time of death. That’s something.”

I heard choked inhalation, then a sort of growl.

“I hope that was a yawn.”

“I got zero shut-eye last night. I’m going ten-oh-two for a couple hours. You gonna be at your lab later today?”

“Tyrell fired me.”

“No way.”

I told him about the call from Allison Stallings.

“That should clear the air.”

“Maybe. Tyrell’s still peeved about my on-camera spat with Lingo. For now I’d better lay low.”

“I knew that opportunistic bitch was trouble. Anyway, good one, doc.”

I hung up and, you guessed it, began pacing. I felt frustrated with the investigation, guilty over Finney’s death, and unsettled by the presence of my unexpected houseguest.

I was checking containers in the fridge for unwanted life forms when that houseguest reappeared wearing running shoes, shorts, and the green lizard T.

“Going for a run?”

Idiot. Of course he was going for a run.

“I’m glad you found your workout gear.”

“I’m glad I left it here.”

There was an awkward beat.

“When do you fly back to Montreal?” I asked.

“As things stand, Sunday.”

“Will you be returning to the Sheraton?”

“I can.” Sad face.

I hesitated. Why not? You’d do the same for any old friend.

“You’re welcome to stay here.”

Big Ryan smile. “I can cook.”

I smiled, too. “I like that in a” – I started to say man – “friend.”

Ryan asked if I’d like to join him on his run. I declined.

Through the kitchen window, I watched him fall into in an easy, loping stride, long, ropy legs barely straining.

I remembered those legs intertwined with mine.

My stomach did a handspring.

Oh boy.

I had to do something. But what? I didn’t want to antagonize Tyrell further by going to the MCME. Slidell was power napping.

I tried grading student lab exercises from my forensics class.

Couldn’t concentrate.

I tried outlining my next lecture.

No go on that either.

Phone Katy?

There was a call I’d been putting off.

I dialed. Got voice mail. Had she not taken her phone to Buncombe County? Was it not working up in the mountains? Was she still mad?