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The sun was arcing down, turning the windshield opaque with salty slush thrown up by the cars ahead. We fell silent as Ryan concentrated on driving.

“Could explain the antique buttons,” I said, as we crossed the Lachine Canal and wound onto de la Montagne.

“Could.”

I had a sudden thought.

“The forgery,” I said, turning to Ryan.

“You think Menard was helping customers round out their collections by doing a little manufacturing on his own?”

“Maybe that’s what he thinks we’re investigating. Maybe that’s why he was so nervous.”

“It’s a possibility,” Ryan said.

I had another thought.

“Or maybe Menard stumbled onto the skeletons but kept it to himself, thinking he might sell the bones to a collector someday. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to trade in human skeletal parts in Canada.”

“Another possibility.”

I settled back. “My gut tells me it’s more than that.”

“If the guy’s got baggage, I’ll find it.”

“Menard was definitely not glad to see us.”

“Exuded all the warmth of an autopsy room. Which reminds me. Where would you like to go?”

“The lab.”

I dialed my condo to check on Anne’s schedule but got no answer. I left a message for her to call me.

Twenty minutes later I was at my desk.

Ryan had promised to take the letter opener to SIJ. Either he or a tech would call if they were able to pull up latents.

For as long as I’ve known her, Anne has steadfastly insisted she dislikes Indian cuisine. I called again to propose dinner at La Maison du Cari, certain their lamb korma would change her mind.

Still no answer. Second message.

Two printouts lay on my blotter. The longer was Claudel’s list of girls who’d gone missing in Quebec. The shorter was Charbonneau’s list of those who’d disappeared in north-central California.

I started with the former.

One by one I worked my way through the names, excluding any girl whose profile was inconsistent with the pizza basement skeletons. A serious headache was kicking in by the time I came to Manon Violette.

Manon Violette had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.

I sat forward, feeling a sudden rush of excitement.

The girl in Dr. Energy’s crate had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.

Barely breathing, I read the details.

Manon Violette had disappeared nine years earlier after leaving her home in Longueuil to take a bus to Centre-ville.

Violette was white.

Violette was fifteen years old.

The next entry punched me in the sternum.

Manon Violette stood only fifty-eight inches tall.

Damn!

I’d estimated the Dr. Energy girl’s stature at sixty-two inches.

Could I have been that far off?

I fired into the lab and checked.

Nope. Dr. Energy’s girl was tiny. But not that tiny. Even considering the error factor, 38426 was too tall.

What about 38427? I’d estimated her age at fifteen to seventeen, her height at sixty-four to sixty-seven inches.

I pulled out the skull and checked the teeth.

An orthodontist’s dream. Perfect alignment. No rotations.

Back to the list.

An hour later I sat back, frustrated.

I hated to admit it, but Claudel was right. There were no matches. If height fit, age didn’t. If age and height were consistent with one of the skeletons, racial background or some other trait excluded the candidate.

None of the MPs from Quebec and only one from California had suffered a Colles’ fracture of the right radius.

Claudel had referenced the girl from California in our earlier conversation. I read through her stats.

In 1985, Leonard Alexander Robinson filed a missing person report with the Tehama County Sheriff’s Department. Robinson’s daughter, Angela, a white female, age fourteen years and nine months, left home on the night of October 21 and was never seen again. Friends said she’d intended to hitchhike to a party.

Angela Robinson, “Angie,” had fallen from a swing at age eight, fracturing her right wrist.

Angie stood five foot two.

Back to the lab to double-check myself.

Angie Robinson was too young to be the girl in the leather shroud.

And too short.

I was discouraged, and my headache could have pounded the golden spike in Ogden. What if Angie had lived for a time after her disappearance? She would have aged. Perhaps grown.

Again, my subconscious seemed to be crooking a finger.

What?

The clock said five-ten. I decided to call it a day.

Returning to my office, I again tried Anne.

Still no answer.

I was replacing the receiver, when someone tapped on my door.

“Hey, Doc.” Charbonneau was in polyester from stem to stern. And cowboy boots.

“Hi.”

“I was on my way out, thought I’d pop up and give you the current lore.”

With what remained of my brain, I tried to decipher that.

“Lore?”

Charbonneau took a pink wad from his mouth, studied it, rolled his eyes up, and tipped his head toward my wastebasket.

I handed him a Post-it.

Charbonneau wrapped the Bazooka and arced it into the bin.

“Ryan told me about your drop-in at Menard’s crib on de Sébastopol. Sounds like the guy’s a real piece of work.”

“Yeah.”

I rubbed circles on my temples with the balls of my fingers.

“Headache?”

I nodded.

“Try eating something real spicy. That works for me.”

“Thanks.”