Free Bones to Ashes by Kathy Reichs

said.
    She could be, I thought, studying the slender form, long hair, and luminous green eyes.
    “A lot of little girls want to be models,” I said.
    “Did you?”
    “No.”
    “Kelly Sicard also had runway dreams,” Ryan said.
    “Slim lead.” I slid the photo back toward Ryan.
    “Slim beats none,” Ryan said.
    We discussed the cases for a few more minutes. Mostly, I listened.
    Ryan isn’t rattled by violence or death. He sees both frequently, has learned to mask his emotions. But I know the man. Know that the abuse of those powerless to protect themselves affects him deeply. It affects me, too. I was keenly aware of my feelings at that moment, having spent the past hours with the bones of a child.
    Though Ryan claimed only fatigue, I could see through to the sadness and frustration. Fair enough. Comes with the job. But did I sense something else? Was some further factor contributing to Ryan’s agitation, robbing him of his usual lightheartedness, goading him to smoke? Was I being paranoid?
    After a while, Ryan signaled for a check.
    Returning to the lot, I started my Mazda and pointed the headlights for home. I needed to rest. To shower. To think.
    Needed a drink I couldn’t have.
    Turning west onto René-Lévesque, I lowered a window. The air was warm and moist and unnaturally heavy, the sky a black screen on which occasional flickers of lightning danced.
    The night smelled of rain.
    A storm would soon break.
     
9
     
    T HE NEXT DAY PASSED WITHOUT WORD FROM HIPPO OR RYAN. Harry was another story. Little sister had made appointments to view a downtown Houston penthouse, a horse ranch in Harris County, and beachfront property at South Padre Island. I suggested she take time to ponder what she truly wanted post-Arnoldo, instead of impulsively chasing around southeast Texas hoping for inspiration. She suggested I lighten up. I’m paraphrasing.
    I slogged through the mess in my office, then resumed teasing dirt from the Rimouski remains. I often give nicknames to my unknowns. Somehow, it personalizes them for me. Though he’d been only marginally involved in the case, I’d come to think of the skeleton as Hippo’s girl.
    The more detail I revealed about Hippo’s girl, the more puzzling the picture became.
    Around eleven, a skull came in from Iqaluit, a pinpoint on the Quebec map a zillion miles north on Frobisher Bay. I looked the place up. Though I wanted to stay with Hippo’s girl, I stuck with my promise to LaManche, and started on the new arrival.
    Leaving the lab around five, I delivered the Lac des Deux Montagnes bone plug and sock to the biologist at McGill, then stopped by Hurley’s for my version of a pint: Diet Coke on the rocks with a twist. It wasn’t for the soft drink, of course, but for the contact with friends the pub would provide.
    As I passed through the game room, I glanced up at the wall-mounted TV. A classic school portrait showed as a backdrop to a grimfaced anchorman. The young girl’s eyes were green and mischievous, her hair center-parted and pulled into shoulder-length braids. Phoebe Quincy.
    A small group of regulars was gathered around the downstairs bar: Gil, Chantal, Black Jim, and Bill Hurley himself. They greeted me, faces somber, then recommenced airing their views on the Quincy disappearance.
    “Sweet mother o’ Jesus, thirteen years old.” Chantal shook her head and signaled for another pint. A Newfoundlander, she could outdrink the best of the best. And often did.
    “Hope to God she’s just gone walkabout.” Black Jim’s accent changed with his story of the moment. No one knew where Jim really originated. Every time someone asked, he produced a different tale. Tonight he was speaking Aussie.
    “How long’s she been gone?” Bill signaled the bartender and a Diet Coke was set before me.
    “Three days. Went to dance class. Sufferin’ Jesus.” Chantal.
    “You involved?” Bill asked me.
    “No.”
    “Ryan?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where is Ryan? You finally manage to