The glowing orange digits said 1:15, then 2:18, 2:43, 3:06.

Then the alarm was chirping.

In a fog, I rolled over and palm-smacked the button.

The next sound I heard was a ringing phone.

Groggy, I reached out and dragged the handset to my ear. Clicked on.

“Mm.”

“You OK?” Ryan.

“Dandy.”

“Just checking.”

“Jesus, Ryan.” Sitting upright. “What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen.”

I checked the clock.

“Shit!”

“You coming in? I’ve got some more-”

“Thirty minutes.”

Flying across the room, I yanked undies from the bureau, then threw on yesterday’s jeans and sweater. In the bathroom I had a thirty-second moment with the Sonicare, splashed water on my face, yanked my hair into a pony, and bolted.

I MISSED STAFF MEETING BY ALMOST TWO HOURS. ON THE ERASABLE board, the square by Morin’s name said Témoignage. Testimony. I wondered if it was the same trial for which Ryan had been subpoenaed.

Sprinting down the hall, I happened to glance to my right. Natalie Ayers’s door was ajar. She was at her desk.

My first reaction was surprise. Normally the pathologists were downstairs by that time of morning.

It took a moment for details to register.

Ayers was sitting with elbows on the desktop, shoulders hunched, head hanging between upraised hands. Discarded tissues littered the blotter.

Reversing, I gently pushed the door inward.

“Natalie?”

Ayers’s head snapped up.

I looked into eyes that were red and swollen.

“Has something happened?”

Ayers shook her head, tried faking a smile. It was a lame attempt.

“What is it?” I prodded.

The teary eyes drifted over my shoulder out into the hall.

Without waiting for an answer, I closed the door, took a chair, and assumed a listening posture. Message: I’m here until you talk.

Ayers drew a shaky breath. Plucked a clean tissue. Leaned back.

“I screwed up on Keiser.”

I wiggled my fingers. Give me more.

“The poor woman was shot.” Ayers’s mascara was everywhere, her face an ink drawing left under a tap.

“Go on.”

“I checked the X-rays, looked for exit and entrance wounds, fragments, you know the routine. There wasn’t a single indication of a gunshot wound. Nothing. Nada.”

I nodded.

“She must have been rising up, or maybe doubling over to protect herself. The bullet was small caliber, entered at the shoulder, ran longitudinally down the right erector mass, and exited without nicking a bone or organ. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You snagged the track by making cross-sectional cuts?”

“I didn’t snag anything.” Ayers swallowed. “Wonder girl found it.”

“Briel?” I masked my surprise poorly.

Ayers nodded, causing tears to breach her lower lids. She jabbed the wadded tissue at her cheeks.

“When?”

“During her pajama-party autopsy session last night.”

“You gave her permission to examine Keiser?”

Ayers nodded. “I figured hell, why not? She’s an eager beaver, wants to learn.”

“Did Briel report the discovery to you?”

Ayers snorted her contempt. “How would that advance her precious career?”

“She went straight to Hubert?”

“What do you think?”

I thought she probably had.

“And get this. Hubert’s given her permission to speak to the press.”

“When?”

“Tonight.” She told me the name of the show. I’d heard of it, but never watched it. “Should make for great viewing. They’ll probably sell the movie rights.”

“How did the media learn Keiser had been found?”

Ayers shrugged both shoulders while blowing her nose hard.

“Why would Hubert allow Briel to go on air?”

Ayers flapped her tissue-free hand. “You’ve been away. You don’t understand. The Keiser and Villejoin investigations have been going nowhere. The cops and the coroner have been taking heat. Finding Keiser makes everyone look like they’re working hard.”

“Sonovabitch,” I said.

“Sonovabackstabbingupyoursbitch.”

Back in my office, I sat motionless, tiny wings fluttering in my brainpan. My lower centers were trying to snag my attention. Why? What word or name had triggered the feeling?

Briel? Keiser? Hubert? Media? Gunshot wound?

Hard as I coaxed, the moth-notion refused to venture into the light of conscious thought.

I was still swinging mental nets when my desk phone shrilled.

Ryan skipped the preliminaries.

“Want to meet O’Keefe?”

I drew a blank.

“Earth to Brennan. Red O’Keefe? Florian Grellier’s bar buddy?”

“You’ve got him?”

“The gentleman awaits as we speak.”

Red O’Keefe. Aka Bud Keith. M. Keith?

“Does he admit to working for the Villejoin sisters?”

“Funny. I plan to discuss that very topic.”

“How did you find him?”

“O’Keefe’s former probation officer has one helluva network.”

“What’s his story?”

“Pumps gas part-time at a Petro-Canada station on Boulevard Décarie, lives in a flop around the corner. O’Keefe and I are about to have a chitchat. Care to observe?”

“When?”

“Now.”

I glanced across the hall. Through the window, the Lac Saint-Jean bones lay as I’d left them.

“I’ll be right down.”

The SQ interrogation room could have been part of any cop shop on the planet. Blank walls, battered table and chairs. Today the small space smelled faintly of gasoline, the aroma introduced, I assumed, by the lone occupant’s grease-stained parka.

Occasionally my presence is requested at the questioning of a suspect. Today was one of those times. I assumed Ryan’s motive was the usual. Afterward he’d want my take on the guy.

O’Keefe looked up when Ryan and I entered, hooded eyes hard and analytical, as though dissecting the world and everyone in it. His hair was stone gray, styled by someone probably calling herself a “creative director” and charging a bundle. The cut was an odd contrast to the blue-collar outfit.

Ryan introduced himself and held out a hand. O’Keefe’s fingers remained firmly laced atop his wool tuque and mittens.

Ryan queried O’Keefe’s preference of French or English.

The cold glare held.

We sat. Ryan placed a folder on the table. O’Keefe ignored it. Us.

Perhaps because of the surname, perhaps for my benefit, Ryan proceeded in English. “Thank you for coming in today, Mister O’Keefe. I’ll try to take up as little of your time as possible.”

O’Keefe’s eyes slid to me, returned to Ryan.

“Dr. Brennan and I work together.”

Vague. Let O’Keefe wonder.

“You are presently employed as a gas station attendant?”

O’Keefe remained impassive.

“I know this is tedious, but I need to verify facts for my report.”

I’d seen Ryan conduct dozens of interviews, knew what he was doing. Start out easy, gain the suspect’s confidence, causing him to reveal things he might otherwise hide, allowing him to contradict himself. Then move in for the kill.

Eyeballing this suspect, I wondered how successful the tactic would be. I knew from Ryan that O’Keefe had graced facilities in a number of provinces.

“It is O’Keefe, isn’t it?” Ryan opened but did not glance at the file. “There seems to be some confusion on the name.”

“Let’s not dick-dance around. We both know I got a sheet.” O’Keefe’s speech was Anglophone, working-class, with an accent that sounded more Eastern Seaboard than Montreal.

“Let’s not.” Ryan’s pleasant tone now had an edge. “Let’s talk about Florian Grellier.”

“Who the fuck is Florian Grellier?”

“Let’s try this one. Bud Keith.”

O’Keefe hitched his shoulders. “I got a stage name. So what? So did Judy Garland.”

“You ever do yard work? Tree removal, that sort of thing?” Another of Ryan’s ploys. Change tack. Switch to a probably touchy subject. Throw the interviewee off.