I GLANCED AT RYAN. HE JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD.

“You can’t let on that I shared any of this.” Corcoran looked more anxious than I’d ever seen him.

“Of course not.” My tone was surprisingly calm. “I appreciate-”

The door opened. Corcoran and I sat back, casual as hell.

Two men entered, both wearing suits fitted by Armani himself, one blue, one gray.

I recognized Blue Suit as Stanley Walczak, peacock and legend in his own mind. Especially concerning his impact on women.

I had met Walczak at American Academy of Forensic Sciences meetings over the years, been favored by his attention on at least one occasion. For a full five minutes.

Why’d I bomb? Easy. I’m forty-plus. Though well past fifty, Walczak prefers ladies just out of training bras. Big ones.

Gray Suit, I assumed, was Perry Schechter. He had sparse black hair and a long craggy face that had taken at least six decades to form. His briefcase and demeanor screamed attorney.

As we rose, Walczak performed a quick but subtle assessment. Then he crossed to Ryan and shot out a hand.

“Stanley Walczak.”

“Andrew Ryan.”

The two shook. Corcoran jiggled keys in his lab coat pocket.

“Tempe.” Yards of capped dentition came my way. Walczak followed. “Each time we meet you look younger and younger.”

Digging deep, I managed to resist the famous Walczak charm.

“Nice to see you, Stan.” I proffered a hand.

Walczak enveloped my fingers in a double-palm grip, held on way too long.

“I understand you and Dr. Corcoran are already acquainted.”

Corcoran and I answered in the affirmative.

Walczak introduced Schechter.

There followed more pressing of palms.

“Gentlemen, Dr. Brennan.” Again, a lot of teeth were displayed for my benefit. “Shall we proceed?”

Walczak strode to the head of the table and sat.

Ryan and I withdrew files, he from his briefcase, I from my computer bag. As Schechter settled beside Corcoran, I booted up my laptop.

“So,” Walczak began. “I suppose you’re both wondering why the passing of an eccentric old lady with severe alcohol and psychiatric problems necessitates such extraordinary inconvenience on your parts.”

“Any death deserves proper attention.” Even to myself, I sounded pedantic. But I meant it. I share Horton’s worldview. A person’s a person. No matter how eccentric. Or old. Rose Jurmain was not even sixty.

Walczak regarded me a moment. With his silver hair and salon tan, I had to admit, he was pretty. On the outside.

“Precisely why I’ve asked Dr. Corcoran to do oversight on this case,” Walczak said.

Corcoran shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.

“Dr. Brennan and I will be happy to answer all questions concerning my investigation, her examination of the remains, and the coroner’s finding,” Ryan said.

“Excellent. Then I’ll turn this meeting over to Mr. Schechter and Dr. Corcoran. Please let me know if there’s anything, anything at all, that you need.”

With a meaningful look in Corcoran’s direction, Walczak left the room.

“I’m pleased you speak English, detective.”

A subtle tensing around the eyes suggested that Schechter’s first words did not sit well with Ryan.

“Mais oui, monsieur.” Ryan’s accent was over-the-top Parisian.

“Mr. Jurmain requests clarification on a number of points.” Schechter’s tone indicated that Ryan’s humor was not appreciated.

“Clarification?” Ryan matched cool with cool.

“He is deeply troubled.”

“You have copies of our reports?”

Schechter withdrew a yellow legal pad, a gold Cross pen, and a large white envelope from his briefcase. I recognized the envelope’s logo, and the words Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale.

“Dr. Brennan and I have prepared scene and autopsy photos to walk you through the investigation.”

Clicking his pen to readiness, Schechter gave an imperious wave of one hand.

Ryan spoke to me in French. “Let’s clarify this prick’s head right out of his ass.”

“Certainement,” I agreed.

Connecting my laptop to the projector, I opened PowerPoint, chose a file labeled LSJML 44893, and double-clicked an image. A wide-angle view of L’Auberge des Neiges filled the screen. Built of redwood, with carved and painted balconies and window boxes, the inn looked like something straight out of The Sound of Music.

Corcoran handed me the laser pointer.

Ryan began.

“Ms. Jurmain checked into L’Auberge des Neiges on twenty September, having reserved for two weeks. On twenty-three September she volunteered to other guests her intent to hike the following day.”

“These other guests would be?” Schechter asked.

Ryan checked his notes.

“John William Manning of Montreal. Isabelle Picard of Laval. According to Manning and Picard, Ms. Jurmain appeared inebriated that evening, and had appeared to be so on several occasions spanning a period of three days.”

Ryan slid several papers across the table, I assumed summaries of interviews with the auberge’s staff and guests. Corcoran skimmed. Schechter took his time reading. Then, “These are written in French.”

“My apologies.” Ryan’s tone was as far from apologetic as a tone can be.

Schechter made an indecipherable noise in his throat.

I switched to a wide shot of Rose’s room. It featured a braided rug, lacquered pine furniture, and an overabundance of pink floral chintz. A suitcase sat open on a small settee, clothes oozing like magma from a sleepy volcano.

I moved to a picture of the bed stand, then to close-ups of the labels on five small vials. Oxycodone. Diazepam. Temazepam. Alprazolam. Doxylamine.

I aimed the laser pointer. As the small red dot jumped from vial to vial, Corcoran translated into generic names for Schechter.

“The painkiller OxyContin, the antianxiety drugs Valium and Xanax, and the sleep aids Restoril and Unisom.”

Schechter drew air through his nostrils, exhaled slowly.

“When Rose got an idea into her head there was no reasoning with her. Always going off into the woods. Three years ago it was Quebec.” He said Quee-beck with the disgust one might reserve for “Eye-rack” or “Dar-four.” “Even though her”-he paused, seeking proper phrasing-“health was not good, she could not be dissuaded.”

Ryan proceeded without comment.

“At fifteen twenty hours, on twenty-four September, Ms. Jurmain was seen walking alone along Chemin Pierre-Mirabeau, in the direction of Sainte-Marguerite. Though the temperature was near freezing, a motorist reported that she wore a lightweight jacket, no hat, no gloves.”

As I projected a regional map, Ryan slid another paper to Schechter.

“Sunset that day was at approximately seventeen hundred hours. By nineteen hundred hours it was full dark. Overnight, temperatures fell to minus eight Celsius.

“On twenty-five September, it was noted that Ms. Jurmain had failed to return to the inn. A call was placed to an area code three-one-two number provided upon check-in. Subsequent investigation showed that line to be nonexistent.

“On twenty-six September, the SQ post covering Sainte-Marguerite was notified of Ms. Jurmain’s disappearance. Woods bordering the road and surrounding the auberge were searched with tracker dogs. Unsuccessfully.”

More paper.

“What is this SQ?” Schechter demanded.

“La Sûreté du Québec. The provincial police.”

“Why not call the locals?”

Ryan launched into a primer on law enforcement Quebec-style, laying on a thick Maurice Chevalier where opportunity presented itself.

“In cities and larger towns there are local forces. On the Island of Montreal, for example, policing is the responsibility of the Service de police de la Ville de Montréal, or SPVM, formerly known as the service de police de la communauté urbaine de Montréal, or CUM. Same force, new name.