Schechter scribbled, underlined, then spoke again.

“You’re saying Rose had one of these things.”

“Yes. It’s stated on page three of my report, in the section headed ‘unique identifiers.’ ”

As Schechter flipped pages I projected a new image. With a tight shot of Rose’s foramen filling the screen, I listed characteristics.

“Single, circular defect, with a diameter of fourteen millimeters. Smooth, round edges, like a doughnut hole. Midline location, in the lower third of the sternal body. It’s textbook.”

“Could Rose have functioned normally with something like that?” Schechter’s cheeks had gone blotchy.

“People do it all the time.”

“Would she not have exhibited symptoms?”

“No.”

“How common is this condition?”

“Sternal foramina occur in roughly seven to ten percent of the population.”

No one spoke for what seemed a very long time.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“You found nothing to suggest that Rose had been shot?”

“Nothing.”

“No evidence of homicide?”

I shook my head. “No signs of strangulation, bludgeoning, stabbing, or slashing. No defense wounds on her finger, hand, or arm bones. Other than damage caused by bears, no signs of violence at all.”

“Show me.”

I took him through the skeleton, bone by bone.

Now and then, a mollified Schechter posed a question.

When my presentation finished we all sat mute.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I could see Schechter’s mind working, trying to classify new information. Perhaps tallying his billable hours for old Edward Allen.

“Tell me, Mr. Schechter. What prompted all this?” My gesture took in the screen, the reports, the four of us seated at the table.

“That’s hardly-”

“Germane. Indulge me.”

Schechter studied me, lips drawn into a thin hard line. I expected him to gather his pen and tablet and take his leave. To my surprise, he answered.

“Mr. Jurmain was informed that his daughter’s death investigation had either been botched or deliberately falsified.”

“By me.”

“Yes.”

“Informed by whom?”

Schechter hesitated, no doubt deciding how much to share, how much to hold back.

“The caller left no name.”

Anger overrode any triumph I might have felt at besting the man.

“You launched this witch hunt based solely on an anonymous tip?”

“My client believed the call to be genuine.”

“You could have counseled your client concerning proper protocol.”

Again the long stare.

I stared back.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Without comment, Schechter packed his belongings, snapped his briefcase, and walked to the door. Hand on the knob, he turned.

“You have an enemy, Dr. Brennan. I suggest it is in your interest to learn who placed that call.”

With that, he was gone.

“RICHIE CUNNINGHAM WAS A BIG HELP IN THERE.”

“Who?”

“You know. Richie and the Fonz? Happy Days?” Ryan pointed at his head. “Red hair?”

“You watch too much television.”

“Improves my English.” Again the hideous French accent.

“Chris gave us a heads-up on Jurmain’s crackpot allegations.” Though I defended Corcoran, I couldn’t disagree with Ryan. My childhood pal hadn’t exactly gone back-to-the-wall for me.

“Way to go, champ.”

Ryan and I were traveling east on Harrison. I was at the wheel. He was riding shotgun. As at the airport and hotel, this arrangement had followed spirited debate. Ryan had claimed superior driving skills. I’d claimed knowledge of the city. A bit of a stretch, but my other argument had trumped his. My rental car, my choice.

“Chris has never been assertive,” I said.

“A guppy is assertive compared to that guy. He should take lessons from Schechter.”

“Right.” I snorted. “Schechter’s a peach.”

“And you plucked him.”

Ryan was grinning and doing that flicky thing he does with his brows.

Smiling, I raised my right palm. He high-fived it.

I drove a few moments, thinking a very unsmiley thought. Ryan voiced it.

“Schechter was right about you needing to identify the source.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Want me to talk to Jurmain?”

“Thanks, Ryan. I can do it.”

“I keep going back to one question.”

“Who’s the scum-sucking bastard that made the call?”

“Well, yeah. But also, why? What’s the motivation to jam you up? Have you pissed someone off lately? I mean, more than normal?”

I gave Ryan the Face.

“Eyes on the road. This stuff ’s slick.”

Ryan was right. Sleet had been pelting the windshield as we’d made our way to the CCME early that morning. The stuff was now coming down even harder. Temperatures hovered around freezing, and the sun hadn’t mustered the strength to penetrate the thick, cobalt clouds covering the sky. Semifrozen slush topped cars and mailboxes and lay along sidewalk borders and curbs. Harrison was coated with what looked like black ice.

“It has to be personal,” Ryan went on. “Someone you’ve opposed in some context.”

“That’s my thinking. An insider, in all likelihood in Quebec. Who else would be privy to the fact that I’d worked Rose Jurmain?”

“Did the case draw attention?”

“I vaguely remember a line or two in Le Journal when the remains were found. Or maybe following the ID. But that was nine months ago. Jurmain got his call just two weeks back.”

Anger began to blossom anew. I checked the dashboard clock. One forty. I changed the subject.

“What time is your flight?”

“Six thirty.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Suggestions?”

“Your town. Your choice.”

“Right answer.”

“Where are we?” Ryan asked.

“Just west of downtown. In Chicago it’s called the Loop.”

“Why?”

“Something about the old el tracks forming a circle.”

“El?”

“Elevated CTA tracks.”

“CTA?”

“Come on, Ryan. You could figure that one out. Chicago Transit Authority. In this town, mass transit is part subway, part surface, part elevated. The whole enchilada is called the el, short for elevated.”

“You’re talking about commuter trains.”

“Here it’s never called the train, except by suburbanites or out-of-towners. To Chicagoans, the ‘train’ is Metra, which connects the Loop to the burbs.”

“What does this multifaceted marvel loop?”

“Do you see me carrying a sign on a stick?”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not a tour guide.”

“You said you knew this place like the back of your hand.”

I had said that. What I hadn’t said was that I’d moved from Chicago to Charlotte almost three decades earlier, and that my recall of detail might be hazy. But this one was a lollipop.

“The old el tracks run along Lake Street on the north, Wabash Avenue on the east, Van Buren Street on the south, and Wells Street on the west. Inside that loop is the city’s original central business district. But I think the nickname might predate the el. I think it actually came from a streetcar loop that existed in the late 1880s.”

“You’re making this stuff up.”

“You want a professional, take a Gray Line.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yes.”

To our left, a Blue Line el clicked along ground-level tracks in the center of the Eisenhower Expressway. Around it, lanes of cars lurched and braked in truculent rivers attempting to flow east and west.

“That place looks a bit past its shelf life.” Ryan indicated a Beaux Arts structure stretching for two blocks to our right.

“Cook County Hospital. I think it’s now called Stroger. And I think there’s a plan to tear it down. A lot of folks are opposed.”

“Doesn’t look that old on ER,” Ryan said.

“Really. Too much TV.”

“I turn it on for Charlie.”

“Our cockatiel likes dramas?”