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  For my infallibly wise and ever steadfast ensemble, les Grandes Dames of Forensic Anthropology:

  Leslie Eisenberg

  Diane France

  Madeleine Hinkes

  Elizabeth Murray

  Marcella Sorg

  “Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free.”

  —Bob Dylan, 1965

  PROLOGUE

  The man was dead before he tumbled from the bridge.

  Before his body hit the water.

  Before propellers flayed his flesh like a deli meat slicer.

  Earlier knowledge of these facts might have made a difference. Or not.

  I’ll never know.

  1

  SATURDAY, JUNE 29

  The monster barreled in unannounced, a dense black predator devouring the unwitting summer night. Ruthless. Fire-breathing. Intent on destroying all in its path.

  I was in its path.

  I was going to die.

  Boom!

  Snap!

  Thunder cracked. Lightning burst overhead and streaked toward a bobbing horizon, turning narrow swaths of sky a sickly yellow green.

  Boom!

  Snap!

  Again and again.

  The air smelled of ozone, angry water, oil, and mud.

  I was hunkered low on the deck of a nineteen-foot Boston Whaler, wind whipping my jacket and hair, rain pounding my hunched shoulders and back. With all my might, I clung to a steel upright, desperate not to be flung overboard. Or electrically fried.

  The boat belonged to Ryan’s buddy Xavier Rabeau, never one of my favorites. Ryan was in the stern. Rabeau was under cover in the center console. Of course, he was.

  Rabeau’s twentysomething blonde, Antoinette Damico, lay in a fetal curl beside me. Though not yet hysterical, she was moving in that direction.

  We were heaving and pitching in the middle of a roiling St. Lawrence River. The outboard was dead, overwhelmed by the ceaseless waves hammering it.

  Later, meteorologists would speak of the climatic phenomenon in near reverent tones. They’d talk of microbursts and tornadoes. La microrafale et la tornade. They’d name the storm Clémence, either appreciative or ignorant of the irony in their choice. They’d explain in two languages how the impossible had happened in Montreal that night.

  But a full postmortem was still in the future.

  At that moment I could only grasp with all my strength, heart pounding in my chest, ears, and throat. All that mattered was staying aboard. Staying alive.

  I knew little about boats, less about restarting an ancient Evinrude whose one hundred and fifty horses had all fled the stable. Badly wanting to help, I was helpless. So I cowered between the rear seats, bracing with my feet and white-knuckling the upright supports. Inwardly I cursed Rabeau, who’d been so focused on loading into the boat sacks of supermarket snacks and a cooler of iced beer—only beer—that he’d left every life jacket behind in the trunk of his car. Bastard.

  I also cursed myself for failing to ask about safety vests before leaving the ramp. In my defense—not his, he owned the damn boat and should have been more responsible—when we boarded, the air was cool and dry, the few passing breezes as gentle on my skin as the brush of butterfly wings. A billion stars twinkled in a flawless sky.

  We’ll have an incredible view of the fireworks, Ryan had said, excited beyond what seemed fitting for a fiftysomething ex-cop.

  What could go wrong? Rabeau had said.

  Everything.

  When I lifted my head, drops sluiced down my face, watery javelins blurring my vision and stinging my cheeks. Never easing my grip, I raised up and pivoted on my toes.

  Ryan was aft of me, tinkering with the rebellious motor. Though the downpour obscured most detail, I could see that his hair was flattened in places, wind-spiked and dancing in others. His long-sleeve tee was molded to his spine like the skin on a porpoise.

  Snap!

  Boom!

  The boat lurched wildly. The cooler skidded, tumbled, then shot up and sailed over the starboard side. Easing back down onto my butt, I watched the perky blue YETI disappear, a cuboid shadow riding the ebony chop.

  Around us, other boats were struggling to return to shore, their multicolored lights winking erratically through the veil of water. An overturned catamaran bobbed roughly twenty yards off our port side. Helpless. Like me.

  Closing my eyes, I willed a safe landing for those on the cat. Hoped their captain had followed regs and provided life vests.

  Beside me, Damico was alternating between crying and barfing, impressively, managing to do both simultaneously. She’d abandoned the first of the plastic Provigo sacks used to transport her boyfriend’s munchies and brews and was starting to fill the second. Now and then, when the deck reangled sharply, she’d wail and demand to be taken ashore.

  Rabeau was rocking and rolling at his captain’s chair, feet spread, awaiting word from the stern. Each time Ryan called out, Rabeau tried the ignition. Over and over, the two repeated the sequence. Always with the same outcome.

  Nothing.

  Then the sound of Quebecois cursing.

  Hostie!

  Tabarnak!

  Câlice!

  Above the cacophony of wind and waves and male frustration, my ears picked up an almost inaudible sound. A high, mosquito-like whine. Distant sirens? A tornado warning?

  I offered a silent plea to whatever water deities might be watching. Clíodhna, the Celtic goddess of the sea? Where the hell did that come from. Gran, of course. Christ, I was losing my mind.

  The bow shot skyward, then dropped from the crest of a high wave into a trough.

  Thwack!

  A sound rose from Damico’s throat, a keening thick with silvery-green bile.

  I reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. She lowered the Provigo sack and turned to face me, mouth an inverted U, a slimy trail of drool hanging from each corner. Lightning sparked, illuminating the skeletal arch of the Jacques Cartier Bridge behind and above her.

  I felt tremors of my own. Swallowed. Vowed not to succumb to nausea.

  Not to die. Not like this.

  Death is inevitable for us all. From time to time, we ponder our passing. Visualize those last moments before the final curtain. Perhaps because I’m in the business of violent death, my imaginings tend toward the dramatic. A tumbling fall and fractured bones. Popping flames and acrid smoke. Crumpled steel and shattered glass. Bullets. Nooses. Toxic plants. Venomous bites. I’m not morbid by nature. The odds are far greater that the climactic setting will include pinging monitors and antiseptically clean sheets.

  I’ll admit it. I’ve considered every possibility for my closing scene. All but one.

  The one I fear most.

  I’ve viewed scores of bodies pulled, dragged, or netted from watery graves. Recovered many myself. Each time, I empathize with the terror the victim had endured. The initial struggle to stay afloat, the desperation for air. The dreaded submersion and breath-holding. The inevitable yielding and aspiration of water. Then, mercifully, the loss of consciousness, cardiorespiratory arrest, and death.

  Not an easy way to go.

  Point of information: I have a robust fear of drowning. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of rivers, lakes, and pools. Far from it. I body surf and water-ski. I swim laps for exercise. I’m not afraid of going into the water.

  I’m afraid of not coming out.

  Irrational, I know. But there you have it.

  So why was I there, in an open boat, about to die during the mother of all storms?

  Fireworks.

  And love.

  * * *

  Summer had taken its sweet time arriving in Quebec that year.

  April teased with warm days that nibbled away at the black-crusted snow. Then April did what April does. The fickle mercury would plunge, encasing lawns, driveways, streets, and sidewalks in a mud-colored slick of frozen meltwater.

  May offered ceaseless cold rain delivered in a variety of ways. Mist from velvety hazes. Drizzle from indolent gray skies. Splatter, big and fat from low-hanging clouds. Drops driven by winds disdainful of tempo carports, canopies, and umbrellas.

  As the first official day of summer approached, the weather gods had finally smiled. The sun had appeared, and daytime temperatures had managed to inch above seventy. Just in time.

  L’international des Feux Loto-Québec, also known as the Montreal Fireworks Festival, a Montreal tradition, is one of the largest fireworks festivals in the world. Or so its organizers boast. I’ve never fact-checked. Every year, the extravaganza kicks off in late June.

  Second point of information. My significant other is Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, a former Sûreté du Québec homicide cop. Sort of former. More on that later. Ryan is a sucker for pyrotechnics. On any level. Black Cats. Lady Fingers. M-80s. Roman Candles. Bottle rockets. If it goes boom or shoots pinwheels, the man is enthralled. Go figure.

  L’international des Feux competition is a world apart from the little poppers and streakers Ryan purchases to detonate i
n parking lots and fields. Each country’s performance is professionally choreographed, marrying music to the art exploding high above. The pyromusical presentations can be seen and heard for six consecutive Saturdays all across the city. Ryan loves them and rarely misses a performance.

  I am a board-certified forensic anthropologist, practicing for more years than I care to admit. My career has been spent at death scenes and in autopsy rooms. I’ve observed firsthand the countless ways people harm other people and themselves. The follies in which humans engage to get themselves killed. One such folly is the mishandling of explosives. I am less of an enthusiast than my beau.

  Face radiant with boyish excitement, Ryan had proposed viewing this year’s kickoff performance from the river. Since the fireworks are launched from the La Ronde amusement park, situated on Île Sainte-Hélène across from Montreal’s historic old port, the whole wondrous display would explode directly over our heads! Magnifique!

  Next thing I knew, Voilà! We’d been invited onto Rabeau’s boat.

  I must admit, the experience was moving, listening to “Ride of the Valkyries” or “Ode to Joy” as peonies, crossettes, and kamuras exploded high above. Ryan named and explained each.

  Until Clémence showed up to kick ass.

  So here we were. Without a motor. Without life vests. Soaked. Pitching and rolling and struggling to stay aboard a vessel far too small for the conditions. Easy pickings for lightning.

  Then, through the wind and the waves and the furious thrumming of drops on fiberglass, my ears registered a sound that I’d been frantic to hear. Gulpy and unstable at first, the watery glugging gradually blended into a steady hum.

  The boat seemed to tense, as if sensing new determination in the old Evinrude.

  The humming gathered strength.

  The vessel began moving with purpose, no longer at the whim of the turbulent rivière.

  The humming intensified and rose in pitch.

  The bow lifted and the little Whaler thrust forward, leaving a frothy white wake as she sliced through the chop.

  Ryan crawled to join me for the rocky return to shore. Arm-wrapping my shoulders, he held me tight.

  For the first time since the storm broke, I drew a deep breath.

  Clémence was living up to her name. Taking mercy on us.

  Our little party would survive.

  Others wouldn’t be so lucky.

  2

  THURSDAY, JULY 4

  I woke early, feeling a bit melancholy and unsure why. Until I picked up my iPhone and noted the date.

  Independence Day is my favorite American holiday. No feast to prepare or overeat. No baskets to fill and hide. No presents to wrap, ornaments to hang, or cookies to bake. Call me a grinch. But buy me a bucket of the Colonel’s finest and light a few sparklers and I’m happy as a kid at a carnival. Although, that morning, my enthusiasm for anything pyrotechnic was still at rock bottom.

  Five days after her wild theatrics, Clémence was still a topic of conversation. In that brief interval, I’d learned more than I needed to know about microbursts and how they differ from tornados. Las microrafales et las tornades.

  A microburst is a localized column of falling air within a thunderstorm. That’s the burst part. The plummeting downdraft is usually less than two and a half miles in diameter. That’s the micro part. As for the speed of those zephyrs, I’ve no idea of Clémence’s personal best, but winds produced by microbursts can reach up to 100 mph, equivalent to those of an EF-1 tornado.

  Guess where Clémence smacked terra firma? Yup. Right around Rabeau’s little boat.

  Some good did come from the whole debacle. Ryan agreed that we would no longer socialize with Xavier Rabeau and the vomitous Mademoiselle Damico.

  By eight-thirty a.m., I was completing my third circuit of a network of small streets in Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, a working-class neighborhood just east of Centreville. Driving slowly, eyes alert, I passed a school, a small park, several convenience stores known in Quebec as depanneurs, and rows of iron staircase–fronted two- and three-flat buildings. Found not a millimeter of open curb.

  On my fourth pass along rue Dufresne, I spotted the red flicker of a taillight halfway up the block, shot forward, and waited as a Ford Fiesta the size of my shoe maneuvered itself free. With much shifting and swearing, I managed to wedge my car into the vacated space.

  Pleased with my small victory, and quite sweaty, I grabbed my laptop and briefcase and headed toward the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome, a thirteen-story glass-and-steel building renamed years ago to honor Quebec’s famous pioneer criminalist.

  Not unreasonably, or out of stubbornness, many locals still call the structure the SQ building. The Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale, the province’s combined medico-legal and crime lab, occupies the top two floors. The Bureau du coroner is on eleven. The morgue and autopsy suites are in the basement. All other footage belongs to the Sûreté du Québec, the provincial police. The SQ or QPP, depending on whether you lean francophone or anglophone. French or English.

  Hurrying along the sidewalk, I could see the T-shaped behemoth looming over the quartier. Somehow, the brooding hulk looked wrong against the cheery blue sky.

  And cheery it was.

  Summer was in full command now, the days hot and muggy, the nights starry and sultry. After the long, bleak winter and the year’s heartless spring, les Montréalais were delighting in their town’s balmy rebirth.

  Bare-shouldered women and pasty-legged men in Bermudas and sandals sipped endless iced coffees and drank pitchers of Molson at tables dragged onto walkways and patios by bar propriétaires and restaurateurs. Cyclists and rollerbladers filled the bike paths paralleling the city’s thoroughfares and waterways. Pram-pushers, joggers, students, and dogwalkers formed colorful streams flowing in both directions along les rues Ste-Catherine, St-Denis, St-Laurent, and nearby boulevards.

  Festivals had begun cascading in quick succession. Les Franco Folies de Montréal. The Formula 1 Grand Prix du Canada. The International Jazz Festival. The Festival International Nuits d’Afrique. Just for Laughs. Montréal Complètement Cirque.

  The season had been a long time coming. Knowing it wouldn’t tarry, the populace was embracing it with a gusto lacking in my native North Carolina.

  But there’d be no strolling, lemonade sipping, or picnicking for me today. I was heading to an autopsy room to examine dead babies.

  Feeling melancholy. On the Fourth of July.

  Don’t misunderstand. I enjoyed Canada Day and Saint-Jean-Baptiste—La fête nationale du Québec. Great fun. But neither was a star-spangled birthday party like the Fourth.

  Get over it, Brennan.

  Entering the lobby, I swiped my security pass, swiped it again in the elevator, at the entrance to the twelfth floor, and at the glass doors separating the medico-legal wing from the rest of the T. Tight security? You bet.

  The corridor was quiet early on a Thursday morning. As I passed windows opening onto microbiology, histology, and pathology labs, I could see white-coated men and women working at microtomes, desks, and sinks. Several waved or mouthed greetings through the glass. Marcel, one of the new technicians, might have said “Joyeux quatre juillet.” Happy Fourth of July.

  I returned their greetings with a quick wave and continued to the anthropology/odontology lab, the last in the row. After placing my laptop and briefcase on the desk and stowing my purse in a drawer, I slipped into a lab coat, collected the box of bones that I’d recently recovered, and carried it to my examination table.

  Steeling myself for the upcoming task, and barring all thoughts of my daughter, Katy, when she was an infant, I arranged what was left of the first tiny skeleton. There was little to arrange. When finished, I began on the next.

  I’d been sorting and rearticulating for almost two hours when I sensed, more than heard, a presence at my back. A skill I’ve developed over years of interaction, perhaps relying on the detection of olfactory cues, among them the faint smell of pipe tobacco. I turned.

  “Bonjour, Temperance.” LaManche greeted me in his precise Parisian French. Of all my acquaintances, only he insists on using the formal version of my name. No shortening to Tempe for him.

  “Bonjour,” I replied. “Comment ça va?”