“THE DESCRIPTORS GENERATED ONLY ONE MATCH. PROBABLY because a root canal in a third molar is extremely uncommon. Eric Skipper, white male, forty-four, residing in Brampton, Ontario at the time of his disappearance.”

“When did Skipper go into the system?”

“March eighteenth, 2008. Descriptors were provided by Dr. Herbert Mandel of Brampton.”

“Did you contact him?”

“I did. Dr. Mandel informed me that Mr. Skipper had a great deal of dental work, including extractions, restorations, and other root canals. He is sending the record by FedEx.”

“Who filed the MP report?”

I heard paper rustle. “Mr. Skipper’s wife, Michelle. Dr. Mandel says she remains a patient.”

“Did you get her number?”

Bergeron read it to me, and I jotted it down.

“Anything else?”

“I’m an odontologist, Dr. Brennan. Not a detective. From you, I will need the actual X-rays.”

“Coming your way.”

“I will call when the ID is confirmed.”

“Thank you, Dr. Bergeron. I owe you one.”

“You do, indeed.”

I called Maureen King. Voice mail.

It was a nice day. Nothing but sun and temperatures projected to soar into the upper fifties. I decided to visit the coroner’s office.

“Hey, old lady.”

I was on the walk leading to the Searle Building. I stopped and turned.

Binny was across Forty-ninth Street, straddling his bike on the courthouse lawn. The tuque had been replaced by a baseball cap sitting low on his brows. Same sweats. Same sneakers.

“Hey, bozo,” I said.

“Bozo? That the best you can do?” Underlying the bravado was a tension I hadn’t sensed in our previous encounter.

“Good morning, Mr. Binny Mind-Your-Own-Business.”

“You remember good, for a granny.”

“I’m pretty busy right now.”

“At least you ain’t covered in doodah.”

“Nice turn of phrase.”

Below the bill’s shadow, I saw Binny chew his lip.

“Do you have something to tell me?”

“I never got no pancakes.” Eyes skittish.

I reached into my purse and waggled the muffin I’d pilfered from the breakfast buffet. I know. But meals had been patchy. I wanted backup.

Binny crossed to me and took my offering. His fingers looked small and brown, digging the cake from its little paper cup. There was a crescent of dirt under each of his nails. When finished with the muffin, he wadded the wrapper and cocked his arm.

“Whoa, there, twiglet. Thought it was cool to respect the environment.”

He looked confused. Then, “You talking about the crazy old geezer and his caribou?”

I raised both brows.

“Pffff.”

“So I should lay off the caribou, but it’s cool if I dump my trash in your bed?”

I held out a palm. Binny rolled his whole head but dropped the wrapper in it.

Two women passed us on their way into the building. One was young, pushing a stroller. The other had curly white hair and clutched her purse as if bandits hid behind every bush.

“You need to watch your back, old lady.” Binny spoke quietly, face angled away from mine.

“What do you mean?”

“You got a knack for making people mad.”

“What people?”

He shrugged a bony shoulder. “I’m just sayin’.”

“Saying what? You have to make yourself clear.”

“I don’t have to make myself nothing no old hag says.”

“Are you talking about Tom Unka and his goons?”

“I ain’t saying who.”

“You know things, don’t you, Binny?”

“The street is my school. I stay low. I keep cool.” He made a downward sweeping gesture with one hand. Laughed.!!!’Ow do you do? My name’s Gavroche.

“You know anything about the Castain and Scarborough hits?”

“Assholes also made people mad.”

“Why?”

“A patch gotta have one boss.”

“And that’s Unka now.”

Binny looked at me from under his ridiculously large bill.

“Did Unka also kill Annaliese Ruben?”

The bill tilted downward. “Word is, that was outside.”

“Who, outside?”

Binny lifted one sneaker to the pedal of his bike.

“Annaliese was my friend, Binny.”

“Gotta bounce.”

And he was gone.

King was at her desk, talking on a phone that looked like it dated to the Vietnam era. She did the finger-in-the-air thing, then pointed to a chair.

I sat.

“Right. Thanks.” She cradled the receiver.

To me. “That was the ME in Edmonton. Castain and Scarborough were taken out with nine-millimeters.”

“Handguns firing jacketed bullets.”

She nodded. “Whether one or two weapons, neither was the one that killed Beck and his amigo.”

“The second vic was a guy named Eric Skipper.”

“What’s his story?”

I told her what I knew. White, male, Brampton, lots of dental work. “I need to get the X-rays to my odont ASAP.”

“No problemo. My assistant will scan and transmit them.”

“She’s working on a Sunday?”

“Let’s just say she’s keen.”

I gave her the envelope and Bergeron’s address at the LSJML. “Any word on Ruben?”

King shook her head.

“Did you talk to Snook?”

She was about to respond when the phone shrilled. She put the receiver to her ear. Listened. “What’s his name?” Cupping the mouthpiece, she spoke to me. “You know a Mr. Mind-Your-Own-Business?”

“It’s a kid named Binny.”

“Binny Twiller?”

“The young man did not share his full biographical profile.”

“Twiller’s outside and wants to talk to you.”

“Weird. I ran into him on the way in. Why does the name Twiller ring a bell for me?”

“Merilee Twiller.”

No cerebral “aha!”

“Castain’s girlfriend?”

Of course. Now it made sense.

“The kid claims word on the street puts Ruben outside the punch-up.”

“What is he, twelve?”

“Binny keeps his ear to the ground.”

“What’s he say about Castain and Scarborough?”

“Nothing.”

“Not surprising. Anyway, he won’t come in.”

“How about this? You deal with the X-rays, then phone Michelle Skipper. I’ll see what the kid has on his mind.”

Binny was doing his usual bike-straddle below a tamarack tree actually showing some green.

I walked over to him. Under the hat brim, his eyes were skittery. They landed on me a second, then moved on.

“Tell your cop friends to try Unka’s house.”

“They did. He’s not there.”

“Dig deeper.”

“Thank you, Binny.”

“You say you got anything from me, I’ll say you’re a pedophile.”

As before, he rocketed up the block, twig legs pumping the pedals like pistons.

I returned to King’s office. My envelope was gone from her desk. A few of her questions told me she was still talking to Michelle Skipper.

I dialed my iPhone.

“Ryan.”

“This may sound nuts. But remember the kid I was with on Friday?”

“Rosemary’s Baby?”

“He has access to inside information.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s Merilee Twiller’s son. And he listens. He just tipped me that Unka has gone to ground at his mother’s house.”

“Why take the risk of telling you that?”

“I’m charismatic.”

“Must be it.”

“And I gave him a muffin.”

“We checked Mama’s crib.”

“Binny said dig deeper.”

“Those were his words?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

I debated mentioning Binny’s warning that I watch my back. Decided to wait.

“Are you still at headquarters?” I asked.

“Yeah. One of Unka’s goons is going canary.”

“Why’s he talking?”

“The cops found a Sig Sauer tucked in his shorts. That violates his parole. Which means losing eight years of the beautiful life.”

“What’s he trading?”

“He says Scar owned Castain and Unka owned Scar.”

“Merilee Twiller thought Unka killed Castain for skimming.”

“Looks like she got it wrong.”

“Is your guy going to testify?”

“We’re discussing the benefits of his doing that.”

“What’s he say about Ruben?”

“Denies knowing anything about her.”

I told Ryan about Eric Skipper and about the ballistics evidence suggesting a different weapon for him and Beck versus the ones used in the Scarborough and Castain hits.

“Most gang bangers own arsenals,” Ryan said.

I noticed King hanging up, so I did the same.

She looked at her notes. “Skipper was a sessional instructor at a small university in Brampton. Had a master’s in environmental ecology or something like that. Applied all over the country but never got an offer for a full-time university position. The wife blames it on arrests dating to Skipper’s student years.”

“Arrests for what?”

“Protests. Sit-ins. Rallies. Marches. The guy was a rabid tree hugger. According to the wife, the lack of employment left him with way too much time on his hands.”

I saw where she was going. “He kept going to protests.”

“Yep.”

“One of which was here.”

“Yep. You want the full story?”

“Yep.”

“Ever hear of the Gahcho Kué project?”