EMMA TOSSED HER MOBILE ONTO THE COUNTER, CLOSED HER eyes, and went still. I watched, knowing she was trying to quell the pounding in her head.

I've traveled the migraine trail. I'm familiar with the pain. I knew, even for Emma, sheer willpower wouldn't prevail. Nothing pacifies dilating cranial vessels but time and sleep. And drugs.

I refocused on my measurements. Best to finish estimating stature so Emma could go home and crash. If she wanted to discuss the phone call, she would.

I heard the door open, click shut.

I'd moved from the osteometric board to my laptop when the door opened again. Footsteps crossed the tile as I entered the last figure and asked the program to calculate.

"I went over the clothes." Emma was at my shoulder. "No belt, no shoes, no jewelry or personal effects. Nothing in the pockets. Fabric's rotten and the labels are barely legible, but I think the pants were a thirty-eight long. Assuming they're his, the guy wasn't short."

"Five-ten to six-one." I shifted to allow her a better view of the screen.

Emma eyeballed the height estimate, then stepped to the table. Reaching out, she stroked the skull.

"Who are you, tall white man in your forties?" Emma's voice was soft, as intimate as the caress. "We need a name, big guy."

The moment was so personal, I felt like a voyeur.

But I knew what Emma meant.

Thanks to some less than meticulously researched TV crime shows, the public now views DNA as the shining Excalibur of modern justice. Hollywood has spawned the myth that the double helix solves all riddles, unlocks all doors, rights all wrongs. Got bones? No problem. Extract and let the little molecule do its magic.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way in the nameless-body business. A Jane or John Doe exists in a vacuum, stripped of everything that links it to life. Anonymity means no family, no dentist, no home to search for a toothbrush or chewing gum.

No name.

With our profile, Emma could now send CCC-2006020277 into the system, looking for missing persons matches. If the matches produced a manageable number of names, she could request medical and dental records, and contact relatives for DNA comparison samples.

Rolling the edge of a glove, I checked my watch. Four forty-five.

"We've been at this eight hours," I said. "Here's a plan. We reconvene Monday. You order full-body X-rays. I view the films and scope the bones while your dentist charts the teeth. Then you shoot the whole enchilada through NCIC."

Emma turned. The fluorescents made her face look like autopsy flesh.

"I'm perky as a hellcat," she said dully.

"What's a hellcat?" I asked.

"Not sure."

"You're going home."

She didn't argue.

Outside, the afternoon felt heavy and damp. Rush hour was in full swing, and exhaust rode the salt-air cocktail coming off the harbor. Though it was May, the city already smelled like summer.

Emma and I walked side by side down the ramp. Before parting, she hesitated, then opened her lips to speak. I thought she was going to explain the phone call. Instead, she wished me a pleasant weekend, and trudged off down the sidewalk.

The car was an oven. Lowering the windows, I popped in a Sam Fisher CD. People Living. Melancholy. Volatile. A perfect fit for my mood.

Crossing the Cooper River, I could see thunderheads elbowing for position on the eastern horizon. A storm was gathering. I decided on a quick stop at Simmons's Seafood, then dinner chez moi.

The store was deserted. Steel cases offered the remains of the day's catch on crushed ice.

Every cell in my hypothalamus sat up at the sight of the swordfish.

So did the conscience guys. Overfishing! Population decline! Noncompliance!

Fine. Wasn't swordfish supposed to be mercury-laden, anyway?

I looked at the mahimahi.

No protest from the bully pulpit in my forebrain.

As usual, I dined al fresco, watching nature perform a light show in three acts. I imagined the playbill.

Scene I, sunlight dissolves and night slowly edges out day. Scene II, veined lightning sparks a fandango in black-green clouds. Scene III, fade to gray as rain pounds the dunes and wind thrashes the palms.

I slept like a baby.

And awoke to sun lighting the blinds. And banging.

I sat up, trying to pinpoint the noise. Had one of the hurricane shutters torn loose in the storm? Was someone in the house?

I looked at the clock. Eight forty.

Slipping on a robe, I tiptoed to the stairs, descended three treads, and crouched so I could see the front door. A head and shoulders were silhouetted in the frosted oval window.

As I watched, the head pressed its nose to the glass, then drew back. The banging resumed.

Eschewing theatrics, I reverse-tiptoed up the stairs, padded to a front bedroom, brushed the curtain aside, and looked down onto the driveway. Sure enough, Pete's latest road toy was nosed up to my Mazda.

Returning to the bedroom, I yanked on yesterday's outfit and hurried downstairs.

As I approached the door, the banging gave way to scratching.

I flipped the dead bolt. The scratching grew frenzied.

I turned the knob.

The door flew in. Boyd went upright and landed two paws on my chest. As I struggled for balance, the chow dropped and raced circles around my ankles, tangling us both in his leash.

Unnerved by the commotion, Birdie shot from Pete's chest. Paws spread and ears aerodynamically flat, the cat cleared the foyer and streaked toward the back of the house.

Confused, or just wildly happy to be out of the car, Boyd took chase, leash fishtailing behind as he skidded through the foyer, the dining room, then the kitchen doors.

"Good morning, Charleston!" Pete crushed me with a hug as he did his Robin Williams imitation.

I did a two-palm chest push. "Jesus, Pete, how early did you leave Charlotte?"

"Time waits for no man, sugar britches."

"Don't call me that."

"Butter bean."

Something crashed somewhere out of sight.

"Close the door." I headed for the kitchen.

Pete followed.

Boyd was investigating the contents of a shattered cookie jar. Bird was watching from the safety of the refrigerator top.

"That's the first item you're buying for Anne," I said.

"It's on the list."

Boyd looked up, snout speckled with crumbs, then went back to licking broken Lorna Doones.

"You couldn't find a kennel?" I asked, filling a water bowl.

"Boyd loves the beach," Pete said.

"Boyd would love the Gulag if they fed him."

I set the bowl on the floor. Boyd began lapping, tongue darting like a long, purple eel.

While I made breakfast, Pete unloaded his car. Cat pan and litter, canine and feline chow, eleven supermarket sacks, a large briefcase, one garment bag, and one small duffel.

Typical Pete. Big league on cuisine, bush league on wardrobe.

With a neck two sizes too large for his torso, my estranged husband can never find shirts to fit. No worries. Pete's three-tiered fashion system hadn't changed since I met him in the seventies. Shorts or jeans when possible; sport jacket when styling; suit and tie when going to court.

Today Pete wore an argyle Rosasen golf shirt, knee-length khakis, loafers, no socks.

"Think you bought enough groceries?" I asked, extracting a carton of eggs from a bag.

"So much food. So little time."

"You're doing your best."

"I am." Big Janis "Pete" Petersons grin. "I figured you might not be expecting me for breakfast."

I'd been expecting him in the evening.

"Almost kept motoring when I saw the other car." Big Janis "Pete" Petersons wink.

I stopped cracking eggs and turned. "What other car?"

"Parked out front. Pulled away, so I came on in."

"What kind of car?"

Pete shrugged. "Dark. Large. Four-door. Where do you want the Birdster?"

I flapped an arm toward the utility room. Pete disappeared with the cat pan.

Puzzled, I started scrambling the eggs. Who would have been here so early on a Sunday morning?

"Probably some tourist looking for his beach house." Pete was back and ladling ground coffee. "A lot of places rent Sunday to Sunday."

"But check-in is never before noon." I removed bread from the toaster, put two more in.

"OK. Someone leaving. Stopped to program his OnStar before motoring to Toledo."

I handed Pete mats and utensils. He distributed them, then settled at the table.

Boyd walked over and laid his chin on Pete's knee. Pete reached down and scratched the chow's ear.

"So the field school's history. Planning to hit the beach today?"

I told him about the Dewees skeleton.

"No shit."

I filled coffee mugs, handed Pete a plate, and took the chair opposite his. Boyd switched from Pete's knee to mine.

"White male in his forties. No signs of foul play."

"Except that the guy was in a clandestine grave."

"Except for that. You remember Emma Rousseau?"

Pete's chewing slowed. He raised a fork. "Long brown hair. Tits that could—"

"She's the Charleston County coroner. A dentist is going to chart the unknown's teeth on Monday, then Emma will send the descriptors through NCIC."

Boyd snorted, chin-tapped my knee to let me know he was still there. And interested in eggs.

"How long are you staying down here?" Pete asked.

"As long as it takes to help Emma out with these bones. The local forensic anthropologist is away. Tell me about this Herron thing."

"Client came in Wednesday. Patrick Bertolds Flynn. Friends call him Buck."

Pete finished his eggs.

"Tight-assed little wanker. I offer coffee, Flynn tells me he doesn't use stimulants. Acts as though I've suggested we snort a few lines."

Pete pushed his plate away. Hearing the scrape, Boyd recircled the table. Pete gave the chow a triangle of toast.

"Posture to make a drill sergeant proud, though. Good eye contact."

"Impressive character analysis. Is Flynn an old client?"

Pete shook his head. "Wasn't before now. Flynn's mother is Latvian. Dagnija Kalnins. He picked me because I'm one of the tribe."

"What did he want?"

"Took forever to get to the point. Went on and on about the Bible and the less fortunate and Christian responsibility. I actually started making hash marks on my tablet every time I heard the word 'obligation' or 'duty.' Gave up when I hit a million."

There seemed nowhere to go with that, so I said nothing. Pete took my silence as reproach.

"Flynn thought I was taking notes. More coffee?"

I nodded. Pete refilled our mugs, sat down, and tipped back his chair.

"To make the story short, Flynn and a gaggle of Biblemates have been funding Herron and his God's Mercy Church. Lately, the money boys have grown disenchanted over what they view to be lack of financial reporting."

Paws thupped the counter, then the floor. Moving fast, Birdie slithered from the room. Boyd's gaze never left Pete's plate.

"Also, Flynn's daughter hooked up with Herron a little over three years ago. Helene, that's her name, bounced around working at one or another of the poverty clinics the reverend bankrolls. According to Flynn, at first she called regularly to tell him what a bad-ass job GMC was doing for the poor, and how fulfilling it was to be helping in the effort."

Pete blew across his coffee, then sipped.

"Then contact grew infrequent. When Helene did call, she was always frustrated, complained that the clinic she was at never had enough supplies, maintenance sucked, patients were getting shortchanged. She thought GMC might be cooking the books. Or the doctor who ran the place might be skimming off the top."

More coffee.

"Flynn admitted that he was unsympathetic, thought Helene was on another of her defender-of-the-poor crusades. Apparently she took that posture frequently. Besides, Flynn wanted the kid to get on a more traditional career path. As a result, things became less than warm and fuzzy between Helene and the old man. But then, Buck's not a warm and fuzzy guy."

"So now Flynn and his pals want an accounting of how their money's been spent. Why the change of heart?"

"For whatever reason, communication breakdown, too busy recruiting lost souls, GMC dragged their collective feet in responding to Flynn's initial inquiry."

"And Flynn doesn't take kindly to being ignored."

"Bingo. So the money is my primary mission. But there's a sideline. Helene's dropped out of sight, and Herron has made no effort to provide Flynn with any explanation of that, either. I think Flynn's interest in Herron may grow partly out of arrogance and wounded pride, partly out of guilt."

"How long has Helene been missing?"

"Flynn hasn't heard from his daughter in over six months."

"What about Mrs. Flynn?"

"Died years ago. And there are no siblings."

"Flynn's just now starting to search for Helene?"

"Their last conversation ended in a fight. Helene said she never wanted him to call her again, so he discontinued attempts at contact. The only reason he's bringing up the Helene issue now is that he's decided to launch a financial investigation and apparently feels I could learn more about Helene's departure at the same time. Or so he says."

I raised my brows in surprise.

"Flynn's a very rigid guy."

"He asked Herron about Helene?"

"Yes. But getting to see the rev is like getting an audience with the pope. Herron's people told Flynn that before Helene left she'd mentioned to some of the GMC staff that she had inquired about a position with a free clinic in Los Angeles. Said it was a larger operation."

"That's it?"

"Flynn managed to harangue the cops into checking with the kid's landlord. She said Helene had mailed her a note stating she was moving on. The envelope contained the key and the last rent owed. Helene had left some things, but nothing of value. Place was just a tiny studio, utilities included."

"What about bank accounts? Credit cards? Cell phone records?"

"Helene didn't believe in worldly possessions."

"Maybe there's nothing more to it. Maybe Helene split for the other coast and hasn't reported in."

"Maybe."

I thought a moment. The whole tale didn't seem to hang true.

"If Flynn was such a big donor, wouldn't Herron have met with him personally?"

"Million and a half smackers big enough? I agree with you. Herron should be falling all over himself helping to locate Helene. Something's weird, and Flynn should have been on top of this before now. But my main job is the money."

Pete drained his cup, then set it on the table.

"In the words of that great humanitarian Jerry McGuire, 'Show me the money.'"