“RYAN HERE.”

“It’s Tempe.”

“How was dinner?” Subdued.

“Jake never showed.”

Slight hitch. Surprise.

“I’ll have the cad flogged.”

“Turned out for the better. I may have found something in the phone records.”

“I’m listening.”

“When did Ferris take Miriam to Boca?” I asked.

“Mid-January.” Ryan was keeping his answers short. I pictured him and Friedman folded like pretzels in a darkened car.

“Okay. Here’s the sequence as I’ve been able to piece it together. On December twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth, calls were made from the Mirabel warehouse to the Renaissance Boca Raton Hotel. That was Ferris making arrangements.”

“Okay.”

“On January fourth a call was placed to l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges. That was Ferris giving Morissonneau a heads-up on his plan to collect Max.”

“Go on.”

“On January seventh a call was made to Kaplan’s home. That was Ferris contacting his middleman. Kaplan was called again on January tenth. Then, from the sixteenth through the twenty-third, there’s a marked drop-off in outgoing calls from Mirabel.”

“Ferris was down south with Miriam.”

“Right. Two calls were made to the Boca resort. Probably Purviance with questions for the boss. But get this. On January nineteenth, Kaplan’s home number was again dialed from the warehouse.”

Ryan got it right away. “Ferris was in Florida. It couldn’t have been him. So who’s calling Kaplan?”

“Purviance?” I suggested.

“She ran the business when Ferris was gone. But why would Purviance call Kaplan? He’s not a customer or a supplier. And Ferris’s dealings with Kaplan weren’t exactly kosher. Purviance wouldn’t have been tuned into those transactions.” Pause. “Could Purviance have been responding to a message?”

“I thought of that. The warehouse records show no incoming calls from Kaplan’s home or shop.”

“So someone phoned Kaplan’s home from Ferris’s warehouse while Ferris was in Florida. But Kaplan hadn’t phoned the warehouse, either from his home or his shop, making it unlikely that Purviance was calling Kaplan in response to a message he’d left for Ferris. So who the hell made the call? And why?”

“Someone else with access? A family member?”

“Again, why?”

“Astute questions, Detective.”

“Sonovabitch.”

“Sonovabitch. Any word from Birch?”

I heard rustling, imagined Ryan seeking a more comfortable position.

“Purviance is still missing.”

“That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“If the lady overheard or saw something, the perp might have clipped her to keep her from talking.”

“Jesus.”

“But ballistics caught a break on the Jericho nine-mil that killed Ferris. Piece was reported stolen by a seventy-four-year-old plumber named Ozols. Car break-in in Saint-Léonard.”

“When?”

“January twenty-second, less than three weeks before Ferris was shot. Birch is thinking street thugs. Score a gun, hit a warehouse, things go south, Ferris gets popped.”

Something stirred in my unconscious.

“According to Purviance, nothing of value was taken,” I said, distracted by the heads-up from my hindbrain.

“Mopes may have panicked and split.”

“The gun theft could also suggest pre-planning. Someone wanted a hit and needed a firearm. Also, Ferris took two bullets to the back of the head. That suggests a professional job, not a panic shooting.”

“Miriam was in Florida.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “She was.”

I heard a voice in the background.

“Kaplan’s on the move,” Ryan said, then disconnected.

No longer sleepy, I went back to the call records. This time, I began with the dump on Kaplan’s home phone. The January and February lists were short.

Almost immediately, I got another shocker.

February first. Nine seventy-two. The international exchange for Israel. Zero-two. The area code for Jerusalem and Hebron. I knew the number.

The Rockefeller. And not the main switchboard this time.

Kaplan had dialed the office of Tovya Blotnik. The call had lasted twenty-three minutes.

Blotnik had been in the loop for at least ten days when Ferris died.

Had I seen Blotnik’s number elsewhere? Was that the whisper I’d felt from my id?

I went back and checked Ferris’s warehouse record for February.

Bingo. Ferris had called the switchboard of the Rockefeller on January eighth. One month later he’d called Blotnik’s direct line.

Was that the signal my hindbrain had been sending? Somehow, the itch didn’t feel scratched.

Then what?

Think.

It was like a mirage. The more I focused, the faster the allusion dissolved.

The hell with it.

I started to dial Ryan, stopped. He and Friedman were busy tailing Kaplan. A ringing phone could blow their cover. Or the phone would be off.

I tried Jake.

Still no answer.

Frustrated, I slammed the receiver.

Eleven-ten. Where the hell was he?

I tried returning to the records. My mind wouldn’t focus.

I got up and paced the room, eyes wandering the desk, the window, the images woven into the rug. What story did those images tell?

What story would Max tell if he could speak?

Blotnik and Kaplan talked. Why? Had Kaplan called the IAA to squirrel out whatever he could on the skeleton? No, that would be for Ferris. Kaplan was only the middleman. Was Blotnik a potential buyer?

Was Jake unwell? Could he be lying unconscious on his bedroom floor?

Was he angry? Had he resented my comments about Blotnik more than he’d let on?

Was Jake correct in his assessment of Blotnik?

A terrible thought.

Was Blotnik more than ambitious? Was he dangerous?

I tried Jake again. Got the answering machine again.

“Bloody hell!”

Throwing on jeans and a Windbreaker, I grabbed Friedman’s keys and hurried down the stairs.

Not a single window in Jake’s flat was lit. The fog had thickened, all but obliterating the surrounding homes.

Terrific.

Leaving the car, I hurried across the street, wondering how I would gain entrance to Jake’s property. Above the wall I could see treetops, their branches fuzzy claws against the night sky.

I needn’t have worried. The gate was unlatched and slightly ajar.

Lucky break? Bad sign?

I pushed through.

In the yard, a single bulb threw a sickly yellow cone onto the goat pen. As I passed, I heard movement. Glancing sideways, I saw murky horned cutouts.

“Baaa,” I whispered.

No response.

Animal odors joined the damp city smells. Feces. Sweat. Rotting lettuce and apple cores.

Jake’s stairway was a thin black tunnel. Shadows linked to shadows, forming a rosary of shapes. The climb took an eternity. I kept looking backward.

At the door, I knocked softly.

“Jake?”

Why was I whispering?

“Jake,” I called out, banging with the heel of my palm.

Three tries, no answer.

I turned the knob. The door swung in.

A tickle of fear.

First the gate, now the door. Would Jake have left the place unsecured?

Never, if he’d gone out. But did he lock up when at home? I couldn’t recall.

I hesitated.

If Jake was home, why didn’t he answer? Why hadn’t he phoned me?

Images began free-falling in my head. Jake lying on the floor. Jake unconscious in bed.

Something touched my leg.

I jumped, and a hand flew to my mouth. Heart thudding, I looked down.

One of the toms stared up, eyes shiny globes in the dimness.

Before I could react, the door swung inward. Hinges creaked softly, and the cat was gone.

I peered through the gap. Across the room, I could see objects tossed beside the computer. Even in the dark, I knew what they were. Jake’s sunglasses. Jake’s wallet. Jake’s passport.

And what they meant.

I pushed through the door. “Jake?”

I groped for a light switch, found none.

“Jake, are you here?”

Feeling my way through the darkness, I rounded the corner into the front room. I was searching the wall, when something crashed to my left.

As adrenaline fired through me, my fingers found the switch. Trembling, I flipped it, and the room filled with light.

The cat was on the kitchen counter, legs flexed, muscles tensed for flight. A vase lay shattered on the tile, rusty water oozing outward like blood from a corpse.

The cat dropped and sniffed the puddle.

“Jake!”

The cat’s head jerked up, then it froze, one paw raised and curled. Eyeing me, it gave one tentative mrrrp.

“Where the hell’s Jake?” I asked.

The cat clammed up like a cheat at a tax audit.

“Jake!”

Alarmed, the cat shot past me and exited the way it had entered.

Jake wasn’t in his bedroom. Nor was he in the workroom.

My mind logged details as I flew through the flat.

Mug in the sink. Aspirin on the counter. Photos and reports cleared from the table. Otherwise, the place looked as it had when I left.

Had Jake taken the bones to Ruth Anne Bloom?

Hurrying to the back porch, I fumbled for a wall switch. When I found one and flipped it, nothing happened.

Frustrated, I returned to the kitchen and dug through drawers until I located a flashlight. Clicking it on, I returned to the porch.

The cabinet was at the far end. Where its doors met, I could see a black strip shooting from top to bottom. My heart clenched in my chest.

Gripping the flash over one shoulder, I crept forward. I smelled glue, and dust, and the mud of millennia. Outside my beam, shadows overlapped and forged odd shapes.

Six feet from the cabinet, I froze.

The padlock was gone, and one door hung askew. Bones or no bones, Jake would have secured the lock.

And the front gate.

I whipped around.

Blackness.

I could hear my own breath rising and falling in my mouth.

In two strides I closed the gap and illuminated the cabinet’s interior. Shelf by shelf, I checked, dust twirling and revolving in the hard, white shaft.

The reconstructed ossuaries were there.

The fragments were there.

The shroud bones were gone.