Boyd's ears shot forward. His nose never left the table edge.

"A lot of Cruikshank's recent files contained nothing but clippings on missing persons. I made a spreadsheet and started looking for patterns. What are these things?" I pointed to small black globs on my pizza.

"Dried currants. And?"

"Since 2002, Cruikshank opened jackets on two women and four men reported missing in the Charleston area. No checks or reports. He also had a couple that held nothing but notes."

"So he wasn't actually hired to look for those people."

"That's my take."

Pete gave the idea some thought. "Could the Dewees guy be one of Cruikshank's MPs?"

"He's not really a match for any of them."

"Who are they?"

"One male is black, three are white. Their ages range from twenty-seven to fifty-eight. One guy works in the sex trade. Two are drug users. One is schizophrenic. The women are black, twenty-eight and thirty-nine. Both are prostitutes and drug users."

"Think it could be some kind of serial killer, maybe a predator grabbing hookers and druggies? Fringe people no one will miss?"

"I don't know the exact date Aikman went missing. Or the Dewees man. But eight months elapsed between the disappearances of Ethridge and Moon, another eight between Moon and Watley. Then it's nine months until Poe. Two months later, it's Snype. If it's a serial, the progression is atypical."

"Aren't serial killers typically atypical?" Pete helped himself to more pizza.

"These profiles are all over the map. Men, women. Black, white. Ages range from twenty-seven to fifty-eight."

"Not restricted to teenage street boys? Or coeds with long, center-parted hair?"

"You're a profiler now?" Acknowledging Pete's references to victim types preferred by John Gacy and Ted Bundy.

"A mere savant. And bearer of pizza."

"Whose idea was the currants?" I asked.

"Arturo's."

For a few moments we listened to waves pound the shore. I broke the silence.

"The article on Lonnie Aikman was written by Homer Winborne. It appeared in the Moultrie News Moultrie News on March fourteenth. So we know Cruikshank was alive then." on March fourteenth. So we know Cruikshank was alive then."

"Winborne's the guy who showed up at your site?"

I nodded.

"Did you call him?"

"I will."

"Any word from Monsieur-"

"No." I took another slice, plucked currants, and set them on my plate.

"A bit gastronomically rigid," Pete said.

"Currants and anchovies don't really mix. Tell me what happened with Herron."

"I never actually met Herron."

Pete described his day with the GMC accountants. He wasn't exaggerating. It sounded deadly. I remembered what Gullet had told me.

"Someone in the sheriff's office ID'd that brick building in the pictures on Cruikshank's disc."

"Oh, yeah?" Garbled by pizza.

"It's a free clinic run by GMC."

"Where?"

"Nassau Street."

Pete's jaw froze, then he swallowed. "That's where Helene Flynn worked. At least at one point."

"That was my guess. So it makes sense Cruikshank would stake the place out."

Pete wiped his mouth, balled his napkin, and tossed it onto his plate. "Is Gullet going to follow up?"

"Neither Dewees nor Cruikshank is topping the sheriff's agenda. I showed him the two fractured vertebrae, but he's still not convinced either man was murdered."

"Maybe I should-"

"Gullet definitely does not want you making contact with anyone at that clinic. He was very clear on that."

"What could it hurt-"

"No."

"Why not?" Pete's voice had an edge. I knew that edge. My estranged husband was not a man who liked to be blocked.

"Please, Pete. Don't jam me up with Gullet. He's already letting you and me go where we have no business going. We've got Cruikshank's files and computer. We have a lot to lose. I don't want to risk it. I have to help Emma clear these cases."

"You've done what you can. Emma's the coroner here. Gullet's her battle."

My gaze drifted into the darkness outside the screen. The surf was a silvery white line beyond the lumpy black cutouts I knew were dunes.

I made a decision.

"Emma's sick."

"How sick?"

I told him about the non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, and about Emma's recent relapse.

"I'm sorry, Tempe."

Pete placed his hand on mine. We sat without talking. Outside, the ocean sounded a thundering ovation.

My thoughts were on Emma. Pete's? Good question. I hadn't a clue what he was pondering. Helene Flynn? GMC cash flow? Cruikshank's code? Dessert?

Puzzled by the quiet, Boyd nudged my knee. I patted his head and got up to clear pizza debris. A change of topic seemed indicated.

"I found an eyelash when I screened the Dewees grave soil. It's black. The hair in the grave was blond."

"Aren't everyone's eyelashes black?"

"Not without mascara."

"Think it's from whoever buried the guy?"

"The students who dug him up both have light hair."

"Locard's exchange principle." Pete beamed a "savant" smile.

"I'm impressed," I said.

Pete had cited a concept well-known to criminalists. Locard stated that two objects coming into contact will each transfer particles, one to the other. A crook in a bank. A sniper on a tree branch. A murderer digging in sand. Every perp carries trace evidence from a scene and leaves some behind.

"You going to call this guy Winborne?" Pete asked.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten.

"Eventually. I may play around with Cruikshank's files a little longer."

"Why did the accountant cross the road?"

Pete was on an accountant roll. I just looked at him.

"Because the file said that's what they did last year."

I'd barely hit the couch when my eyes fell on Pete's cap. My restless subconscious whispered again. Yo! Yo!

What? NBA? Hornets? Turquoise?

Teal!

Jimmie Ray Teal.

When had I read that article? The last morning of the field school. Less than a week.

Pete was moving through the house, battening, I assumed.

I called out. "What day is garbage pickup?"

"Hell if I know. Why?"

I'd taken a load of papers to the front-yard Dumpster the previous Monday.

"Why?" Pete repeated himself.

I grabbed a flashlight and bolted out the front door and down the steps. Wind was now seriously whipping the palmettos. I could smell rain. The storm wasn't far off.

Flipping the Dumpster lid, I heaved out a blue plastic newspaper recycling tub.

I started at the bottom, hauling out papers, checking dates with my beam, holding the rejects down with one foot. Halfway through, I became aware of a car moving up Ocean Boulevard. I continued working through the stack.

The headlights drew closer.

Bingo! May 19. Front section. Gusts rippled the pages in my hands.

The car slowed. I ignored it.

I found last Friday's business review, classified ads, local and state news.

The car stopped opposite "Sea for Miles," twin beams angled toward the Dumpster.

I looked up, but could make out only the lights.

Ryan? I felt a flutter in my chest.

The car did not move on or turn into the drive.

I shielded my eyes.

The driver gunned the engine. Tires spit loose dirt and the car shot forward.

Something flew toward me.

Dropping the paper, I threw up my hands.

18.