"No."

"She didn't hear scratching or meowing?"

"The missus is not not a cat lover. That's why Ferris kept them at work." a cat lover. That's why Ferris kept them at work."

"She didn't notice any odor?"

"Apparently Ferris wasn't real fastidious about feline toilette. Miriam said if she'd smelled anything she'd have figured it was Kitty Litter."

"She didn't find the building overly warm?"

"Nope. But if a cat brushed the thermostat after her visit, Ferris would still have been cooking from Sunday till Tuesday."

"Did Ferris have other employees besides the secretary?"

"Nope." Ryan consulted the notes in his spiral. "Courtney Purviance. Miriam calls her a secretary. Purviance prefers the term 'a.s.sociate.'"

"Is the wife downgrading, or the help upgrading?"

"More likely the former. Appears Purviance played a pretty big role in running the business."

"Where was Purviance on Wednesday?"

"Left early. Bad sinuses."

"Why didn't Purviance find Ferris on Monday?"

"Monday was some kind of Jewish holiday. Purviance took the day off to plant trees."

"Tu B'Shvat."

"Et tu, Brute."

"The festival of trees. Was anything missing?"

"Purviance insists there's nothing in the place worth stealing. Computer's old. Radio's older. Inventory's not valuable. But she's checking."

"How long has she worked for Ferris?"

"Since ninety-eight."

"Anything suspicious in Ferris's background? Known a.s.sociates? Enemies? Gambling debts? Jilted girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

Ryan shook his head.

"Anything to suggest he was suicidal?"

"I'm digging, but so far zip. Stable marriage. Took the little woman to Boca in January. Business wasn't blazing, but it was producing a steady living. Especially since Purviance hired on, a fact she's not hesitant to mention. According to the family, there were no signs of depression, but Purviance thought he'd been unusually moody in recent weeks."

I remembered Kessler and slipped the photo from the pocket of my lab coat.

"A gift from one of the Fab Four." I held it out. "He thinks it's the reason Ferris is dead."

"Meaning?"

"He thinks it's the reason Ferris is dead."

"You can be a real pain in the a.s.s, Brennan."

"I work at it."

Ryan studied the photo.

"Which of the Fab Four?"

"Kessler."

Floating a brow, Ryan laid down the photo and flipped a page in his spiral.

"You sure?"

"That's the name he gave me."

When Ryan looked up the brow had settled.

"No one named Kessler was cleared for that autopsy."

3.

"I'M CERTAIN K KESSLER'S THE NAME HE GAVE."

"He was an authorized observer?"

"As opposed to one of the mult.i.tudes of Hasidim who haunt these halls?"

Ryan ignored my sarcasm.

"Did Kessler say that's why he was here?"

"No." For some reason Ryan's questions were irking me.

"You'd seen Kessler earlier in the autopsy room?"

"I-"

I'd been distressed over Miriam and Dora Ferris, then distracted by Pelletier's call. Kessler had gla.s.ses, a beard, and a black suit. My mind had settled for a cultural stereotype.

I wasn't irked at Ryan. I was irked at myself.

"I just a.s.sumed."

"Let's take it from the top."

I told Ryan about the incident in the downstairs corridor.

"So Kessler was in the hall when you left the family room."

"Yes."

"Did you see where he came from?"

"No."

"Where he went?"

"I thought he was going to join Dora and Miriam."

"Did you actually see him enter the family room?"

"I was speaking to Pelletier." It came out sharper than I intended.

"Don't be defensive."

"That was not defensive," I said defensively, and did a two-handed pull to unsnap my lab coat. "That was enlargement of detail."

Ryan picked up Kessler's print.

"What am I looking at?"

"A skeleton."

Ryan's eyes rolled up.

"Kessler-" I stopped. "The mysterious bearded stranger told me it came from Israel."

"The photo came from came from Israel, or was shot there?" Israel, or was shot there?"

Another screw-up on my part.

"The picture's over forty years old. It's probably meaningless."

"When someone says it caused a death, it's not meaningless."

I reddened.

Ryan flipped the photo as I had. "What's M de 1 H M de 1 H?"

"You think that's an M M?"

Ryan ignored my question.

"What was going on in October of sixty-three?" he asked, more of himself than of me.

"Oswald's thoughts were on JFK."

"Brennan, you can be a real-"

"We've established that."

Crossing to Ryan, I reversed the photo and pointed at the object to the left of the leg bones.

"See that?" I asked.

"It's a paintbrush."

"It's a c.o.c.ked-up north arrow."

"Meaning?"

"Old archaeologist's trick. If you don't have an official marker to indicate scale and direction, place something in the shot and point it north."

"You think this was taken by an archaeologist?"

"Yes."

"What site?"

"A site with burials."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

"Look, this Kessler's probably a crackpot. Find him and grill him. Or talk to Miriam Ferris." I flapped a hand at the print. "Maybe she knows why her husband was freaked over this thing." I slipped off my lab coat. "If he was was freaked over the thing." freaked over the thing."

Ryan studied the photo for a full minute. Then he looked up and said, "Did you buy the tap pants?"

My cheeks flamed. "No."

"Red satin. s.e.xy as h.e.l.l."

I narrowed my eyes in a "not here" warning look. "I'm calling it a day."

Crossing to the closet, I hung up my lab coat and emptied the pockets. Emptied my libido.