"The first one."

"Hold on."

In seconds she was back.

"What do you need?"

"There's a chapter on population differences in the calcaneus. Flip to that."

"Got it."

"What's the percentage of correct classification when comparing Mongoloid, black, and white foot bones?"

There was a long pause. I could picture her scanning the text, forehead creasing, glasses creeping down her nose.

"Just below eighty percent."

"Not great."

"But wait." Another pause. "That's because the whites and blacks don't separate well. The Mongoloids could be distinguished with eighty-three to ninety-nine percent accuracy. That's not too bad."

"O.K. Give me the list of measurements."

I had a sinking feeling as I wrote them down.

"Now see if there's a table that gives the unstandardized canonical discriminant function coefficients for American Indians, blacks, and whites." I would need these figures for comparison to coefficients I would derive from the unknown foot.

Pause.

"Table Four."

"Will you fax that chapter to me?"

"Sure."

I gave her Primrose Hobbs's name and the fax number at the incident morgue in Bryson City. Hanging up, I dug out the notes I'd taken on case number 397.

When I punched another number and asked for Primrose Hobbs a voice told me she was not there, but asked if I would like her number at the Riverbank Inn.

Primrose also answered on the first ring. This was my lucky day.

"Hey, sweetie pie, how you doin'?"

"I'm good, Primrose."

"Don't you let these slanders get you down. God will do what God will do, and he knows it's all bunk."

"I'm not."

"One day we're going to sit down, play us some more bid whit, and laugh at all this."

"I know."

"Though I must say, for a smart woman, Tempe Brennan, you are the sorriest bid whit player I've ever sat a table with." She laughed her deep, throaty laugh.

"I'm not very good at card games."

"You sure got that right."

Again the laugh.

"Primrose, I need a favor."

"Just ask, sugar."

I gave a condensed version of the history of the foot, and Primrose agreed to go to the morgue early Sunday morning. She would read the fax, call me, and I would walk her through the missing measurements. She commented again on the charges against me, and suggested anatomical locations in which Larke Tyrell could store them.

I thanked her for her loyalty and disconnected.

Ryan chose Injun Joe's Chili Joint for dinner. I chose The Misty Mountain Cafe, featuring nouvelle cuisine and spectacular views of Balsam Mountain and Maggie Valley. When reasonable discussion failed to resolve the impasse, we flipped a coin.

The Misty Mountain looked more like a ski lodge than a cafe, built of logs, with high ceilings, fireplaces, and lots of glass. Upon our arrival we were informed that a table would be available in ninety minutes, but wine could be served on the patio immediately.

Joe seated us without delay. Even when I win, I lose.

One look told me le joint le joint catered to a different market than catered to a different market than le cafe. le cafe. A half dozen TVs broadcast a college football game, and men in dozer caps lined the bar. Couples and groups occupied tables and booths, denimed and booted, most looking like a haircut or shave had not played a part in their recent past. Mixed into the crowd were tourists in brightly colored windbreakers, and a few faces I recognized from the investigation. A half dozen TVs broadcast a college football game, and men in dozer caps lined the bar. Couples and groups occupied tables and booths, denimed and booted, most looking like a haircut or shave had not played a part in their recent past. Mixed into the crowd were tourists in brightly colored windbreakers, and a few faces I recognized from the investigation.

Two men worked the bar, pulling taps, scooping ice, and pouring liquor from bottles in front of a dingy mirror. Each had pasty skin and lank brown hair tied in a ponytail and secured with a bandanna.

Neither looked Injun, and neither shopped at Armani. One wore a T-shirt plugging Johnson's Brown Ale, the other a group called Bitchin' Tits.

On a platform in back, across from a pool table and pinball machines, members of a band adjusted equipment, directed by a woman in black leather pants and Cruella makeup. Every few seconds we'd hear the amplified tap of her finger, then a count from one to four. Her sound tests barely overrode the TV play-by-play and the clicks and dings of the pinball machines.

Nevertheless, the band looked like it had enough acoustic power to reach Buenos Aires. I suggested we order.

Ryan scanned the room and made a hand gesture. A woman, maybe forty or so, with overmoussed hair and an out-of-season tan, appeared at our table. A plastic badge gave her name as Tammi. With an i. i.

"Whatillitbe?" Tammi poised pencil over pad.

"May I have a menu?" I asked.

Tammi sighed, retrieved two menus from the bar, and slapped them on the table. Then she looked at me with forbidding patience.

Click. Click. Click. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

My decision did not take long. Injun Joe offered nine types of chili, four burgers, a hot dog, and mountain meat loaf.

I requested the Climbingbear Burger and a Diet Coke.

"I've heard you make killer chili here." Ryan showed Tammi a lot of teeth.

"Best in the west." Tammi showed Ryan even more.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

"It must be hard to wait on so many people at the same time. I don't know how you do it."

"Personal charm." Tammi tilted her chin and threw out one hip.

"How's the Walkingstick Chili?"

"Hot. Like me."

I fought a gag impulse.

"I'll go for it. And a bottle of Carolina Pale."

"Coming atcha, cowboy."

Click. Click. Click. Click. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

I waited until Tammi was out of earshot, which, given the din, was about two steps.

"Nice choice."

"One should mingle with the locals."

"You were pretty critical of the locals this morning."

"One must keep a finger on the pulse of the common man."

"And woman." Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Cowboy." "Cowboy."

Tammi returned with a beer, a Diet Coke, and a million miles of teeth. I smiled her back to the kitchen.

"Anything new since this morning?" I asked when she'd gone.

"Seems Haskell Simington may not be such a hot pick. Turns out he's worth zillions, so a two mill policy on his wife isn't that unusual. Besides being worth megabucks, the guy named their kids as beneficiaries."

"That's it?"

Ryan waited out another sound check.

"The structures group reported that three quarters of the plane has been trucked down the mountain. They're reassembling in a hangar near Asheville."

Tap. Tap. Tap. One. Screeeeeeech. Two. Three. Four.

Ryan's eyes drifted to a TV behind my head.

"That's it?"

"That's it. Why the orange paw prints?"

"It's a Clemson home game."

He looked a question at me.

"Never mind."

Tammi was back after three downs.

"I gave you extra cheese," she purred, bending low to give Ryan a spectacular view of cleavage.

"I love cheese." Ryan gave her another blinding smile, and Tammi held position.

Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

I glared at Tammi's breasts, and she removed them from my line of vision.

"Will that be all?"

"Ketchup." I picked up a French fry.

"Any talk about my visit to headquarters this morning?"

When I lifted my burger a cheese umbilicus clung to the plate.

"Special Agent McMahon said you looked good in jeans."

"I didn't see McMahon there." The bun was raining soggy clumps onto the cheese connector.

"He saw you. you. At least from the back." At least from the back."

"What's the FBI position on my dismissal?"

"I can't speak for the entire Bureau, but I know McMahon isn't fond of your state's second in command."

"I don't know for certain that Davenport is behind the complaint."

"Whether he is or not, McMahon has no time for him. He called Davenport a brainless buttwipe." Ryan spooned chili into his mouth, followed it with beer. "We Irish are poets at heart."

"That brainless buttwipe can probably have you invited back to Canada."