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so it’s hard to choose.”
    “Give me some ‘for instances.’”
    “Rodent scavenging, with subsequent erosion of the surrounding bone surfaces. Or maybe the feet lay in contact with something caustic. Or rapidly running water.”
    “Doesn’t explain the big holes.”
    “Destruction of the toe bones accompanied by enlargement of the nutrient foramina could result from frostbite. Or rheumatoid arthritis. But that’s unlikely, since the joints aren’t affected.”
    “Maybe she just has really big holes.”
    “That’s possible. But it’s not just her feet.”
    I placed Lisa’s oddball metacarpal under the scope. “This is a finger bone.”
    Ryan regarded the pockmarked surface in silence.
    I switched the metacarpal for one of the two surviving hand phalanges. “So is this.”
    “That hole looks large enough to accommodate the Red Line metro.”
    “Foramina show a range of variation in size. As you say, it could be that huge was normal for her.” Even to me, I didn’t sound convinced.
    “What about the rest of the skeleton?” Ryan asked.
    “I haven’t gotten past the hands and feet. And there isn’t much left.”
    “Preliminary diagnosis?”
    “Increased blood flow to the extremities. Maybe. Deformity of the toe bones. Maybe. Cortical destruction on a metacarpal.” My hands floated up in frustration. “Localized infection? Systemic disease process? Postmortem destruction, either purposeful or natural? A combination of the above?” The hands dropped to my lap. “I don’t have a diagnosis.”
    Though far from high-tech, my lab is adequate. In addition to the worktables, boiler, and sprightly new scope, it is equipped with the usual: overhead fluorescents, tile floor, sink, fume hood, emergency eye wash station, photo stand, light boxes, glass-fronted cabinets. The small window above the sink overlooks the corridor. The big one behind my desk provides a view of the city.
    Ryan’s eyes floated to the latter. Mine followed. Two ghost images played on the glass. A tall man and a slim woman, faces obscure, superimposed translucent over the St. Lawrence and the Jacques-Cartier Bridge.
    A strained silence crammed the lab, a void begging to be filled. I acquiesced.
    “But this skeleton looks pretty old.”
    “LaManche isn’t going to pull out the stops.”
    “No.” I switched off the scope light. “Would you like to talk about these cases you’re working?”
    Ryan hesitated so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.
    “Coffee?”
    “Sure.” It was the last thing I needed. My fourth cup sat cold on my desk.
     
     
    Habitat 67 is a modern pueblo of stacked concrete boxes. Built as a housing experiment for Expo 67, the complex has always engendered strong feelings. That’s an understatement. Montrealers either love it or hate it. No one’s neutral.
    Habitat 67 is located across the St. Lawrence from the Vieux-Port. Since Ryan lives there and my condo is in centre-ville, we decided on a coffee shop halfway between.
    Ryan and I both had cars, so we drove separately to Old Montreal. June is peak season, and, as expected, traffic was snarled, sidewalks were clogged, and curbs were bumper to bumper.
    As instructed by Ryan, I nosed my Mazda into a driveway blocked by an orange rubber cone. A hand-painted sign said
Plein
. Full.
    A man in sandals, shorts, and a Red Green T-shirt came forward. I gave him my name. The man lifted the cone and waved me in. Cop privilege.
    Walking downhill through Place Jacques-Cartier, I passed old stone buildings now housing souvenir shops, restaurants, and bars. Tourists and locals filled the outdoor terraces and wandered the square. A stilt-walking busker juggled balls and told jokes. Another played spoons and sang.
    Turning onto cobbled Rue Saint-Paul, I smelled fish and oil wafting off the river. Though I couldn’t see it, I knew Ryan’s home was on the far shore. My view? Habitat 67 resembles a huge cubist sculpture, like the cross on Mont Royal, better appreciated