A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Birdie was on an end table, a pale, fuzzy cutout in the shimmery gloom. His nose was raised, his nostrils testing the out-of-place scents of flowers, grass, and soot. On sensing my presence, he focused round questioning eyes on me.

  I had no answer for him. A missile hurled through the window? By accident? On purpose? No foreign object lay embedded in the aurora borealis display.

  A break-in?

  Was the burglar still in the house?

  I tried to calm myself to think.

  Phone Slidell! The old gaggle of wary neurons urged.

  Yes.

  Of course, I got voice mail. Left a message.

  911?

  Not yet.

  Why not?

  I stood, breath frozen, listening for movement upstairs. Heard footsteps. Rustling. A soft sssshh.

  No pistol being cocked. No semiautomatic slide being ratcheted back. That was good.

  Ignoring the alarmist neurons, I gathered Birdie and locked him in the pantry. Then I grabbed a hammer, retraced my steps, and stole up the stairs. With each tread, the smoky stench grew stronger.

  Halfway up, I paused. Was I actually hearing movement? Or were the sounds a new fantasy born of my paranoia? Of my unbearable grief over Boyd?

  At the top, my anxiety went suborbital. The thuds and swishes were real and coming from off to the right.

  I tried to swallow. My mouth was too dry.

  Tightening my grip on the hammer, I tiptoed down the hallway toward the new shared office.

  The door was open, the rolled towel kicked to one side. A Coleman LED lantern sat just inside, throwing off-angle slashes of light and shadow upward from its floor-level placement.

  The room looked like a nuclear bomb had gone off. The south and east walls remained as scorched uprights backed by mangled exterior siding. Melted wiring dangled from the exposed framing and damaged ceiling.

  Both desks were destroyed, my patinaed old oak charred and blackened, Ryan’s glass cracked and fragmented. The two filing cabinets were now scorched hulks, their drawers exploded outward by the intense heat. What was left of my reports, printouts, and photos lay scattered across the floor as sodden sludge.

  The reek of smoke, seared metal, and liquefied plastic was so overpowering my eyes began to burn, and tears ran down my cheeks. And, underlying the mix, another noxious note. Paint? Turpentine?

  I pictured the broken window downstairs. Wondered again about an intruder. Could the added element I was smelling be an accelerant such as gas or kerosene? Was I the victim of arson?

  Amid the wreckage I spotted what survived of Ryan’s Guy Lafleur bobblehead, my picture of Katy, the Nebulon frigate lamp, all twisted and distorted. My framed diplomas leaned cockeyed, glass shattered, documents torn, every component covered in soot. Propped against what was once the east wall was a blackened metal ladder. Flanking it, along the baseboard, were incinerated cans and remnants of what had been drop cloths and rags.

  Also amid the wreckage was my neighbor, dressed in bathrobe, PJs, and sneakers. A mask covered his mouth, and a fire extinguisher jutted from between his arms and his ribs.

  “Walter?”

  He turned and lowered the mask. “Oh, Tempe. I am so sorry.”

  “What happened?”

  “I looked over and saw smoke billowing from your window.” Pointing the extinguisher’s nozzle in that direction. “Called 911. That was around seven.”

  “Thanks.” Stunned mumble through fingers pressed to my lips.

  “One responder said the fire appeared electrical in origin. A flying spark hit the rags and open paint and turpentine, and boom.” Dramatized with exploding fingers. “Apparently, the new smoke alarm wasn’t functioning properly.”

  “Did you open the door for them?” Knowing Walter had an emergency key to my place.

  “Seriously?”

  “Right.” The startled hand floating down to my chest.

  Disbelieving, I took in the devastation.

  “They said it was one of those freak situations where the fire exploded, blew up fast and incredibly hot, then ran out of fuel and died without spreading to other parts of the house. They had a term for it. Flashover? I don’t recall.”

  I nodded, eyes still on the chaos.

  “You can relax, though. The flames are totally out, and the walls are cool. I checked. I didn’t really trust that crew to be thorough, so I went over everything after the truck left. Twice.” Raising the extinguisher. “My grandfather was a firefighter. He always said secondary flare-ups were the real danger.”

  Sudden horrifying thought.

  My eyes flew to my desktop. The AC adapter was there, gnarled and melted. A lump of plastic that was once the mouse. Both were embedded in the charred wood on which they lay.

  My computer was gone!

  Blind fury ramrodded through the shock. “Sonofabitch! Where’s my laptop?”

  “Where did you leave it?” Walter, eyes roving.

  Ignoring the question, and the gritty crunch of glass underfoot, I darted into the room and began rummaging through the mess. Walter set down the extinguisher and joined in the search.

  “I suppose it could be on the lawn,” he said, after several fruitless minutes. “They chucked things out the window.”

  I raced down the stairs, fired through the door, and circled to the back of the annex. Shapes littered the ground, unidentifiable in the darkness. Frantic, I moved from object to object, desperately hoping my laptop had somehow been spared and lay among the jumble.

  I nearly cried when I found it, a hunk of blackened metal, melted keys, shattered fiber-optic glass and circuit board. Devastated, I laid down the ruined Mac, hurried back inside, and mounted the stairs. With trembling hands, I began picking up and setting aside random items. Paper scraps. Fragments of pillow stuffing. Hunks of wire.

  At one point, Walter again offered his condolences, then took his leave, saying something about later retrieving his lamp. I paid no attention.

  How could Fred/Frank have been so negligent? How could I have been so stupid? The small space must have been pyrotechnic. Why hadn’t I checked the room following his abrupt departure? Why hadn’t I personally tested the smoke alarm? Why hadn’t I replaced the bungling twit?

  My self-recrimination was such that I didn’t hear the SUV engine. The doorbell. The buzz of my mobile against my ass finally caught my attention. I answered.

  “You OK in there?”

  “Best day of my life.” White-hot with anger at myself.

  “You want I should call a SWAT team, or you plan to answer the door?”

  I trudged downstairs, let Slidell in, and led him up to the study.

  “Holy fucking fuckville.”

  “Poetic. Add a bleating goat sound to that, and you’ve got a hit.” Mean, but I hated this. Hated Fred/Frank and the equally inept electrician for causing it. Hated myself for letting it happen. Hated Slidell for being in my home. For being a witness to the disaster.

  Slidell’s nose wrinkled, and his face crimped. “That paint thinner I’m smelling?”

  I just glared at him.

  “What did you lose?”

  “My laptop.”

  “What else?”

  “The Rolex and keys to the yacht.”

  Slidell ignored my snark. “You got any idea—”

  “Bad wiring and fumes,” I snapped.

  “You keep any valuables in here? Jewelry? Electronics? Stuff you’ll need to document for insurance purposes?”

  “Isn’t my goddamn laptop enough?”

  I noticed that the front of Slidell’s shirt was sweat-stained in the shape of a newt, the holstered Glock at his hip fully exposed.

  “Sorry,” I added. “I appreciate your coming.”

  “It ain’t the end of the world.” Cocking his chin at the rubble.

  “It sure as hell doesn’t help our investigation. Everything relating to the Vodyanov case is toast.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What the fire didn’t
destroy my overly zealous neighbor turned into mush.”

  “Like what?”

  “The MCME file that Joe Hawkins gave me. The photos I printed. My notes. The scraps from Vodyanov’s trench-coat pocket. Lizzie Griesser’s phenotype sketch and report. I’d just moved it all up here.”

  “Your pal can print you another sketch.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Slidell scanned with professional eyes. Then, “Any chance it wasn’t the wiring?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You chafe someone’s ass lately?”

  That scored him another livid glare.

  “The fire boys break that window downstairs?”

  “I assume so. It’s what they do, right? With big manly axes?”

  “How’s this play? Someone’s caking his shorts not knowing what we’ve found. You being an easier target than a cop …” Slidell let the thought hang.

  “Arson?”

  Slidell didn’t answer.

  “Who?”

  “You tell me.”

  “How could I have been so stupid?” The overload of adrenaline was making me shrill. “So catastrophically careless?”

  “Lose the drama, OK? You have a lot of pics on your phone, right?”

  “I was having battery issues, so I transferred everything to my laptop.”

  “You saved all your shit in the mist or the fog or whatever, right?”

  “No.”

  Slidell’s brows floated up.

  “Look, I’ve been a little freaked since Larabee’s death. Vodyanov stalking me here didn’t help.” If he did stalk me here. “Call it paranoia, whatever. I put nothing in the cloud.”

  “You sent me the pics from your cell?”

  “No.” The call from Gerry Breugger. The subpoena. The outing to Lake Wylie. The news about Boyd. With so much happening, I’d totally forgotten to forward the images.

  Slidell gave the slightest of nods.

  “Exposed wires. Flickering lights. Open paint and rags soaked in turpentine or whatever. Christ Almighty! What was I thinking?”

  “My opinion, it ain’t all that straightforward.”

  “Wait. You’re seriously suggesting arson? That I was targeted?”

  “I’m suggesting it ain’t all that straightforward.”

  “Small comfort. I was just as negligent about security. No lock on this door.” A shocking consequence hit me hard. “If what you’re saying is true, then everything we had could now be in the hands of … of … who? The very assholes we’ve been tracking?”

  “Your laptop was password-protected, right?”

  “Of course it was. But I think I was hacked recently. Even if I wasn’t, any high school techie worth his binary code can bypass or change a password. Hell, I know how to do that!”

  “Reel it in.” Slidell gestured with downturned palms.

  He was right. I’d made reentry into strident. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Before the exhale, another realization.

  “I can’t remember when I last cleared my browser history. If someone did break in, and if the creep logged onto my laptop before setting the fire, he would have seen my searches on Vodyanov, Body, Timmer, MKUltra, the Estonia. My Google Earth visits. My trips to the dark web, DeepUnder, Homes at the End of the World, World’s End House—”

  “I get it.”

  “And what about Joe Hawkins? What if the guy saw that file? Joe could lose his job for leaking it to me. Face legal action if Heavner decides to play hard ball. What if the creep downloaded stuff onto a thumb drive or—”

  “Gimme some possibles.” Slidell yanked his notebook from a breast pocket sweat-stained by the newt’s tail.

  I had no idea of his meaning.

  “Say this wasn’t random. Say it is arson. Gimme some scenarios. Who? Why? Even if they’re crazy. Just keep talking.”

  “I tangled with Heavner. That didn’t go well.” Half joking, half serious.

  “Motive?”

  “Fear of disclosure as incompetent? Maybe even obstructive? It’s been almost two weeks, and still there’s no ID on Vodyanov, no cause of death.”

  “Go on.”

  “Nick Body?”

  “Why?”

  “Fear of exposure as a fraud? Of bad publicity?”

  “The shitbird thrives on bad publicity.”

  “Maybe Body learned that you and I are investigating his brother’s death. Maybe he knew Felix had something to do with Jahaan Cole’s disappearance. With other kids going missing. Or maybe Nick himself was involved with the disappearances. Maybe he was responsible for Vodyanov’s death.”

  “Who tipped him?”

  “He and Heavner are old pals. Or it could have been someone at Sparkling Waters. Dr. Yuriev? Asia Barrow? Holly Kimrey jumped me outside the gate to the fenced property. Maybe the place belongs to Body. Maybe Kimrey’s paid to do Body’s dirty work. Maybe Body hired Kimrey to torch my place.”

  Slidell scribbled as I spoke.

  “Vince Aiello?” I was on a roll, spewing words with no thought. “Maybe Aiello fears three strikes as a pedophile and he’s going down. Did you talk to him today? Maybe inadvertently clue him?”

  Slidell’s eyes rolled up and narrowed. Don’t go there.

  “Yates Timmer was unhappy that we showed up at his cottage.” As understatements go, that one was epic. “Maybe he had Bing follow me here from Lake Wylie last night, though I don’t think the guy was in any shape to drive. Maybe Timmer ordered the fire. He could have had someone watching the annex. His goon saw me leave for dinner with Pete and struck.”

  “Motive?”

  “No idea. But Timmer’s DeepHaven setup gives off a bad vibe.”

  Slidell wiggled impatient fingers.

  “Too much security, too little transparency for a Realtor.”

  “What he hawks ain’t exactly standard.”

  “Selling bunkers and missile silos is perfectly legal. Why employ a steroidal bouncer?”

  “Any other ideas?”

  “Gerry Breugger?”

  “Who the fuck is Gerry Breugger?”

  “A freelance journalist who called looking for intel on the Vodyanov case.”

  “Would Breugger go that far?”

  “If he thought the story would put a shine on his Wikipedia bio.”

  “Others?”

  I lifted both palms and shoulders in frustration.

  “Or maybe it was just turpentine and bad wiring.”

  A beat as we both looked around. Slidell spoke first.

  “I’ll send someone to slap plywood on this window and the one downstairs.”

  “I can do it.”

  “He’ll do it faster.”

  “Thanks.” Detesting my role as a victim.

  “You want I should have CSU swing by in the morning? The arson boys?”

  “What’s the point?” I said.

  “Can’t hurt to establish someone torched the place. Dust for prints.” With little enthusiasm. “Don’t touch—”

  “I got it.”

  When Slidell left, I tried phoning Ryan. Was rolled to voice mail.

  Exhausted, I ignored my face and teeth and crawled into bed. A cue for my brain to begin trolling for worries over which to obsess. That night, the choices were endless.

  At one point, I heard banging, figured Slidell’s minions had arrived to secure the window. Birdie joined me when the hammering stopped, probably peeved that his call-of-the-wild portal had been sealed. I reached down to stroke his head.

  “So glad you weren’t hurt.” Mumbled, at last drowsy. “Was our arsonist a cat lover or just a cat burglar? Did you charm him? Or hunker down and sneak outside unnoticed?”

  Faulty wiring or an intruder?

  Suddenly I was wide awake, struck by a horrifying thought.

  Had Birdie slipped out on his own when the downstairs window was broken or the back door opened? Or was he intentionally spared?

  If the latter, had leaving Birdie unharmed bee
n intended to send a message? A message saying my intruder could have taken or killed my pet but didn’t?

  Was there an intruder?

  Was there a message?

  A message telling me who was in charge?

  A threat?

  A threat from whom?

  Or was my paranoia flaring again?

  25

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 11

  CSU, the crime-scene unit, showed up at seven. Slidell’s “arson boys.” After they’d finished dusting the guest room/study, I cleaned up the glass. No doubt a death sentence for the vacuum, but I wanted it gone.

  Next, using my phone, I emailed LaManche, explaining the fire and the demise of my laptop and asking that copies of the Pasquerault file be sent to the MCME. I’d planned to review all my reports and notes following dinner with Pete. Only one week until my testimony, and I was starting to get anxious.

  When CSU wrapped up in the upstairs office, I plowed through the charred chaos. Found not a single readable document or viewable photo. What the fire hadn’t consumed the water from the hoses and the foam from the extinguisher had reduced to pulp.

  Slidell phoned as I was depositing another five-gallon bag of slop into my outdoor trash bin.

  “Aiello’s ass is parked in a room down the hall.”

  “At the Law Enforcement Center?”

  “No. I booked him into the Ritz.”

  “How did you persuade him to come in?”

  “Told him his name came up in a cold-case investigation.”

  “He asked for no details?”

  “I promised lots when he got here. Being an upstanding citizen, he agreed. That and the fact I mentioned the old jacket on kiddie porn. Maybe implied I was debating a call to the state bar.”

  “Will he bring counsel?”

  “He mentioned that. I mentioned how I hoped the media didn’t get wind of our chat.”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I want to sweat Aiello a while, let him take a solo stroll down memory lane.”

  “What time will you start?”

  “Eleven.”

  “I’m in.”

  * * *

  I arrived on the second floor at 10:52. Slidell was not at his desk in the violent crimes division. He was not in the cold-case unit. A detective named Conover thought he’d gone to question a witness. Gave me directions I didn’t need.