Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel tb-16

by Kathy Reichs

  The gray cells offered no hypotheses.

  Somehow Story’s card went from his possession to the girl’s purse.

  The pink purse lying in the dirt by her body.

  I pictured a deserted road, a sloping shoulder, headlights slashing the post-midnight darkness.

  And had another thought.

  Was John-Henry Story connected to the hit and run?

  Had he been the driver?

  Whoa. Now that was a stretch.

  A stretch based on zilch. Pure dream sequence. Nothing scientific about it. Even if Story had staged his own death, the fire was in April, long before the girl’s murder.

  Giving up on sleep, I threw back the covers and descended to the kitchen. Birdie padded along, confused but willing.

  I heated a cup of water, dipped a peppermint tea bag, then poured the last of the milk into a saucer. Birdie lapped, unconcerned that his snack was a bit past its prime.

  As I sipped tea, my thoughts took another route.

  Dominick Rockett, the former soldier with the mutilated face. The importer caught with illegal antiquities. The investor in a company owned by John-Henry Story.

  Where did Rockett get the funds to buy in to S&S Enterprises? Why that company? When? Before Story’s death? Supposed death? Was Story a factor in Rockett’s decision to invest?

  Another coincidence?

  Right.

  Did Dominick Rockett know John-Henry Story? Work for him? With him? Doing what?

  Was Rockett involved in the hit-and-run killing?

  Suddenly the room felt chilly.

  October. Winter really was coming. Soon it would be time to turn on the heat.

  Placing my mug in the sink, I returned to the bedroom, my feline companion right at my heels.

  I tucked under the covers, killed the light, and closed my eyes. Tried to clear my thoughts.

  No Dominick Rockett. No John-Henry Story. No Jane Doe.

  My higher centers began another loop.

  The afternoon’s call.

  Who was the woman on the phone?

  Assuming the call was legit, what had frightened the dead girl?

  Was the caller also afraid of this person?

  Birdie leapt up, circled, and nestled into the crook of my knee. I ran my hand down his back, grateful for his unquestioning loyalty.

  Flashbulb image. Charred fragments. So fragile I’d had to spray them with polyurethane before attempting to tease them from the ashy matrix in which they were embedded.

  John-Henry Story?

  If so, what was Story doing in that barn so late at night? Was he that hands-on involved in the business? Was he having financial difficulties? If so, might he have torched the place? Accelerants flame fast. Did he miscalculate and find himself trapped? But the arson investigators wouldn’t have missed that. There would have been evidence of accelerants, containers.

  I pictured a figure backlit by fire and smoke. Panicky movements. Flames catching his clothes, his hair, his skin.

  If Story didn’t die in that blaze, who did? A worker? A vagrant, asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Round and round.

  Questions leading to more questions.

  No answers.

  And where the hell was Katy!

  I AWOKE TO RAIN BUCKETING down outside my window. And a feeling I’d slept too late.

  Yep. My clock radio said 8:42.

  Eyes half open, I snagged my iPhone and scanned overnight e-mails.

  No update from Katy.

  Quick calculation. Midafternoon in Bagram. She’d be busy.

  Knowing I should wait, I sent a message.

  “Please check in. Mom.”

  Nothing from Ryan.

  My sister Harry had fired off a foursome, the first landing at 2:42 A.M. The others had followed at five-minute intervals.

  I speed-read to get a sense of the new crisis.

  For a chuckle, I sometimes visit the website First World Problems. The contents are Harry’s life in microcosm. The Angsts of Harriet Brennan Howard Dawood Crone. Though I think she dropped Crone when she divorced husband number three. Or was he two?

  New acquaintances are often shocked to learn that Harry and I are siblings. But despite our differences, which are epic, my sister and I share one fundamental trait. She is wired with the same bulldog drive that got me through college, grad school, and decades in a demanding and often heartrending profession.

  What differs between us is the focus of our passion. For me it’s the search for truth, recognition, and justice for the dead.

  For Harry it’s shopping. Shoes. Shades. Houses. Husbands. Deep down, I think the acquisition itself is irrelevant to my sister. What matters is the hunt.

  Over the years I’ve pondered why Harry is the way she is. Why I’m the way I am. Clichéd as it seems, I’ve come to believe that our mother owns a big piece of the blame.

  Looking back, I realize Mama swung on a pendulum beyond her control, one that moved her between wild elation and soul-bleeding depression. With each upswing, she’d take joy in wearing the latest fashion, knowing the right people, seeing and being seen at all the best parties, concerts, and restaurants. With the plunge would come tears, withdrawal, the closed bedroom door. Having achieved all she’d sought, Mama wouldn’t give a damn.

  My mother’s moods bewildered me as a child. As an adult, I still don’t fully understand.

  And I worry there are hints of Mama’s demons in my sister.

  I’ve never discussed my personal issues with Harry. A battle with the bottle. A failed marriage. A daughter who’d volunteered for combat without asking my advice. A long-distance relationship with a man I couldn’t get on the phone. Given my record, I was hardly in a position to counsel others.

  I did listen, however. But this morning Harry would have to wait.

  Wrong. The phone rang as I was heading for the back door.

  “How’re those styling stilettos we scored?”

  “I wore them to court.” Then threw them out.

  “Bet you wowed the lovin’ shorts off that jury.”

  “Mm. Listen, Harry. I’ve got to get to work—”

  Undeterred, baby sister launched into a tale of woe involving a broken pool pump, algae, and back-ordered parts. Barely pausing to draw breath, she segued into a rant about a guy named Thorny.

  “I thought you were dating an astronaut.” Orange Curtain. First time I saw the name I assumed it was a typo. “Or a guy named Bruce.”

  “Orange had the brains of a budgie. Wait. That’s being unfair to birds.”

  Shoulder-cradling the phone, I slipped outside and turned to lock the door. Bad move. The thing popped free and dropped to the stoop.

  “—merchandise right there in my living room. What makes men so bloody proud of their genitals?”

  “So Orange is out.”

  “Seven carats wouldn’t get that bonehead back through my door.”

  “Have you made plans to visit Tory?”

  Silence greeted my question.

  The previous summer, Harry had learned that her son, Kit, had a now-teenage daughter, conceived when he was just sixteen. And I’d learned that I had a grandniece. Father and daughter now lived together in Charleston, South Carolina. Harry hadn’t taken the news of grandparenthood well.

  “Harry?”

  “Remember what an assclown Kit was in high school? How the hell’s he going to parent a fourteen-year-old girl?”

  “I’m sure he’s matured. And Tory’s a bright kid.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “You’re her grandmother.”

  “You’ve said that, too.”

  • • •

  At the MCME, my phone was flashing like a strobe on speed.

  I punched the code for my mailbox, thinking Slidell.

  I got Capote.

  Dr. Brennan. Could we please speak at your earliest convenience?

  I’d felt upbeat following my conversation with Harry. Calm.
r />   That tranquillity popped like a bubble in sunlight.

  Why this negative reaction to Dew? Federal agents are renowned for their disdain of local law enforcement. But he’d exhibited no condescension toward me.

  Yes, Dew had withheld information. Yes, he’d refused to help with my Jane Doe. But I believed he truly felt he was doing his job.

  So why did I distrust the guy?

  Did I suspect he was playing me?

  Because I’d tried to play him?

  I dialed the ICE office, asked for Dew, was placed on hold by a weary-sounding receptionist.

  A full minute later, Dew answered.

  “I’m very sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor Brennan.”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  “S&S Enterprises.”

  “The privately held company.”

  “I hate a closed door.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “This one wasn’t locked as tightly as the partners might have wished.”

  I waited.

  “The entity is a holding company for a number of properties and other holding companies. Fast-food restaurants. Convenience stores. A bar called John-Henry’s Tavern.”

  I heard paper rustle, then Dew continued in his prissy, high voice.

  “S&S is owned in large part by John-Henry Story and his younger brother, Archer Story. Lesser partners include Harold Millkin, Grover Pharr, and Dominick Rockett.”

  “So Rockett was one of a handful of players holding pretty big cards.”

  “Apparently. Whether he bought or earned his way into the partnership remains unclear. What is clear is that, at the time of his death, John-Henry Story was suffering some serious financial reversals.”

  Wasn’t everyone these days? I thought. “Was S&S in trouble?” I asked.

  “No. But Story wanted to infuse more capital for expansion, and he himself had no available cash. In addition to S&S, Story owned a pizza chain and four auto dealerships which were costing him a lot of money.”

  “In the Carolinas?”

  “The pizza parlors are here. The dealerships were located in Texas and Arizona.”

  “Were?”

  “Are you familiar with Saturn?”

  “A different kind of car.” I still remembered the early ads.

  “Pontiac launched the brand in the mid-eighties in response to the success of Japanese imports in the U.S. At first, sales were good.”

  “As I understand it, Saturn never really kept up with R and D.”

  “So I’ve read. In any event, sales declined. In 2010, General Motors discontinued the brand. Many dealers suffered significant financial losses.”

  “John-Henry Story was one of them.”

  “Yes. And the pizza franchise is bleeding money.”

  I leaned back in my chair and considered Dew’s update.

  “Which way do you think it went? Story knew Rockett had money, so he brought him in to shore up the S&S capital reserves? Or Rockett got word S&S wanted cash and seized the opportunity to buy in cheap?”

  “With either scenario, the question remains the source of Mr. Rockett’s cash.”

  “Maybe Rockett worked for Story or for one of the other partners and was paid with a piece of the action.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Does Rockett admit to knowing Story?”

  “I’ve yet to pursue that line of questioning.” Starchy stiff.

  “Have you asked him about his interest in S&S?”

  “I wish to avoid goading Mr. Rockett into seeking legal counsel. At present he thinks his only issue will be a fine for failure to report proper value and provenience of an import entering the country.”

  “Smart. Don’t hit him until you have all the facts.”

  I heard a hitch in Dew’s breathing. “Here’s an interesting fact. The further I delve into the Rockett investigation, the more your name comes up.”

  “My involvement with Rockett’s mummified dogs, with John-Henry Story’s remains, and with the hit-and-run vic who had Story’s airline club card.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What do you make of that, Special Agent Dew?”

  “I am hoping you will give that question some thought.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I look forward to your report on the Peruvian bundles.”

  “Topping my agenda.”

  After disconnecting, I phoned Slidell.

  Voicemail.

  Was the man avoiding me? Refusing to answer when my number came up on his screen?

  Whatever.

  I went to the stinky room and finished viewing the fourth set of mummy X-rays. All dog.

  Relieved that my first impression had been correct, I returned to my desk.

  No message light. No e-mail from Katy or Ryan.

  While composing a report for Dew, my thoughts kept looping to Rockett and Story.

  Had either man met my Jane Doe?

  Frustrated, I saved and minimized the ICE report, logged on to Google, and called up images of John-Henry Story. I’d seen some pictures back when the fire took place, remembered only that the purported victim was unimpressively short.

  Rodent was the first word to coalesce in my mind.

  An Observer photo taken four months before Story’s death showed a short, wiry guy with thinning hair, gaunt cheeks, and dark, beady eyes.

  Rattus rattus.

  Another shot caught Story at a Panthers game. In another he was outside a Consigliore’s pizzeria, waving at the camera.

  I contemplated doing a full search on Story, opted to complete my doggie report.

  Slidell finally called at noon.

  I briefed him on what I’d learned from Dew.

  “Deep dish went deep shit.”

  I ignored that.

  “The hit-and-run vic had Story’s card in her purse. Rockett was a minor partner in Story’s company, S&S.”

  “Where’s a two-bit smuggler get cash for an investment like that?”

  “Alleged smuggler. What I want to know is, what’s the link between Story and Rockett? And does one or both of them connect to my Jane Doe?”

  “Soon’s I get this MP—”

  “We need to check out John-Henry’s Tavern, see if Rockett’s been there with Story. Or if either was ever there with my Jane Doe.”

  “Why doesn’t Dew haul Rockett in and sweat him?”

  “Other than the mummy bundles, he’s got dick at this point. Dew’s convinced the dogs are just the tip of something big, and doesn’t want to spook Rockett into lawyering up.”

  I heard a phone ring in the background. Voices. A deep sigh.

  “I told you, doc. The chief’s on my ass to find this—”

  “You saying he doesn’t care about the kid in my cooler?”

  “I’m not saying that. Look, I been working the body shops. No one’s seen a vehicle fits our bumper-height estimate with front-end damage.”

  “What about St. Vincent de Paul?”

  “No one at the church ever heard of this kid.”

  “Clinics?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Clothing? Boots?”

  Silence hummed across the line.

  “It’s been two days, Slidell.” He knew as well as I the importance of the first forty-eight.

  “I’m not sure I see the upside of visiting this joint.”

  “At least we’ll be doing something.”

  “Scratching my ass is doing something.”

  “Do you know John-Henry’s Tavern?”

  “Yeah. A real slice of heaven.”

  “We need to check it out.”

  “For what?”

  “For whatever is there.” Slidell’s attitude was cracking my resolve to stay cordial.

  “I’ll hang up now unless you got something else to say.”

  “Never mind,” I snapped. “I’ll go myself.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Okay. I won’t.”

  “Goddammit.”

&nbs
p; For a full ten seconds, I listened to air whistle in and out of Slidell’s nose.

  “Give me half an hour.”

  SOUTH END, JUST BELOW UPTOWN Charlotte, is a mixed hunk of turf with serious ambitions up the social ladder. And climbing fast.

  The neighborhood dates to the 1850s when the construction of a railroad line connected the Queen City to Columbia and Charleston, South Carolina. Over the decades a manufacturing community sprang up along the tracks, fired largely by a booming textile industry.

  Fast-forward to the waning years of the twentieth century. Largely ignored by a town viewing itself as the face of the New South, South End had little to offer beyond abandoned mills, warehouses, and a minor league baseball park. But come the nineties, cagey developers saw dollar signs.

  Today, South End is a mélange of condos, lofts, and renovated industrial leftovers housing restaurants, shops, studios, and a broad spectrum of design-related industries. Want a plumbing fixture, fabric, or upscale lamp? South End is the answer to your needs.

  But traces of the hood’s past remain. The Design Center of the Carolinas, the headquarters for Concentric Marketing, and the Chalmers Memorial Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church breathe the same yuppie air as seedy garages, abandoned factories, weed-covered acreage, and a strip club.

  John-Henry’s Tavern was located not far from the intersection of Winifred and Bland. Flanking it on both sides were lots with entire eco zones thriving in the cracked concrete.

  Opposite was a windowless bunker covered with graffiti and enclosed in chain-link fencing. A sign warned NO TRESPASSING. Nothing indicated the structure’s name or explained the purpose of its existence. Junk covered a raised platform that might once have been a loading dock. Rusty beer kegs. A table made of slapped-together boards. An old piano with a black skull spray-painted on a silver moon on its upright portion.

  Slidell swung a left into the tavern’s small parking area, which may have been paved. Or not. A coating of dirt and gravel rendered the issue moot.

  “This place saw a lot of action back in the sixties.” Slidell shifted into park and cut the engine.

  “I’d have guessed the twenties.”

  “Beach music, shagging, that kinda shit. For a while the owners brought in truckloads of sand, strung lights in the yard. Young assholes pretended they were at Myrtle Beach grooving to Maurice Williams.” Pronounced Moe-reese.

  “When was that?”