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

by Kathy Reichs

  “Ten minutes.” Rockett stepped back.

  Slidell spit his gum into the grass and entered. I followed, into a windowless foyer with checkerboard flooring, folding doors on the left, wall pegs on the right. A knitted cap hung from one, a black windbreaker from another.

  Rockett led us into a parlor with a picture window that was curtained against daylight. The room’s only illumination came from a flat-screen TV the size of a billboard. Sports highlights played soundlessly, bathing the room in jumpy kaleidoscope patterns.

  A brown leather couch sat opposite the television. Flanking it were distressed wood-and-iron tables, maybe Restoration Hardware. Angled beside it was an elephantine recliner. The TV remote lay abandoned on one arm.

  The room’s back wall held shelving half-filled with equipment relating to the audio-visual setup. A ship in a bottle. A combo thermometer-barometer device. Photos, mostly of men in uniform. A framed patch. I recognized the Marine Corps anchor and eagle embroidered on a red circle at center. The words DESERT STORM arced above, and TASK FORCE RIPPER arced below.

  To either side of the shelving, lining the baseboard, were larger objects. A metal breastplate. A carved tusk. A painted ceramic vessel. A battle-ax. Each artifact looked seriously old.

  I caught Slidell’s eye. He nodded. He’d noticed, too.

  Rockett gestured toward the sofa but remained standing. So did Slidell. So did I.

  “Clock’s running,” Rockett said to Slidell.

  “Save the attitude.”

  Rockett’s spine, rigid as a mast, went even straighter.

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Slidell.”

  “Fire away, Slidell.”

  “How ’bout we talk stolen dogs.”

  Something flickered in Rockett’s good eye. Surprise? Relief? He said nothing.

  Slidell waited.

  At length, Rockett snorted, a dry, wheezy sound like air through a filter.

  “You been talking to that fruit fly Dew?”

  Slidell neither confirmed nor denied.

  “You want me to react?” Rockett asked.

  “You want to react?”

  “Will it get you and Sister Wide Eyes out of here sooner?”

  “Might.”

  “Stolen is the wrong word,” Rockett said.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I bought the dogs from a farmer. Guy was so eager to sell he nearly peed his gauchos.”

  “ICE don’t look kindly on relic smuggling.”

  “I didn’t know they were old.”

  “That your hobby? Buying up mummified pets?”

  “Dew’s got no case.”

  I knew Slidell was leading Rockett, getting him to believe we were there because of illegal antiquities. Target lulled into overconfidence, Slidell would pounce.

  As the men spoke I glanced across a corridor into what the architect had probably intended to be the dining room. Instead of table, chairs, and buffet, the room held a bench press, weights, chin bar, punching bag, treadmill, and elliptical.

  “ICE thinks you’re dirty,” Slidell said.

  “They’ve got nothing.”

  “Yeah?” Slidell jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You get that shit at the Walmart?”

  “Everything I own is legal and documented. Someone wants to sell, I buy. Someone wants to buy, I sell.”

  “Could be that’s the case. But from now on, you hit a border, a latex glove goes right between your cheeks.”

  “I’ll say I’m a virgin, ask for gentle.”

  “You think you’re smarter than me?” Slidell’s tone indicated tightly controlled anger.

  “Donkey piss is smarter than you.”

  That’s when Slidell crossed the line.

  “You got all your tax ducks in a row, asshole? ’Cause Dew is fine-combing your 1040s, your bank accounts, your credit scores, every plumbing bill you ever paid.”

  Rockett simply glared. With a hair less confidence than before?

  “Screw with the IRS, you’re looking at hard time.” Slidell’s face was hard. “You know Dew’s wife is Peruvian? For him this is personal. And he’s got contacts down there. You skate this bust, and I ain’t putting money on those odds, you may want to think about shifting your base of operations. Maybe to Mars.”

  I doubted the wife story. And was certain Dew would disapprove. But I didn’t interrupt.

  “Every penny you ever earned, every dime you ever spent, Dew’s running his pencil down the columns. He’s calling your buyers, your suppliers, subpoenaing their records. Think Farmer Gaucho and his amigos will go to the slammer for you? Only question is how fast can they hablo to save their own asses.”

  Silence followed Slidell’s rant. Rockett finally broke it.

  “Why’s my customs beef a concern of the Charlotte PD?”

  “My turf, my call.”

  Rockett glanced at his watch, back at Slidell. “That it?”

  “No. That ain’t it. Tell me about your buddy, John-Henry Story.”

  “Don’t know him.” Rockett’s face remained carefully blank. But the fingers of his unscarred hand curled inward.

  “Lying to a police investigator will bring you serious grief.”

  What the hell? Slidell had already inflamed the situation. I pulled out the bar photos. Rockett glanced at them briefly, but offered no explanation.

  “Special Agent Dew is aware of your position in S&S Enterprises,” I said. “Of your association with John-Henry Story.”

  “No comment.” Through lips barely open.

  “You got any comment on how Story managed to torch himself?”

  Rockett offered no reply to Slidell’s question.

  “Here’s what Dew keeps wondering.” Rainbow fragments of light danced the contours of Slidell’s face. “Where’s a two-bit importer get the bucks to play with the big boys?”

  Still nothing.

  “Local businessman up in flames.” Slidell raised and lowered his palms, as though comparing objects for weight. “Two-bit importer with a shitload of cash.”

  “You saying I had something to do with Story’s death?” Behind Rockett, a referee raised his hands above his head. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  Seeing a possible crack in the smug self-control, I arrowed straight to the real purpose of our visit.

  “Two nights ago a young girl was killed in a hit and run near Old Pineville Road.”

  I pulled out one of my flyers. Rockett gave it another of his nanosecond glances.

  “The girl wasn’t killed on impact. She managed to crawl to the shoulder, where she died in pain some time later. Alone. Terrified.”

  “You’re telling me this because?” Rockett’s undamaged eye bore into mine.

  “The girl had something belonging to John-Henry Story in her purse.”

  “So?” Cold as ice.

  “Did Detective Slidell mention that he works homicide?”

  The distorted face changed in a way I couldn’t interpret. I dangled the flyer square in front of it.

  “You were acquainted with Story. This girl was acquainted with Story. Do you know who she is?”

  “Mary Fucking Poppins.”

  Anger burned in my chest. War hero or not, Rockett was repulsive.

  “One other thing. The ME found semen on the girl’s body. The samples are being tested for DNA.”

  Rockett shrugged. “Test away.”

  “The kid’s got Story’s plastic. Story’s your partner and drinking pal,” Slidell said, clearly sharing my disgust. “You’re connected, asshole. Who is she?”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Slidell didn’t budge.

  “Here’s one more fact, Mr. Rockett.” My tone was glacial. “Yesterday I received a tip. The caller claimed to know the hit-and-run victim. Said the girl was scared.”

  “So?”

  “Something or someone frightened this child.” I waggled the flyer inches from Rockett’s nose. “I will find out what or who t
hat was.”

  With an angry swipe, Rockett knocked the paper from my upraised hand. I retrieved it from the floor and placed it faceup on the table.

  “I will not stop until this girl is identified. Detective Slidell will not stop until her killer is caught. You lied to us about knowing Story. You must have had a reason to do so, and that ties you in.”

  “And remember, asshole.” Thrusting his face into Rockett’s, Slidell hiked his brows up, then down. “I’m fucking crazy.”

  Without another word we walked out and drove away.

  And that was it.

  For the next ten days I would learn nothing about the girl with the pink purse and barrette lying in the morgue cooler.

  PART TWO

  SATURDAY I WOKE WITH BED linens wrapping me like a constrictor. If I’d been thrashing in my dreams, I remembered nothing.

  Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

  I pulled the clock into bleary view. 8:45.

  When breakfast is late, my cat either chews my hair or rattles a silk plant I keep on the dresser. He’s good. Either ploy annoys me enough to get up.

  Weird that Bird hadn’t tortured me into consciousness. Too heavy-handed with the oatmeal and eggs?

  But I’d bought his favorite on my way home the previous night. Iams. He didn’t know I fed him the weight-control formula.

  I rose on one elbow and looked around.

  No cat.

  Then I smelled coffee.

  And heard muted music. “Good Day Sunshine”?

  Puzzled, I pulled on sweats and headed for the stairs.

  A box of donuts sat on the dining room table. Napkins. Plates and utensils. Butter and jam.

  In the study, the Beatles were singing about needing to laugh.

  I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  Pete was at the counter, pouring juice from a carton.

  “Sugarbritches.” Big Pete grin. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  Is there a nonsarcastic answer to that question? My brain conjured none.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Then, panic.

  Which must have shown on my face.

  “Don’t worry.” Pete raised a calming hand. “Katy’s fine.”

  “You’ve talked to her?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Pete stowed the carton in the fridge and turned back to me. A smile twitched his lips as he took in my attire and disheveled hair. Probably a bed crease denting one cheek.

  “Don’t start.” I gave him my squinty-eye warning.

  “What?” Boyish innocence.

  “It’s much too early for a fashion critique.”

  “You look terrific, sugarbritches.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Here.” Pete thrust a glass toward me. “It’s loaded with vitamins.”

  “You sound like Anita Bryant.” Accepting the OJ.

  “She was right.” Pete took a sip. Clarified. “About oranges. Cheers.”

  Pete tapped his brim to mine. We both knocked back our juice.

  “Where’s Bird?” I set my glass in the sink.

  “Sleeping off the pâté.”

  “You gave him pâté?”

  “Relax. It was chicken liver, not goose.”

  “The vet has him on a diet.”

  “He didn’t mention that.”

  My eyes were still rolling when the cat strolled in. Pete picked him up.

  Birdie purred like a Ducati cruising at eighty. He likes my ex. Always has.

  “Did you know you’ve been robbed?”

  “What?” My eyes flew around the kitchen.

  “Your refrigerator’s been stripped.”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “Seriously. It’s empty.”

  “I’ve had a busy couple of days.”

  “The hit and run?”

  “Mm. That why you’re here? To make sure I’m eating?”

  “Madam.” Sweeping an arm toward the door. “Shall we adjourn for coffee and tarts?”

  “I will not get sucked into your wedding drama.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  We both filled mugs, added cream, then moved to the dining room. Pete took the chair opposite mine at the table.

  “Butter and jam?” I cocked a questioning brow.

  “You never know.”

  “Yes. With donuts, you do.”

  I helped myself to a chocolate glazed with sprinkles.

  Pete took no pastry. Didn’t touch his coffee.

  “Snooze you lose,” I said brightly. “Should have bought more chocolate.”

  “They’re all for you.”

  “What, no flowers?”

  It was an old joke between us. Pete didn’t laugh.

  Alrighty, then.

  As I waited for my ex to get to the point, another possibility entered my mind.

  “Is there a problem with the divorce? Did I do something wrong on one of the form—”

  “Everything’s in order.”

  “Have you filed—”

  “I will.”

  “The wedding is still on track?”

  Jesus, Brennan. Why bring it up?

  “There are some glitches. Nothing Summer can’t handle.”

  Summer can’t handle stirring yogurt without instruction. I didn’t say it.

  Birdie jumped onto the chair beside Pete. He ran a hand down the cat’s back. Stared at the motion, distracted. Avoiding?

  My gut clenched.

  “You’re not lying to me, are you? This isn’t about Katy, right?”

  “Only peripherally.”

  Heat flamed my cheeks.

  “You said—”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Have you heard from her today?”

  “No.”

  “Then you have no idea how fine she is.” Sharp.

  Pete continued stroking the cat. Continued watching his hand do it.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I said.

  Pete leaned back. Changed his mind and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  “There’s a way you can see Katy.”

  “We were supposed to Skype—”

  “In person.”

  “What? She gets leave? Already?” My donut froze in midair. “Oh, God. Is she hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Has she been hospitalized?”

  “No. Christ. Stop overreacting.”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I have no reason to believe that our daughter is anything but healthy and happy.” Überpatient.

  I studied Pete’s face. Saw no deception. But a boatload of doubt.

  Janis Petersons? Man of glib tongue and cast-iron nerves?

  “What’s going on, Pete?”

  He lifted his mug. Set it down without drinking.

  “You can go to her.”

  “Go to her?” I’d missed a connection somewhere.

  “To Bagram.”

  “Bagram. Afghanistan?”

  “Right.”

  This was not making sense.

  “I know you worry, sugarbritches. I worry, too. Especially when days pass without word. I can’t let on, of course, being manly and all.”

  Another old joke unacknowledged by laughter.

  Pete continued, his tone different now. Deadly serious.

  “I don’t want to manipulate you. But I do want to persuade you.”

  Persuasion. The lawyer’s stock in trade.

  “Persuade me.” Again I parroted, totally confused.

  Pete drew a deep breath. Let it out. Laced his fingers.

  “Okay. You remember my friend, Hunter Gross?”

  I shook my head.

  “The one I mentioned at dinner on Wednesday?”

  At the bar with its volume on blast. “He’s a marine,” I said. “His nephew’s a marine.”

  “Yes. John Gross. I’ve known Hunter for years.”r />
  “From your days in the Corps.” I could never keep Pete’s old marine buddies straight.

  Pete nodded. “Hunter called me again. He’s truly concerned about his nephew.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think I told you John’s at Camp Lejeune awaiting an Article 32 hearing.”

  An Article 32 is the military equivalent of a grand jury. The purpose is to determine if sufficient evidence exists to proceed to court-martial.

  “John’s been accused of killing Afghan civilians.” The story was coming back to me. “Which he denies.”

  “A court-martial will ruin the kid’s career. Though that’s the least of his worries. If found guilty, he could serve life in a federal penitentiary. Or worse.”

  “What’s he supposed to have done?”

  “According to the charge sheet, he shot two unarmed villagers during the search of a compound.”

  “What’s his version?”

  “It was dusk. The scene was chaos. The men came at him screaming about ‘Allah!’ One made a move as though reaching for a firearm. He claims he shot in self-defense.”

  “Turned out the men had no weapons.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  I thought about that.

  “Gross is holding, what, an M16? The victims are unarmed? Yet they rush him? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Heat of the moment? Personal jihad?” Pete shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “There has to be more to the story.”

  “Here’s what I know. As a lieutenant and platoon leader, John had to make a lot of difficult decisions. With serious consequences.”

  Pete paused, perhaps recalling his own difficult choices while in service.

  “One such decision involved a corporal named Grant Eggers. After repeated corrective interviews, John was forced to remove Eggers from his position as fire team leader. Eggers was furious, apparently bad-mouthed John at every opportunity, but never confronted him.”

  “Let me guess. Eggers is the one making the accusation.” I went for a powdered-sugar frosted.

  “Yes. He says the men weren’t running toward John, but away from him. He claims John shot them in the back.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Crazy ten ways to Sunday. Hunter is convinced his nephew is being railroaded.”

  “Why?”

  “Uncle Sam isn’t exactly beloved over there. Two unarmed civilians dead. An American marine the shooter. The locals want blood.”

  “Politics.”