Bones ik-7

by Jan Burke

  “She was good with money,” Ben said. “Not just frugal, but also good at choosing investments.”

  “But her mail and newspapers—” I asked.

  “The house has a mail slot,” Ben said. “The mail would just pile up inside the house. We liked that feature when we used to go camping or traveling. No need to file a hold with the post office.”

  “Actually, we think Parrish did file one,” Frank said. “He seems to have forged her name on it.”

  “But that still leaves the newspaper,” I said. “Or didn’t she subscribe?”

  “Yes, she did,” Frank said. “But she stopped the paper.”

  “Wait a minute — are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes, we checked with the Express. She canceled about a week ago.”

  “What I mean is, are you sure she’s the one who stopped it?”

  “What are you saying?” Ben asked.

  “Do you know anyone who is looking for a job who stops taking the newspaper?” I asked. “They want to read the classifieds.”

  “She has a point,” Ben said to Frank.

  “Two possibilities,” I said. “One is that she called to stop the paper at just about the time she was killed, which is the kind of unbelievable coincidence that makes you wonder if she was being forced to make the call.”

  “And the other?” Frank asked.

  “Parrish called to stop the paper, to make sure no one started looking for her before he wanted her to be found.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” he said. “But it doesn’t get us any closer to catching Parrish.”

  “Maybe it does. I can think of another subscription that got canceled recently.”

  “Phil Newly’s,” Frank said.

  “Yes. Nick Parrish is someone who has obviously made a study of police and forensic procedures. He knows what might trigger a missing persons investigation. A pile of newspapers on the driveway might be noticed by neighbors who don’t even know the victim’s name.”

  “I’ll make another push to take a look at Newly’s house. But as I’ve said, in general, judges don’t like cops to take uninvited tours of defense lawyer’s homes.”

  We went early to Jo Robinson’s office. She had arranged to see Ben just before she saw me. “We should try to get a two-for-one rate out of her,” I said, but needless to say, Ben wasn’t in an especially humorous mood.

  He ran over into my time, but I didn’t mind. I thought that meant I might be able to cut it a little short, but no deal.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked, when she had closed the door to begin our session.

  She smiled and said, “You don’t expect me to answer that do you? This is your time. How are you?”

  “I’m still working lousy hours,” I said.

  “They were supposed to be somewhat improved.”

  “They are,” I admitted.

  Now that my big gripe was out of the way, I sat studying my toes.

  “Otherwise, how have things gone?” she prompted.

  I told her about talking to the Sayres.

  “Great. And have you thought more about Parzival?”

  “A little.” I mentioned that telling the story of Parzival’s visit to Wild Mountain led to my talking to Ben that very morning. I related the gist of our conversation.

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?” I repeated. It isn’t easy to imbue a sound like that with sarcasm. I made it drip with the stuff.

  She smiled again. “You know, I think your friend Jack was right. You forgot to tell the best part of the story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” she repeated. She left out the sarcasm — all but a tinge, anyway.

  “It’s not the best part of the story — it’s the saddest part. Parzival goes off in disgrace; he loses his faith. He tells others that he refuses to serve a God who has the power to always be merciful, but who instead is the . . . How does he put it? ‘The godfather of all my troubles.’ ”

  “Why would a good God let so many terrible things happen?” she asked.

  “Right. Or let someone with good intentions cause so much harm?”

  “In the story, how does Parzival feel as he goes riding off on his quest for the Grail?”

  “Angry.”

  “Hmm.”

  I didn’t bother echoing that one.

  “Remind me,” she said, “what must he do before he can find Wild Mountain again?”

  “Regain his faith.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, there’s more to it than that,” I said, trying not to lose my patience. “It’s a story about compassion, but not just toward others. That’s what I was saying to you earlier — about talking to Ben this morning. Parzival has to be compassionate toward himself. He has to forgive himself.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  I was silent.

  “Keep thinking about it, then. Now, despite the horrible hours, how did the return to work go?”

  I told her about the support of my friends, the visits by Travis and Stinger, and about Leonard and Café Kelly.

  “And since the problem with the van—”

  “You mean the fingers and the toes and the skull?” I asked, showing no mercy.

  “Any other contact? Any other times when you’ve seen him?”

  I hesitated only briefly before recounting it all to her. “Oh, and I almost forgot the underwear business.”

  “Underwear business?”

  So I told her what had happened on my first day back at work.

  “You wrote the article, but you didn’t file it?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “You were angry when Parrish sent this package?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you fought an impulse to get back at him that must have been almost irresistible.”

  “When I considered the possible consequences, it didn’t seem worth it.”

  “Do you remember what you said to me when you first came here, about feeling out of control?”

  “Yes. I don’t feel that way very often now,” I admitted, then added, “does that mean I’m done?”

  She laughed. “Keep thinking about Parzival, and we’ll see what can be done about this urgent desire of yours never to see me again.”

  Frank ate dinner with us, and held off arguing with me about work. But in the middle of the meal, he got a call. He came back from the phone smiling at me, and saying someone had seen a car parked near the ice rink at about three that morning, and could describe it — it matched the description of a car that a neighbor had seen going in and out of Phil Newly’s garage at odd hours.

  “A dark green Honda Accord,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder, so that he must have felt my relief.

  “Who saw it at the ice rink?” I asked.

  “The driver of a delivery truck for the Express,” he said. “Taking papers to a newsstand at a coffee shop near the rink.”

  “Did either the neighbor or the truck driver get a look at the person driving the car?” Ben asked.

  “No, and neither of them got a plate number. But we’re going to be asking around here and in your neighborhood to see if anyone has seen the car lately. Somewhere, somebody must have seen that driver. Best of all, Pete thinks we’re well on our way to a warrant to search Newly’s place.”

  A little later, Frank left to meet Pete — they had another lead on the car. Just before he left, he said, “I won’t ask you to stay home. Maybe you’d be safer there than here. I don’t know. Oh — and here — I brought this back.” He handed the cell phone to me. “Battery is all charged up. Keep it on from the moment you pull out of the driveway, okay? A patrol car will follow you in, but Wrigley’s been a little fussy about letting us on to the property — even so, don’t work alone, okay? Tell Leonard I’ll get him into the academy if he’ll stay next to you all shift. I’ve called Travis and Stinger — they’ll be stopping by. Spend the whole shift up on the roof with them if you have to. And d
on’t leave the—”

  “Frank, any more instructions and Pete’s going to wonder what happened to you.”

  “I just don’t want you to be there alone,” he said.

  “I’m going with her,” Ben said.

  “Ben—” we both protested.

  “I can’t sit around here all night. It would make me crazy.”

  I wasn’t sure it was a great idea for him to be in the newsroom that night, especially since there might be a certain amount of activity there that centered on covering the story of Camille’s death.

  But he told me to remember that he was an expert when it came to dealing with the media — then smiled a little, letting me see that some part of his sense of humor was gradually returning.

  Jack came over and offered to go in his stead, but by then Ben was entrenched in the idea of fulfilling his promise to Frank to keep an eye on me that day.

  “You’re both wearing on my nerves,” I said, which didn’t faze either of them.

  “Okay, I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Cody and the dogs,” Jack said, much to Ben’s relief. “If you change your mind about being at the paper, Ben, just call here and we can switch.”

  We hadn’t gone very far from the house when the cell phone rang, making me jump. I fumbled a little, and ended up hanging up on the caller.

  “Hell.”

  “Maybe it was Parrish,” Ben said, in a flat tone of voice that made me worry about him.

  The phone rang again. It was Jack.

  “Why’d you hang up on me?” he asked.

  “Inexperience.”

  He laughed. “Frank wanted me to let you know he got the warrant for Newly’s house. Quite a surprise, huh?”

  It was going to be a night full of surprises.

  56

  TUESDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 26

  Las Piernas

  Alas, my Moth, he thought sadly, watching yet another police cruiser make the turn toward his most recent lair, I will miss the peculiar comfort you gave me in better times.

  The Moth had dutifully reported back that there were strange cars on the street, sedans that looked a great deal like unmarked police cars. Indeed, with his own eyes he had seen the Volvo of that cuckold detective, Frank Harriman — which of his wife’s lovers had he so foolishly entrusted her to now? — make the same turn not long ago. Without the Moth’s warning, he might have missed seeing that. Well, yes, he could admit that he might have been caught — even if they caught him, he would escape again. The police could be touchy though, when one had killed one of their own. Strange how they all banded together like that, how dear they were to one another. He grinned a little, letting himself imagine just what that might imply.

  But soon he was thinking of the Moth again.

  The Moth had been useful in many ways.

  There were still one or two matters in which his Moth might be of help, but everything in this place was drawing to a close, and when he was finished here, the Moth must join the other devoted ones. It was only right. The least he could do.

  Perhaps one day he would return to the coyote tree and hang a unique tribute there, in honor of the Moth. And a special one to the Ice Dancer, who was, he had to admit, one of his more spectacular accomplishments. Ben Sheridan’s devastation was a thing of beauty. Oh yes, something special for the Ice Dancer, too.

  Plans. There were always plans to be made. He loved plans. They kept his superhuman brain busy.

  He had not expected the lair to be found at this point, but he was ready for anything — even the unexpected.

  He had not expected, for example, that Irene Kelly could make him feel this combination of passion and anger from a distance. Usually, he needed to be much closer before his body reacted as it was reacting now. Her body was calling to his — calling, calling, relentlessly calling. He could feel it the way a deaf man can feel the beat of a bass drum, a pulsing, low, insistent vibration.

  She would not leave him alone.

  He could continue to outsmart the police as long as he chose to, of course, but he decided that it simply would not be healthy to wait, that she was obviously so longing to reach the sort of fulfillment that only he could provide, that he must be swift with his generosity. Tonight would be the night.

  Deadline, he thought, and gave a daring little snort of laughter.

  57

  TUESDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 26

  Las Piernas

  I arrived a little early, wanting to take time to answer some of my mail and e-mail, but I wasn’t given a chance to do more than find a place for Ben to sit. Shorthanded and bearing down on a drop-dead deadline — the final opportunity to make any major changes in the next morning’s edition — the newsroom was a hive of activity when I arrived. John Walters was hoping to get a late chase in on a story Mark Baker was covering — the police investigation of Phil Newly’s home. The building was already rumbling with the vibration of rolling presses. Page A-1 couldn’t be held up much longer.

  One of Phil Newly’s neighbors had tipped the paper off, saying police were going door-to-door asking questions about whether anyone had seen the lawyer lately, or if they had noticed any cars other than Newly’s parked near the house, or in his driveway or garage.

  Other phone calls started coming in, including one from Mark. After taking Mark’s call, John was pacing, barking out orders — most of the front page would have to be reset.

  Inside Phil Newly’s garage, the police made a number of gruesome discoveries, including a bloodstained workbench and circular saw, bone fragments, and other tissue. Inside a large freezer in the garage, they found a sheet of plastic covered with frozen blood.

  There was no sign of the lawyer.

  Frank’s lieutenant was on the scene to handle contact with the press, and stated that Mr. Newly was sought for questioning. When asked if the lawyer was suspected of being an accomplice to Nick Parrish, the lieutenant said “not at this time.” When asked if Mr. Newly might be one of the victims, he said, “Our investigation here is in its very early stages. We do not know who the victims are or how many victims there may be; we are not ruling out the possibility that Mr. Newly may be one of them.” He gave a description of the lawyer and the lawyer’s car — a silver BMW. The car was missing.

  Mark’s contacts within the department revealed other information. Two neighbors had seen a dark-colored Honda coming and going from the residence, although they had not been able to get a good look at the driver. The car had entered by using an automatic garage door opener.

  Neither blood nor any signs of a struggle were found inside the house itself.

  There were indications that Mr. Newly left the residence voluntarily — his toothbrush, razor, and other personal effects were missing. There were also signs that someone other than Newly — someone with blond hair, perhaps bleached — had been staying in one of the lower-floor guest rooms.

  We got as many of these details into the paper as we could before the presses just couldn’t be held up any longer. As will happen once a drop-dead deadline has been reached, the newsroom emptied out. John stayed just long enough to allow me to formally introduce him to Ben and to tell me he was still working on getting my hours changed.

  “Oh, and, Kelly — this business with the helicopter that I’m hearing rumors of? Not on day shift, should you return. Wrigley’s already scared enough of you, without thinking you’re going to come in here like something out of Apocalypse Now.”

  He headed out to try to catch a few hours of sleep.

  The nature of the beast; no matter how well we had done this evening, the process of putting a newspaper together would start all over again in the morning.

  Still, it was much more excitement than I had expected on my late shift.

  Not long after the newsroom emptied, Ben went with me up the stairs to the top of the building. “I tried calling Leonard, to get us into the elevator,” I said. “But he must be roaming around the building somewhere.”

  I explained about the elev
ator access key. “Needless to say, employees forced to seek psychological counseling for throwing heavy objects at the boss are not given this special key.”

  “I can manage the stairs,” he said. “They’re good practice for me.” It was lots of practice, all right.

  As we reached the final door, Ben said, “That wasn’t so bad.”

  It was another pleasant night. I made myself look up at the Box. Nothing. No lights, no movement, not even the sensation of being watched.

  “How can a helicopter land on top of all this mess?” Ben asked, looking at the rooftop structures.

  “The landing pad is on the other side,” I said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  I took him along the perimeter to the helicopter pad.

  While we waited for Travis and Stinger to arrive, I gave Ben the full tour. I pointed out several city landmarks that could be seen from the roof, and started to show him my favorite gargoyles. He didn’t like leaning over the railing to see them, though, so after I had pointed out the wyvern, and the mermaid that was supposedly modeled after the present Wrigley’s grandmother, I told him we could look at the others from the ground.

  “That’s the intended view, anyway,” I said, as we settled in at Café Kelly. “Although I have to admit, I wouldn’t have suspected you of having a fear of heights — not after seeing you walk steep trails in the mountains.”

  “I don’t mind heights in the mountains,” he said. “It’s all the flat, sheer vertical surfaces in a city, I suppose. But you don’t like being in the mountains, do you?”

  I thought about this for a moment and said, “The mountains, I love. It’s the people I’ve encountered up there who’ve made me feel a little wary about going back.”

  “Parrish?”

  “He’s one of them.”

  “Tell me what happened that morning, before we were rescued.”

  “Want a bottle of water? You have your choice between that and water. A full selection in our fine establishment.”

  “Served with an open-faced plate of bullshit, I see. You’re avoiding the question.”