Bones: Buried Deep

by Max Allan Collins

  Brennan nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Gianelli.”

  “Vincent. Please. Make it Vincent.”

  “Thank you, Vincent.”

  “You’re very welcome, Temperance.”

  As he turned and strode away, Vincent Gianelli seemed very pleased with himself.

  Brennan couldn’t tell if the mobbed-up restaurateur really was a big fan, or if he was pumping her for information. He seemed to know what was going on in this city even before the media, so the fact that she was working on a case with Booth might well have been known to him.

  On the other hand, she wasn’t working on the Gianelli/Musetti case against his family, so what was Brennan to him?

  Hector handed her a menu.

  “I’ll give you a minute to make your selection,” Hector said, and disappeared.

  When the waiter returned, Brennan made her choice, then nursed the second glass of wine until her food arrived. She ate quickly, and really enjoyed the meal — gangsters or not, the Gianellis knew how to run a restaurant.

  As the waiter refilled her cup for a final after-dinner coffee, Brennan asked for the bill.

  “On the house,” Hector said.

  “No, I could never…”

  Hector waved a hand. “Mr. Gianelli said you would say that. He said to tell you this is standard procedure for celebrities who join our Wall of Fame.”

  “And did he tell you I would very likely insist on paying no matter what you or he said?”

  With a sideways smile, Hector said, “Yes, he did — pretty much word for word.”

  Brennan assumed she was supposed to find that charming; she did not.

  “Hector, please get me the check.”

  The waiter shook his head. “Normally at Siracusa, the customer is always right; but I learned a long time ago that here? Mr. Gianelli’s wishes are my wishes.”

  “Hec-tor….”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Brennan — I don’t have it.”

  “Then get me Mr. Gianelli.”

  “I can’t, ma’am. He’s left for the evening.”

  Nonetheless, Brennan tossed two twenties on the table. Perhaps Hector would end up with a hell of a tip, but Brennan could not allow herself to be comped for dinner by the likes of Vincent Gianelli.

  She sat in the car, cooling down as she read the map by the light on the ceiling, and picked a route back to the hotel.

  As her fingers touched the ignition key, Brennan thought about everything she knew about the mob, the Mafia, La Cosa Nostra; she read mostly nonfiction and had taken in her share of true crime.

  But she also thought about The Godfather, one of the handful of movies she’d bothered to see in her life.

  Remembering the scene where Michael’s Italian wife got blown up when she started a car, Brennan felt a momentary chill.

  Then she smiled at herself in her rearview mirror, and mouthed, “Silly.”

  Anyway, she wasn’t working on anything mob-related, though, was she? That was Booth’s domain.

  She had tried to help him out a little by talking to Musetti’s girlfriend (though he’d be irritated with her for that). And — just as Booth had told her it would — that had pretty much been a fool’s errand.

  She turned the key and the Crown Vic roared to life, and she said to herself in the mirror, “See — we didn’t blow up.”

  She swung out of the parking lot, drove a block, got on the expressway, and headed east.

  The night was dark but cloudless, with lots of stars and a very white half-moon. Obeying the speed limit, Brennan drove along, enjoying the solitude and freedom.

  Although she worked with a good-sized staff at the Jeffersonian, Brennan was basically a loner, and the last few days she had found herself surrounded by other people at every turn.

  It felt good just to be alone for a while.

  Every now and then a car would pass her, but for this time of night, traffic was scant. When the white SUV pulled up behind her, Brennan noticed but paid little attention. She assumed it would pass her soon enough.

  It didn’t.

  After a mile or so, she began to get anxious, and was reaching for her cell phone to call Booth when, finally, the SUV pulled around her and passed.

  She shook her head and sighed.

  This whole thing was starting to get to her.

  Two days of excavating the victims of a decades-busy serial killer, then “relaxing” by hanging out with a slick, sick gangster at his restaurant… well. No wonder she was exhausted, physically and mentally.

  She knew all she needed was a good night’s sleep. But she’d wait till she was in bed at the hotel, and not behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, before getting started….

  The rest of the trip was uneventful and she turned the car into the hotel garage, grateful the end of this long day was finally in sight. She had found her way home all by herself, which would have no doubt wounded Booth’s pride, and was now ready to take a shower and get to bed.

  She pulled the Crown Vic into a parking spot in the hotel’s parking ramp, got out, and locked the vehicle with the remote on her keys.

  Trudging up the level to the elevator at the far end, her purse swung over her shoulder, she passed parked cars on either side of the aisle. As she neared the end, she glimpsed a white SUV.

  She stopped and stared at it, fighting the urge to go look in the windows.

  Sure, it reminded her of the one that had spooked her on the freeway; but white SUVs were hardly uncommon….

  Brennan was walking past the rear of the vehicle when the back door flew open.

  Instinctively she threw up her arms, which kept the door from hitting her in the face, but it came at her with such force, she was knocked off balance anyway, and almost went down, staggering back. Her purse flew off her shoulder, skidding under a car behind her.

  Three figures in black, each wearing a stocking-cap mask, piled out of the vehicle, coming toward her.

  She reacted, kicking one in the chest, but the effort wobbled her farther, and the other two got to her, one on either side.

  The first blow, a fist, caught her hard but missed her kidney.

  She felt the air rush out as she dropped, and tried to roll, hoping to get some space so she could fight back; but the second guy kicked her in the side of her head, sending bells, sirens, and whistles blaring in her brain.

  Her vision blurred as she felt another fist dig into her stomach. The first guy was up now and they had her triangulated. The kicking started again and Brennan made herself as small a target as possible, the blows coming one after the other.

  Consciousness fluttered like a dying bird, and Brennan knew she either had to act…

  …or die.

  She lashed out with her foot, and swept one attacker off his feet.

  As he crashed to the concrete, the others hesitated.

  That was the moment she needed.

  She drove her fist into the nearest crotch. As the assailant screamed, another one grabbed her head. He was about to drive it into the cement, when she brought her hand up and smashed it into his nose.

  The guy released her as he gurgled in pain and stumbled backward.

  Every bone in her body hurt, but she struggled to her feet.

  But the others were up too.

  One pulled an automatic, and as the other two jumped into the SUV, he leveled the pistol at Brennan.

  She dove behind a car as he emptied the clip, windows spiderwebbing, metal doors and fenders puckering, one shot ricocheting off the cement, a piece of concrete or bullet nicking her leg.

  She looked under the car, trying to see if her attacker was coming at her; but what she saw was her purse.

  Grabbing it and dragging it to her, she tore through the contents.

  All she came up with was a small, voice-activated mini-cassette player.

  Hearing the SUV start, she rose. The vehicle backed out of the parking place, the third guy barely getting in as the driver stomped on the gas and the truck hurtled out of the
ramp.

  She fired the mini-cassette player at the retreating vehicle, heard the thing thwack into the back window of the SUV.

  Then the vehicle was gone, and her attackers with it. Unsteady on her feet, struggling to hold on to that fine Italian meal, Brennan fished out her phone and speed-dialed Booth’s number, then slumped to the concrete.

  In the distance, sirens spoke, and she figured the gunshots had spurred someone to call 911.

  “Booth,” he said, after the second ring.

  “Jumped me,” she managed.

  “What? Who? Temperance?… Are you all right?”

  She didn’t have the strength to answer.

  “Where are you? Temperance!”

  “Hotel,” she managed. “Ramp…”

  Then everything went black.

  * * *

  Brennan was loath to open her eyes.

  If her head hurt this much with her eyes closed, what the hell would open feel like?

  She didn’t care to find out.

  She lay there, doing an inventory of what hurt and what did not.

  The “did not” list took considerably less time, involving as it did her toenails, one earlobe, and about one square inch of the area between.

  What had happened in the hotel parking garage played through her memory like a sped-up movie; and she knew then that she would have to open her eyes to discover who had found her — the good guys, or the returning bad guys in the SUV….

  Opening them a fraction at a time, Brennan finally got her lids parted enough to allow vision; and, much to her surprise, the pain in her head dissipated.

  Slightly.

  Brennan eased her head to the right and saw a hospital monitor. The numbers showed her blood pressure, normal, and her heart rate, also normal.

  Well, at least something in her life was normal.

  The pain in her head erupted again, and she had to close her eyes for several long moments before it subsided.

  When she opened them again, the pain was not as severe. She continued her visual survey, content that she was in a hospital, which meant the authorities had been the ones to locate her.

  The next thing she saw was a big window with the blinds drawn.

  Adjusting her near vision, she took stock of a needle in her right arm and followed the line to a pair of clear plastic bags hanging from a stainless-steel pole. One was saline, the doctors keeping her fluids up, the other a painkiller.

  Great.

  If it hurt this much while she was on an IV painkiller, what was cold turkey going to feel like?

  With considerable effort, Brennan swung her head to the left, seeing a TV mounted on the wall at the foot of the bed. She panned to a dresser on the wall to her left; and beyond that, curled up in an uncomfortable-looking chair, snoring quietly, sprawled Seeley Booth.

  Covered with a white hospital blanket thinner than Bill Jorgensen’s alibi.

  And for a moment or two, she didn’t hurt at all.

  A voice from the doorway said, “Look who’s back among the living.”

  Brennan turned to see a slender woman in white slacks and a flowered smock.

  “I’m Nurse Oakley,” the woman said, striding in. “But you can call me Betty.”

  Looking back to the chair, Brennan saw Booth stirring as the nurse came in and took her pulse.

  “How are we feeling?” the nurse asked.

  “We are feeling like three guys kicked the hell out of us,” Brennan said.

  The nurse nodded. “That sounds about right. Pulse is fine — sense of humor, too…. I’ll tell Dr. Keller you’re awake. He’ll be in shortly.”

  The nurse flicked a smile and was gone.

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Booth sat up.

  “How long have I been out?” Brennan asked.

  Booth checked his watch. “Just about twenty-four hours.”

  Her tongue felt thick. “I’m thirsty.”

  Booth went to a small bedside table and picked up a plastic cup with a lid and a straw. He held it as she gulped, the icy water tasting wonderful.

  “Care to share what happened?” Booth asked.

  She told him about her reception in the garage.

  “Three bastards?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Is that an official FBI designation for assailants, Booth? ‘Bastards’?”

  “Why, how would an anthropologist put it?”

  She thought. “Bastards will do.”

  “Any sort of description?”

  Shaking her head, and wishing she hadn’t, Brennan said, “Three men wearing stocking-cap masks — all dressed in black. About average height, one a little heavier than the other two, but… that’s about it.”

  She was irked that someone whose expertise was bones — who understood posture, stature, kinesiology — could not provide a more detailed description of her attackers.

  The bastards, yes bastards, had gotten on her so damn fast that her only thought had been survival.

  Booth was asking, “The SUV?”

  She searched her memory, fuzzy with drugs. “White.”

  “Did you get the make, model?”

  More searching. “No. Sorry. General Motors, maybe?”

  “Plate number?”

  “Nope.”

  “Bumper stickers?”

  “No, but I did hit the back window with my mini-cassette player.”

  Booth frowned. “Cassette player?”

  “I threw it at them — you know, that little mini thing I use to record interviews and so on.” She shrugged and it hurt. “That was all I had.”

  He was still frowning. “Wasn’t a cassette player at the scene.”

  “Somebody probably picked it up,” Brennan said. “Some bystander, ’cause the bad guys were gone…. Spoils of war.” She had a sudden thought. “What about my purse?”

  Booth shook his head. “Sorry. Not at the scene, either.”

  “Shit,” she said.

  “Anybody could have picked it up — a good five or six minutes between when you called me and the cops arrived.”

  Shit shit shit.

  Her purse, her money (what there was of it), her credit cards, dammit, all her ID, gone now.

  “My cell phone?”

  He nodded and got something out of his pocket.

  Her phone.

  “This you still have,” he said. “Was in your hand.”

  “Security video?” Brennan asked.

  “Yeah,” Booth said, “but not much on it — white SUV, picture’s crap, couldn’t even tell the make and model, let alone catch the license number.”

  Brennan felt empty inside.

  Booth said, “Tell me where you were from the time you left me.”

  “…Promise you won’t be mad?”

  “No,” he said.

  She began—

  “Siracusa?” he fumed.

  She shrugged, and again it hurt. “I had to eat.”

  His eyes and nostrils flared. “You—”

  “I thought I would lend you a hand.”

  “Did I ask you to?”

  “No,” she said, defensive. “But you said Lisa Vitto hadn’t been interviewed by a policewoman, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “With your people skills?”

  She almost said, Look who’s talking.

  But she knew he was right.

  Lamely she managed, “Sorry.”

  “And did Lisa Vitto tell you anything she didn’t tell me?”

  “Just that she loved Stewart Musetti.”

  “She didn’t have to,” Booth said. “It was obvious she loves him.”

  “I said ‘loved.’ It was more past tense. She’s convinced he’s dead.”

  Booth said nothing.

  Brennan thought about it a moment and said, “You know how you always say I don’t get out enough?”

  “What, we’re changing the topic to the obvious now?”

  She ignored that and said, “You continually make fun of me not understanding o
r knowing about any pop culture references….”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, Lisa mentioned that she thought ‘they’ — I assume she meant the Gianellis — put her guy Stewart on the ‘Dunes Express.’ ”

  Booth shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “No. I don’t know what the hell that means.”

  She sighed, and the IV must have kicked in, because it didn’t hurt at all. “Well, at least it’s not just me this time.”

  “One good thing,” Booth said. “This narrows the list of suspects who attacked you.”

  “How?”

  “Had to be the Gianellis. Their crew. I mean, Vincent saw you talking to Lisa.”

  She frowned at him. “But you talked to Lisa, didn’t you? He didn’t come after you.”

  “They tend not to frontally assault FBI or cops. You’re sort of a civilian.”

  “But why would he come over and talk about being a big fan and… what’s the word? Shmoo with me?”

  “Shmooze.”

  “Why would he do that, and then send his boys after me?”

  Booth shrugged. “Maybe he was stalling you while some underling rounded up the goon squad and piled them into a white SUV.”

  “…Couldn’t it have been a simple mugging?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Does Jorgensen have any known associates?”

  “Are you kidding?” Booth said. “Elderly serial killers don’t usually have crews of strong-arms on call.”

  “But he is an elderly serial killer who preys on much younger men, then buries them…. He could have had help.”

  “Bones, he almost took out the three of us by himself!”

  Brennan said, “Given… but who would consider me a threat? Gianelli, whose case I’m not working? Or Jorgensen, whose basement I’d been excavating for the last two days?”

  He was shaking his head again. “Serial killers have been known to work in pairs — but in fours?”

  A very tall, very young man in a lab coat and tan Dockers strolled in carrying a chart in front of him like a schoolbook. He wore wire-frame glasses and his hair was straight and dark.

  Cheerfully professional, he asked, “And how are we feeling today, Dr. Brennan?”

  With that baby face, he looked to be barely out of his teens, much less medical school.