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Aaron Elkins: Make No Bones

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Aaron Elkins Make No Bones

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“Of course it does,” he said, heartened. “And don’t a few days in central Oregon sound good? Blue skies, warm sun, dry air-”

“Not really, thanks.”

Naturally not. Raised in the Pacific Northwest, she thrived on the cool mists and lush, wet green of the Olympic Peninsula. So, amazingly enough, did Gideon, a native Southern Californian. All the same, by the time May arrived-after half a year of dark days and endless, drifting gray rain, with two more months of it yet to come-he was ready to bargain away his soul for a few days of hot, flat, cloudless sunshine. It was hard to remember that anyone could feel otherwise.

Glass of wine in hand, she began reading again, then lifted her head as he turned up the heat under some olive oil. “Mm, it’s starting to smell good. What are we having, anyway?”

“Rock shrimp with garlic-basil sauce and pine nuts over fettucine.”

She was patently impressed. “That sounds wonderful. How long will it be? I’m starving.”

“I don’t know, I’ll see what it says on the can.” “No, seriously.”

He peered at the recipe and did some quick arithmetic. “Oh, should be no more than half an hour. Say seven o’clock at the latest.”

Julie sighed. “Say eight o’clock,” she murmured more or less to herself.

Julie was an amazingly fast cook. Her stints in the kitchen were blurred, efficient flurries of activity, with everything seemingly done at the same time. Gideon had a more leisurely approach, slicing, chopping, and arranging things well ahead of time, so he could putter pleasantly through the cooking with his own glass of wine beside him. The result, they both agreed, was that he enjoyed it more, but what took her forty minutes was likely to take him two hours.

“Say seven-thirty,” he told her. “Have another carrot stick.” He poured her some more wine and went back to cutting basil leaves.

Julie returned to the letter. “‘The Annual Albert Evan Jasper Memorial Weenie Roast, Singalong, and Chugalug Contest will begin at its time-hallowed hour of 7:00 P.M., Friday, and end God only knows when.’”-She looked at him quizzically. “Do you really have a singalong?”

“Absolutely. It’s great fun.”

“And a chugalug contest?”

He laughed, dumping the basil into the blender along with some garlic and Parmesan cheese. “Poetic license.”

“And who’s Albert Evan Jasper? I know the name…”

“One of the pioneering physical anthropologists. A student of Hrdlicka’s. He was one of the first ones to really get into forensic work. The whole idea of WAFA came out of a sort of retirement party for him, put on by some of his own ex-students. They all got together at this Whitebark Lodge for a few days and talked forensic anthropology.”

“Yes, I’ve heard these retirement parties can get pretty wild.”

He smiled. “I guess some good discussion came out of it, and they decided to expand it and make it an every-other-year thing. I’ve been to a couple of them so far, and they’ve been useful. Fun too.”

“I gather Jasper himself is dead now?”

Gideon flicked the blender on and off a couple of times.

“Yes, he died right there in Oregon, as a matter of fact. Never got to enjoy his retirement.”

“He died at his own retirement party?”

“Well, not exactly at, but right after. He was killed in a bus crash on the way to the Portland Airport.”

“And now,” she said reflectively, “he has an annual weenie roast and chugalug contest named after him. I wonder how he’d feel about that.”

“Oh, he was an eccentric old bird. From what I know about him I think he’d have gotten a kick out of it.” He dipped a wooden spoon into the basil-garlic mixture, tasted it, and added a few more shavings of Parmesan. “What do you say, Julie? Will you come? It’d be something different for you.”

“Gideon, I’d like to, but that third week in June is a real stinker for me. I already have four meetings set up.”

“Couldn’t you put them off a week? Move them up a week?”

“Impossible, it’s quarterly review time.”

“What about asking Don to take them for you? You could use some time to relax.”

“Would you want me to do that? Slough off my responsibilities?”

Julie was a supervising park ranger at Olympic National Park headquarters, there in Port Angeles. As Gideon well knew, she took her increasingly pressure-laden job seriously.

“No. Yes.”

“Thanks, that’s helpful.”

“Ah, Julie, it’s just that-well, I hate being away from you if I can help it. Nine days…”

She softened instantly, leaning forward to put her hand on the back of his. Her black eyes shone. “Well, why didn’t you put it like that in the first place, dopey? What was all that stuff about relaxation and sunshine?”

He hunched his shoulders. “I was embarrassed. Mature people aren’t supposed to be so damn dependent on other people.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She tilted her head, smiled. “So do you want to make the flight reservations, or should I?” Gideon laughed. “I’ll do it.”

He started spooning the basil mixture into the hot olive oil. “You know what I was thinking?” he said over his shoulder.

“What? My God, that smells good.”

“I was thinking of asking John if he’d like to do that session on crime-scene do’s and don’ts. It’d be fun to have him along, don’t you think?”

“John Lau? Our John? You’re kidding.”

“What’s wrong with the idea? He’s a bona fide FBI agent, isn’t he? He’s a first-rate cop, and he knows crime-scene procedure-he’s sure given me hell when I’ve messed things up. I think he’d love the chance to tell an audience of professors to watch where they put their feet.”

“I think he’d hate it. He can’t stand giving lectures. Not that it wouldn’t be nice to have him there.”

“Oh, I bet I can bring him around.”

“What are you, kidding me? You think I’m gonna stand up and give a speech to a bunch of Ph. D. professors with long gray beards? You’re out of your mind.”

Gideon smiled into the telephone. “What is it with beards? I’m a Ph. D. professor. Do I have a beard?”

“I’m not doing it, Doc. Find somebody else.”

“I’m doing you a favor, John. You’re always complaining that forensic types don’t understand police work. This is your big chance. You’ll have a captive audience.”

“No way.”

“You can have four hours if you want it.”

“Thanks a heap.”

“The meeting’s not far from Bend.”

“Bend?”

“Bend, Oregon.”

“What’s in Bend, Oregon?”

“Sunshine.”

Silence. Gideon waited.

“People ski in Bend, Oregon.”

“Only in the winter, John. The climate’s high desert. Yesterday’s temperature was almost seventy, humidity eighteen percent. Sunny. I checked it in the paper.”

What hadn’t worked for Julie, Gideon knew, was likely to do the trick for John, a native Hawaiian whose idea of good weather was a July day in Yuma, Arizona. Even Hawaii had been too cool to suit him, and too wet. The FBI, with bureaucratic caprice, had assigned him to Seattle, with its two months of sunshine (in a good year) and ten months of bone-penetrating drizzle.

“We could probably justify two or three days there for you,” Gideon said. “You’d be welcome to sit in on the other sessions if you wanted…or you could just lie around the swimming pool.”

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