Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“It translates ‘sinking tragedy.’ ” I pointed to the heading.

“The rest in Latspeak?”

I skimmed. Nodded.

“That it?”

I ran my hand around the bottom of the duffel, felt a small rectangular object, and pulled it out. A thumb drive. Across one side was a line of Cyrillic text: Медицинские.

“What’s the writing?”

“I don’t read Russian,” I said.

Using my iPhone, I shot pics of the drive and the articles taken from the duffel.

“Could be your vic is this Felix Vodyanov?”

“Many Latvians have Russian names.”

“Maybe the worm’s KGB.”

Comedic delivery is not Slidell’s forte. I looked up to see if he was kidding. Wasn’t sure.

“The KGB ended with the dissolution of the Soviet Union.” I didn’t point out that had happened in ’91, thus the Latvian independence. “An operative planted in the States would probably be with SVR, Russia’s external intelligence service.”

“You seriously thinking the guy’s some sort of spy?”

“I’m not thinking anything. I’ll go online for a translation.” Picking up the thumb drive. “Can you run the plate?”

We were punching keys when the double click of a pump-action shotgun froze us both.

8

“One move buys you a butt load of twelve-gauge.”

“I’m a cop—” Slidell started.

“Turn around. Real slow.”

We did.

The man was bushy-haired and tall, maybe six-five. The stub of a cigar rested in one corner of his mouth. A Remington 870 rested in his hands. Which had fingers long enough to wrap an asteroid.

The man looked us over impassively. His stubble was dark and abundant, his eyes the faded blue of overwashed denim. I put his age at somewhere between forty and fifty.

“I got no vehicle come from the likes of you.” Cigar bobbing a little.

“Let me guess.” Controlled. Even Slidell wouldn’t pick a fight with this guy. “You’re Art.”

“And you’d be?”

“Police.”

“Pass me a flag. We’ll have us a parade.”

I sensed Slidell stiffen.

“Detective Slidell and I would like to ask you some questions.” To ease the tension, I voiced the cliché.

“Don’t talk to cops.” All glare and defiance. And shotgun.

“It will take just a moment.”

The pale blue gaze went past me. Slight frown as Art took in the Hyundai with its open trunk. “That your car?”

“No,” I said.

“Ain’t my inventory.”

“That’s why we’re here.” I slanted a quick side-eye to Slidell. His attention never wavered from the man with the gun.

“How’d it get onto my lot?” Art sounded a little less confident.

“Last Friday, a body was found beside Buffalo Creek, just past your property line,” I said.

“Got no knowledge of that.”

“We don’t know the man’s name. But this may be his Sonata.”

Art stared, cigar firm in his teeth. Something new in his eyes. “How’d this fella get his self killed?”

“Cause of death is unclear. The medical examiner—”

The cigar dipped a hair as Art swallowed.

“Look. Either you green-light me to toss this car now, or I come back with a warrant this afternoon. Meanwhile, I bide my time checking your business licenses, your taxes, your gun permits. You living in that dung heap?” Slidell cocked his chin toward the trailer. “I get real bored, I might make a few calls, get inspectors out to verify your little slice of heaven meets fire and health codes. You really want to go that route?”

Typical Slidell bluff. But Art bought it. Nodding once, he lowered the barrel of the Remington. Didn’t even ask for a badge.

Slidell’s phone was still in his hand. He waved it at the assemblage spread across the trunk. “This shit goes with us.”

As I began repacking the duffel, Slidell stripped off his gloves, unpocketed a notebook and pencil stub, spit-thumbed to a clean page, and jotted the Hyundai’s tag and license info. Walking toward the 4Runner, he punched keys with one clammy finger. A momentary pause, a click of a conversation, then he disconnected. Butt-leaning the quarter panel, he waited.

Art watched me, now so close I could smell his sweat and the calamine he must have smeared on a rash. I’d just zipped the duffel when Slidell’s cell exploded into lyrics about a goodhearted woman. He answered, then shoulder-tucked the phone to write. As I joined him, he was assuring someone named Carla of a beer in her future.

“The car’s registered to a John Ito.” Pocketing the mobile.

“Ito.” Not the name I expected.

“India. Tango. Oscar. The same letters stitched into the tie lining.”

“Not Felix Vodyanov.”

Slow wag of Slidell’s head.

“Ito sounds Japanese.” Heavner was right, and I was wrong?

Shoulder shrug.

“OK.” At the end of a long breath. “Anything else?”

“Morgantown address. I’ll check it out when we get back. Seems Ito’s licensed and insured in West Virginia.”

“Maybe there’s no connection to the faceless man.”

“Right. Your stiff’s carrying Latvian intel on doomed ships and biochemical weapons. The same jabberwocky’s in the trunk of that car.” Thumb jabbing the Hyundai. “No connection there.”

Unable to fault Slidell’s logic, I said nothing.

“Assuming Affordable Art’s being straight, and he and I will definitely be discussing his veracity, either Ito parked here on the sly and walked out, or his killer slipped in and ditched the car.”

“Both scenarios suggest knowledge of the area.”

“Not bad, doc. I’ll brief Poston. Ask if he knows a John Ito. Tell him the vehicle’s all his.”

I peeled off my gloves, feeling unexpected empathy for the Cleveland County sheriff.

Slidell insisted we “stop for slop” en route home. The detour to Hog Heaven added an hour and a half to the trip. The barbecue was good, the hush puppies outstanding. It was almost two by the time he dropped me at the annex.

I called Pete straight off. Couldn’t do it from the car since my damn phone had died. His voice mail informed callers that he was away until the middle of the month. The sound effects were either a gun salute or cherry bombs. Patriotic as Art.

I left a request for help with a Latvian translation. Kept it vague, hoping to tickle his curiosity.

Ninety minutes later, my partially charged mobile rang. Thinking my ploy had worked, I answered blindly.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

The shot of anger caught me by surprise. I lowered my hand to disconnect.

Saw the name of the caller.

“Dr. Heavner.” Heart rate up a notch.

“What the shuffling fuck?” Lab noises in the background. The metallic clanking of a bay door. The grinding of a transport van in reverse. The fast, resolute click of heels on tile.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Did we not discuss this? Did I change my mind and request a consult? Did I imply, in any way, at any time, that I desired your assistance?”

“Do you?” Carefully neutral.

“You have no idea how vehemently I do not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Tell me it’s bullshit.” So furious she was practically spitting her words. “Tell me you did not go to Cleveland County asking about one of my cases.”

“I was asking about a car.”

“My John Doe is none of your business.”

“So the body is still not ID’d?”

“Are you hearing my voice?”

“Did you try CODIS? NDIS?” I was asking about the Combined DNA Index System, the FBI’s database, and the National DNA Index System, the part of CODIS containing profiles contributed by federal, state, and local forensic labs. It took a while, but sometimes you got a cold hit.