Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“The analysis of handwriting, typewriting, inks, counterfeiting.”

“Here we mostly look at forged or altered checks. Occasionally threatening letters, bank robbery notes, yada yada. But indented writing isn’t uncommon.”

“Wait.” My eyes whipped to Slidell. “You found indented writing?”

“Near the mumbo jumbo about the sinking ship.”

“Ferry,” I corrected. Needless, but I was jazzed. “So a sheet was missing from above that first page?”

“Thought I spotted grooves, angled my flash across ’em. Called up here.”

Peppers used her ID to swipe us through a set of security doors, again to enter the Questioned Documents section. Inside, she went directly to a blue-and-gray box with a flat white top and the letters ESDA on the front. Looked like a small photocopier except for a large roll of clear Mylar sheeting to one side.

“Can we stick to the basics?” Slidell, not at all subtly checking his watch.

Peppers ignored him. “I used a technique called electrostatic detection. Sounds high-tech, but it’s not rocket science.”

My mind translated the letters on the machine. Electro Static Detection Apparatus.

“The specimen needed some humidification. Not much. It was an outer page, and the trunk environment wasn’t too dry.” Peppers hit a button, and the apparatus began whirring lustily. “Vacuum pump.” Loud enough to be heard over the noise.

I nodded.

Peppers placed a paper on the platen, stretched Mylar across it, and snipped the edge free from the roll. After hitting a second button labeled corona , she ran a long, rectangular wand back and forth above the Mylar.

“The corona sends high-voltage static charges onto the paper.” Not shouting but close. “The positive charges from the wand are preferentially attracted to the indentations. I’m simplifying.”

I nodded again.

After turning off the corona, Peppers tilted the platen and shook black powder from a canister onto the Mylar. “The toner is similar to that used in dry-process photocopy machines. It’s negatively charged.”

I nodded again, feeling like a bobblehead. But I didn’t want to yell.

“The areas of the document containing the higher static electric charge will retain more of the toner, resulting in dark deposits in the indentations.”

A few seconds of shaking to distribute and clear off the excess toner, then she killed the vacuum pump. The room went mercifully quiet. “Take a look.”

I stepped closer.

On the paper, in squiggly black script, were the words Crime Scene Do Not Enter . I looked a question at Peppers.

“I couldn’t use the real evidence to demo the process for you, so I made this mock-up. When finished with my actual analysis, I photographed and preserved the detective’s specimen.”

Chiclet smile. Not returned by Slidell.

“Have a look.”

I followed Peppers to a side counter. The notebook page was there, solo now, covered with a sheet of adhesive-backed clear plastic. Through the plastic, I could read the Latvian words Nogrimšanas traǵēdija . The name Felix Vodyanov .

Beside the words and name, three lines of writing not visible before. Fierce capitals and numerals.

I read them.

And felt a chill wash over my body.

9

The first line was a sequence of ten digits beginning with 704. The Charlotte area code.

The second line was also a telephone number.

The room had dissolved into a soundless whiteout. All I saw were those tiny black numerals, the grayness of the page roaring around them.

My mind was a maelstrom. Confusion. Disbelief. Fear.

For a moment, I felt I was floating. Then the stab of dread. Another migraine? No, this was different.

I blinked. Turned. Slidell and Peppers were watching me, identical frowns on their faces.

“That’s my mobile number.” Barely audible.

“It is,” Slidell said flatly.

“Sonofabitch.” Not my best. But I felt violated. As though a stranger had hacked my email or pawed through my underwear drawer.

“You put yourself out there for any of this social-media hooey? He Harmony? Snatch Match? Some egghead chat-room jabbering bones?”

I have years of practice in ignoring Slidell. In letting his callous commentary roll over me. Usually, the experience works to my advantage. Not at that moment.

“Holy Jesus Christ Almighty!” I exploded.

Slidell raised placating palms. “Look. This wanker had your number. John Ito or whoever the fuck left that car. There’s lots of ways that could play.”

“Don’t ever ask me a question like that again.” Anger had totally routed the fear.

“Does the third line mean anything?” Peppers asked.

I looked at the letter-number combo. JCOLE1013. Shook my head no.

A small silence. Then Peppers handed Slidell two prints. “I’ll keep the original page here, preserve it properly.”

Slidell grunted and headed for the door.

“Is he always this pleasant?” Tipping her head toward Skinny’s retreating back.

“He’s a boor but a good detective. Thanks for doing this.”

Downstairs in the squad room, the boor checked one of Peppers’s pics, then punched keys on his landline. The tinny sound of a connection came through the speaker. One ring, then a message, the words low and warbly, as though spoken underwater.

“Leave it. Short like this.”

A long beep followed by expectant silence.

Slidell disconnected with an irritated jab.

“Can you get someone to trace the number?” I asked.

A one-shoulder shrug.

“Why not?”

“The phone’s probably a burner, scored at a Walmart, chucked into a dumpster the next day.”

“Voice mail is still working.”

“Waste of time.”

I knew the basis of Slidell’s resistance. He was an outsider now. Enjoyed squad-room space only because of his long tenure and his volunteer work with the cold-case unit down the hall. He could call in only so many favors.

I was about to say something snarky. Which would have sent us into one of our death-battle spirals. Instead, I took a deep, calming breath and dropped into the chair opposite Slidell’s.

“The owner of the Hyundai had two numbers—”

“The owner of the notebook.”

“The one you just dialed,” I said, gesturing at Slidell’s phone. “And mine. The Hyundai’s owner may or may not be John Ito. Or Felix Vodyanov.”

“Or Buck Baker’s great-aunt Maude.”

I hadn’t a clue who that was. “The Hyundai’s owner may or may not have turned up dead and become hog feed in Cleveland County.”

Slidell arranged himself more comfortably. Loosened his already loose tie, hooked a heel onto an open desk drawer, tipped his chair onto its rear legs, and began rocking slowly back and forth. But he was listening.

“You get any calls from unknown numbers lately?” he asked.

“I get dozens of calls from unknown numbers. Telemarketers trying to sell me insurance or roofing repair. I don’t reply to the voice mail.”

But I followed Slidell’s thinking.

Pulling my iPhone from my purse, I scrolled backward in time, checking the red listings indicating missed calls. Yesterday. Saturday. Wednesday.

Friday. June 22. Area code 681.

I switched to Google. Verified the call’s origin.

“A week ago Friday, someone rang me from a West Virginia exchange. I opened my voice mail to check that date. “The caller left no message.”

“The Hyundai was registered in West Virginia,” Slidell said.

Our eyes met, mine seeking permission. Slidell nodded. I tapped the number. Put my phone on speaker and laid it on the desk.

Two rings, then a voice, robotic, perhaps mechanically distorted to disguise the speaker.