Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

The page with the phone number impressions also contained a reference to a missing child. To one of my cases. What did the man know about Jahaan Cole’s disappearance?

Was that the reason for Slidell’s unexpected interest? Though inactive, Jahaan Cole’s file remained open. One of Slidell’s rare failures. As a cold case, she was firmly on his turf.

That didn’t tally. We’d only learned of the indented code this evening, long after leaving Affordable Art’s. Something else had motivated Skinny.

Questions. No answers.

Sinking to the floor, I sat with knees up, shoulder blades to the vanity.

Jahaan Cole had gone missing long before the arrival of Margot Heavner. Back in the Larabee years.

I pictured my former boss, scrawny thin and overtanned from thousands of hours of long-distance running. Gray and still in the trauma surgical intensive-care unit.

Larabee and I had shared little of our personal lives. We didn’t hit the bars at day’s end or play on the same softball team. But we’d worked well together. His death had left me feeling like I was dangling over the edge of a gaping hole.

Tears burned the backs of my lids. I didn’t fight them. Hoped a good cry would vent the emotions thrashing inside me.

No go. I just sat there, blinking into space, mind ricocheting from question to question.

Did I regret my criticism of Heavner? My condemnation of her interviews with Nick Body? I’d taken so much blowback for that.

At least one easy answer. No, damn it to hell, no!

Heavner had leaked privileged information on a radio show hosted by a narcissistic crackpot. Information that had hurt the victim’s family and may have prevented the killer’s conviction.

Snatches of the exchange slithered free from the dark corner in which I’d stored them. Heavner discussing Hardin Symes’s autism. Body spewing bullshit about the hazards of vaccination. Body hyping the alarming number of child homicides and disappearances.

My eyes flew open. Until that moment, I’d forgotten. Or buried the memory so deeply it could find no slither room. I’d listened to Body interview Heavner one other time, more than a year after Hardin’s murder. Don’t recall my reason. Perhaps to see if Dr. Morgue was still abusing her office. In that broadcast, Body mentioned Jahaan Cole in a similar tirade about missing children. No lurid details, just one of many examples to support the ludicrous notion that the U.S. government was snatching kids.

Sitting on the cold tile, I felt chilled all over.

Margot Heavner hadn’t once challenged or contradicted Body.

And something else infuriated me.

Hardin Symes’s murder was an open case.

Jahaan Cole’s disappearance was an open case.

The faceless man was an open case.

Heavner was exhibiting the same self-serving disregard for his privacy that she had for the others. And reaching beyond her area of expertise. The man wasn’t Asian. Heavner was mistaken.

In my gut, I knew that the man on my front lawn was the man logged into the morgue as MCME 304-18. That his body had been scavenged by hogs near Buffalo Creek. That the Hyundai was his. That he was not John Ito. Felix Vodyanov? Maybe, but gut instinct was far from evidence.

That man had my number and had tried to contact me. Perhaps concerning Jahaan Cole. I had to learn who he was.

Screw Heavner. Her warnings. Her threats. I’d pin a name on this man if it killed me. Get him home to whoever was out there wondering where he’d gone. Then I’d resign.

Returning to bed, I found Birdie stretched out on my pillow, paws in the air.

I displaced the cat. He curled in the crook of my knee.

I fell asleep picturing my report on MCME 304-18 on Heavner’s desk, my employee ID and keys lying on top.

10

FRIDAY, JULY 6

Three days passed with nothing much happening.

Ryan was asked to investigate the theft of a horse named Neville. Neville had gone missing from a vineyard outside Bordeaux. He offered to decline the case, suggested a visit to Charlotte instead. Though his words were sincere, his tone suggested a real desire to get involved. And earn the fee, which would be substantial. I told him to accept. It meant he’d be going to France.

Katy Skyped from Bagram. Not sure why she was back at that airbase. She couldn’t elaborate but confirmed that she was still scheduled to rotate stateside in October. Reassured me she wouldn’t volunteer for another war-zone deployment.

My sister, Harry, flew to Iceland with a guy named Mookey. Mama went to the mountains with Sinitch.

My blood continued flowing through the proper arterial pathways.

The heat wave steamrolled on over the Carolinas, suffocating mountains, piedmont, and low country with temperatures and humidity more suited to Darwin or Bangkok.

For me, Independence Day was flags and sparklers and the Colonel’s chicken with friends at Lake Norman. A brief respite from days of tension and frustration.

The faceless man began his second week on a stainless-steel gurney in the morgue cooler. Still nameless.

Heavner didn’t call. Ditto Slidell. Pete.

The annex remained unnervingly quiet. My only progress came with the thumb-drive photo I’d snapped and then forgotten thanks to Art and his shotgun. The Cyrillic word Медицинские translated to “Medical.” I had no idea the significance of that.

Friday, everything changed.

It started with an early-morning email from Lizzie Griesser. A one-line message. Cactus time!

I clicked open the attachment. And actually did an arm-pump in the air.

Of course, Slidell didn’t answer his phone. He returned my call at nine thirty.

Before I could share my news, he let fly.

“Don’t chew my ass. I didn’t check in because I been busy.”

“You ran the name Felix Vodyanov?”

“No missing-persons report. No BOLO. No criminal record. No military. No passport or visa info. No prints. Nothing in any database I checked.”

“No dental or medical dossiers.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Did you reach out—”

“To Timbuktu and back. Local, state, federal. It’s like the asshat doesn’t exist.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Eh.”

“Could it be Vodyanov’s a foreign national?”

“There’s no record of anyone with that name entering the U.S. But my guy came through on the thumb drive. Gonna cost me a bottle of Stoli.” Slidell paused. Messing with my head? “The thing had one file, not password-protected, not encrypted.”

“Not a list of Russian sleeper cells.”

“A list of prescription drugs.” I heard paper rustle. “Depacon, Zoloft, Seroquel, couple others.”

Depacon is an anticonvulsant sometimes used as a mood stabilizer. Zoloft is an antidepressant. Seroquel is an antipsychotic. “Vodyanov must have had mental issues,” I said.

“The thing also had info on a doc.”

“Name?”

“A. Yuriev. He’s licensed but does mostly homeopathic wellness and stress-management crap.”

“Where does Yuriev practice?” I was surprised my voice sounded so calm.

“You’re gonna love this. He’s on staff at some sort of Buddhist monk spa outside Winston-Salem. A joint called Sparkling Waters.”

“An ashram?”

“Advertises itself as a spiritual retreat and healing center. Whatever. Yuriev don’t sound Indian to me. I’ll drop a dime.”

“No.” Too quick. “We should drive up there.”

“He’ll pull that doctor-patient crap.”

“That’s why we should go. Catch Yuriev off guard.”

No response.

“We have to give it a try. Felix Vodyanov could be the first break in the Jahaan Cole case.”

“We don’t know who wrote the code for the kid in the notebook.”