Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“This occurred during his final stay?”

“Nah, an earlier one.”

“When was he last at Sparkling Waters?”

She considered. “I keep in touch some. I hear he was last there late May, early June.”

“Do you know where Vodyanov lived?”

Barrow mashed her cigarette against the heel of her boot. Held the stub in one palm, considering. Then, without a word, she yanked the screen open and disappeared into the house.

Time passed. I sweated. A lot. I was certain I’d been dismissed when Barrow reappeared, holding the door with one hand while thrusting a yellow Post-it at me with the other.

“You didn’t get this from me.”

“Thank you.” Quick glance, then I slipped her offering into my shoulder bag.

“Any way I spin it, spying, trafficking, child porn, comes down to the guy was bad news. My conscience is clear. Now I got work needs doing.”

“One last question.”

Barrow didn’t retreat.

“If they weren’t simply spiritual retreats, why do you think Mr. Vodyanov made visits to Sparkling Waters?”

“I never asked the reasons folks needed to get away from their lives. Still, some shared. Usually, it was alcohol, drugs, stress at work. Vodyanov told me he suffered from taphophobia.”

I raised questioning brows.

“The dude had spells when he was terrified of being buried alive.”

12

The drive back to the highway felt as dismal as the drive in from it. More so. The clouds, no longer satisfied with forming small alliances, were expanding and muscling out the sun. Rolling and bumping over the driveway and then the narrow road, I felt enveloped in gloom—gray forest, gray road, gray sky through gray vegetation. Monet might have titled the landscape Study in Depression .

Rush-hour traffic had the northbound lanes of I-77 congealed into one enormous clot. Fortunately, I was heading south, toward Charlotte. Still, it was five forty when I finally parked at the annex.

Walking from the car felt like passing through a steam bath. I estimated the barometric pressure at about a billion.

First off, I fished the yellow Post-it from my purse and, seated at the kitchen table, googled the address. Was a bit surprised.

If Barrow was correct, Vodyanov had lived in a part of Charlotte I skirted on one of my driving routes to UNCC, a largely Latino area with a robust gang presence. MS-13, Sur 13, subsidiaries of both. Disputes between rival entrepreneurs often sent corpses toes-up through the doors at the MCME.

I dialed Slidell. Got his voice mail and left a message. Call me .

Minutes dragged by. A half hour.

I fed Birdie, then paced. Undecided. Knowing the wise decision.

I picked things up. Put them down. Returned to the table. Plucked a daisy from a vase, triaged petals, returned it to its pals. Ran my palm over a place mat. Felt roughness and spit-cleaned the morsel with one thumb. Paced some more.

My stomach growled. I ate a carton of yogurt. A peach.

The annex was silent save for the tinkle of Bird’s tags against his bowl. The metronome ticking of the mantel clock.

Unable to stay still, I crossed to the window overlooking the patio. The world outside was bathed in eerie plum light. The clouds, now bloated and bruised, were organizing for serious action.

Agitated, I called Slidell again. With the same result.

Was he ignoring me?

Snap decision.

Even with rain, it would be light for another three hours. I had a vague sense of Vodyanov’s hood. Had gone there for the occasional burrito or enchilada.

I left a different message for Skinny. This one included the address.

Quick trip to the head, then I grabbed my purse and set off.

Ignoring the navigational advice emanating from my mobile, I drove to the intersection of Central Avenue and Eastway Drive, then turned left. Gloomy due to the impending storm, yet too early for streetlamps programmed for summertime dusk, the area seemed unnaturally dim and shadowy. I passed a check-cashing operation, an auto-parts store, strip malls containing bodegas, taquerias, tattoo parlors, gun shops, and other small businesses, all with bars on their windows and doors. Most were padlocked and dark. Only the occasional fast-food joint still blazed neon.

Unfamiliar with the maze of streets surrounding the main drag, I now followed the Waze lady’s robotic instructions. A couple of right turns, a left. The area became less commercial and more residential. I passed a lot of spray-painted graffiti, largely in Spanish. On one crumbling wall, the word Malditos in lime green.

Another right, and I was crawling down a narrow street packed shoulder to shoulder with unadorned boxes rising three or four stories. Grotty air conditioners jutted from windows, and rusty fire escapes snaked the brick. The iPhone voice told me my destination was on the right. Pulling to the curb between two pickups that had to be at least twenty years old, I scanned for Barrow’s Post-it address.

The digits 2307 overhung the front entrance of the last box in the row, smaller than its brethren. The first floor housed what looked like a comic-book shop. Lots of ads featuring dragons and superheroes. Metal grates covered the shop’s single window and door. Darkness beyond told me that business was closed for the day. Maybe forever.

Number 2307 was situated on a corner and had a small, unlit street skimming past its left side. A narrow walkway separated it from its neighbor to the right. A grass parkway separated it from the curb at which I sat.

Assuming rental units would be on the upper two floors, I checked those windows for signs of life. Only two were lit. Both were covered by yellowed shades. Behind the shades, small silhouettes lined the sills, a plant, a bird figurine, bottles of lotion or shampoo.

I got out and locked the Mazda. From far off came the thrum of unseen cars on Central Avenue. Closer, a rhythmic squeaking. I searched the sidewalk in both directions.

The pavement was deserted save for a lone woman pulling a handcart with one bad wheel. She stopped to stare at me, face unreadable in the prestorm gloom. I hurried to 2307.

Access was through a graffiti-splattered brown metal door to the right of the comic shop’s front entrance. Six buzzers, three with names: #1 Ramos, #5 Garcia, #6 Vance. Based on Barrow’s comments, I was betting on Vance to be Vodyanov. If Vodyanov had actually been a tenant.

I stood, considering options. Push random buttons? Phone Slidell? Retreat and call it a day? I was tired and hungry. Any second, the sky would unload.

I was pulling out my mobile to speed-dial Skinny when the door opened and a man hurried out. He was small and wiry and dark. Startled eyes took me in, then the man pushed the door wide, nodded, and hurried on his way, cleated heels ringing steely on the pavement. I mumbled a thank-you to his back and slipped inside.

The air felt damp and sticky against my hot skin. I smelled onions and grease. I glanced around.

The place was like any other dingy walk-up I’d seen. Grimy green tile on the floor. Cracked and peeling paint on the walls. Empty cans and unwanted flyers lining the point where one met the other.

I hesitated a few wild heartbeats, then headed for the staircase. It was narrow and poorly lit, with most fixtures lacking a bulb or two.

Rounding the second-floor turn, I heard a TV playing behind one of three gray metal doors. The cadence of canned laughter suggested a sitcom. I guessed tenant Ramos was catching some tube.

I continued to climb, my shadow crawling along the wall beside me like a fuzzy black slug. The higher I went, the more oppressive the heat.

Reaching the top floor, I paused again. Same setup as below. Three gray metal doors. Deep breath, then I crept down the hall. At unit 6, I stopped to listen for signs of a presence inside. Heard only the thrumming of my own pulse.