Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

Paralleling the gradient on Lone Eagle Lane, the beach angled upward. Panting and perspiring, we forged on. Though less enthused now, I was determined to see the escapade through to its conclusion.

“This is the goddamn stupidest thing you’ve ever dragged my ass into.” Slidell was breathing hard. I hoped I wasn’t dragging his ass into a cardiac event.

The straps of my sandals, grown soggy and gritty, sawed channels into my heels and the tops of my feet. My clothing molded to me like a second skin. How had the distance seemed so much shorter in the 4Runner?

Behind me, I could hear Slidell crunching and wheezing. At any second, I was certain he’d order retreat. Then, without warning, the shoreline cut in, and the bank to our right rose sharply. Google Maps flashed bright and mutely announced we were at the programmed GPS coordinates.

I thumbed on my flash and pointed it toward the water. The pier was bigger than most and had a pontoon boat moored beside it.

As Slidell’s beam fell on the pontoon, I aimed mine right. It landed on a narrow flight of wooden stairs. I ran the light up the steps. Could see nothing beyond the top one.

As one, we killed our lights and listened for movement above us. I caught only Slidell’s breathing and the blood pulsing in my ears.

Jesus, Brennan. The guy’s a Realtor, not Polyphemus. He owns a party boat.

One fiercely unfriendly glance, then Slidell began climbing, cautiously testing before putting his full weight onto each tread. White-knuckling the rail, I followed.

Topside, a zillion tree frogs chirped amphibian gossip. Maybe crickets. I risked a nanosecond of flash. So did Slidell.

A path led from the stairs to a gate, then across a small yard to the cottage. Surprisingly, the back door was ajar. A violet-blue slash cut through the gap, lighting a deck holding a Weber grill and angular shapes that looked like rockers and patio chairs.

The gate was unlocked. Slidell disengaged the lever and strode to the deck.

“Yo!”

Same result as out front. Silence. He shouted again. Still no response.

Slidell palmed the door open. We both stepped inside.

We were in a kitchen lit by overhead recessed cans. Faux-brick tile floor, farm-style sink, stainless-steel appliances. The refrigerator was just to our right. Through a glass panel, I could see containers of Osetra and Beluga caviar, smoked duck, foie gras, and lump crab meat. Enough cheeses to feed all of Wisconsin.

At the room’s center was a plank pine table. Eight bamboo place mats, eight chairs, one askew, as though hastily vacated. At the table’s center, a ceramic vase with a pink calla lily in its prime.

A clipboard lay on the mat in front of the off-angle chair. I walked over, glanced down, and noted a list of names, all but two checked. Beside the clipboard, a crystal tumbler holding an inch of amber liquid.

Slidell joined me and picked up the glass. Sniffed. “Hell-o.”

He extended his arm. I inhaled. ID’d cognac or brandy.

Straight ahead, opposite the back entrance and beside a Wolf range, was a closed door. From beyond it came what sounded like a recorded voice, the cadence suggesting TV or film dialogue.

To the right of the closed door, an open one allowed a view into a pantry. We crossed to it. On the floor were cases of liquor and wine. Macallan. Patrón. Tito’s. Rémy Martin. The wines were mostly domestic pinot noirs and French burgundies. Good ones. I knew. Light reds had been my poison of choice.

Godiva chocolates and other delicacies filled the shelves. Walker’s shortbread cookies. Jars of olives and tiny cornichon pickles. Boxes of cigars displaying the word Habana .

“Looks like someone’s planning a party,” Slidell said, voice muted.

“That someone’s a mighty big spender.”

Then a high-voltage shot of adrenaline. In one corner, a stack of cocktail napkins with the word DeepHaven in royal blue script.

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later.” As I captured the napkins with my phone.

Beyond the closed door, the cinematic voice droned on. As Slidell moved into the pantry to inventory the shelves, I scurried over and put my ear to the wood. Made out a few words. Maybe safety ? Maybe threat ? I was repositioning for better acoustics when a hinge squeaked at my back. I whirled.

A man stood in the doorway, feet spread, fingers fumbling with his fly. A plastic badge on his shirt introduced him as Bing . A rainbow tattoo on one forearm showed a snarling reptile and said Florida Gators .

A tug, another, then Bing gave up and braced with a hand to the frame. He was large, in a linebacker-gone-to-fat way. A slack jawline and blond fringe struggling to form brows and cover his scalp said Bing’s gridiron days were far in the past.

My gaze found Slidell’s. His eyes narrowed as he indicated his badge and shook his head. I dipped my chin in acknowledgment of his desire to conceal that he was a cop.

“The door was open.” As Slidell listened from the pantry, I spoke up, not wanting to startle.

If my presence unnerved Bing, he gave no indication. Taking me in with bloodshot eyes, he said, “Had to piss.”

“Understandable.”

The scraggly brows dipped as my algae-stained state penetrated to Bing’s brain.

“Walked over along the beach.” To distract, I wiggled a finger at Bing’s unzipped pants. “You want to … ?”

“Sorry.” After clumsily achieving success, “I need to verify you’re invited.”

“Sure.”

Bing walked to the table, not stumbling but clearly unsteady. “Name?”

“Flora.” One of the unchecked pair on the list.

“You’re not …”

“I’m a friend of Flora’s. She said it would be all right if I came in her place.”

A beat, then, “You got ID?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to haul my purse. It’s really big. You know how women are.” Silly woman grin. “I left everything behind in my car. I suppose I could go all the way back to get it …”

More puzzled brows. Then a steroidal arm arced. “You can’t go in until they’re finished.”

“So I get to hang with you?” Accompanied by a flirtatious smile.

Blushing, which did not improve his appearance, Bing reoriented the arm, still upraised, in the general direction of the table. I sat.

“They’ll be tied up an hour, maybe longer.”

“Oh, my.”

“Buy a lady a drink?” The dolt actually said that.

“Please, sir.” I actually said that.

Bing walked to a cabinet, returned with a second tumbler and an open bottle of Courvoisier. Dropping beside me with a whoosh of cheap cologne and an alarming creaking of wood, he poured us each three inches of cognac.

“I’ll bet you played football,” I said, eyes roving, discreetly seeking options for an exit plan.

“Defensive tackle.” Bing knocked back two of his three inches.

“Wow.” Beaming feigned admiration, I pretended to drink.

“I can still bench-press three fifty.”

“That’s awesome.” I had no idea.

Bing tried to rest his chin on his palm. It slipped off. “Oops,” he said, grinning.

“Oops,” I said, grinning.

Bing drained then refilled his tumbler, leaned close, and placed the gator hand on my arm. “I gotta lock up here tonight. But you want to wait, I’ll drive you to your car. Or wherever.” The rheumy leer made me want an immediate shower.

“That’s so kind.” Taking another sham sip. “Your boss must be a really good guy, sharing such expensive cognac.”

Bing winked. “It’s our little secret.”

“I’ll bet your job allows you to meet loads of interesting people.”

Humble hitch of one shoulder.