Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“What was that?”

We both froze, vigilant for movement ahead, above, or out over the water. I heard a swish of fabric. Knew Slidell’s hand had cocked toward his gun.

All was muggy stillness around us.

As we clambered over the algae-slimed outcrop, I worried. Had Timmer deployed his henchmen to discover where we’d parked? Did he have henchmen? Was he planning an ambush at the 4Runner? Or had he simply returned to his movie? Was my paranoia playing more games with my sanity?

Minutes, maybe eons, then we finally reached the boat ramp. The 4Runner sat alone in the dark. No Bing. No Timmer. No henchmen.

Thank Christ.

A surprising puff of hot air brushed my skin as we both scrambled up the incline and across the concrete. When Slidell wasn’t venting his indignation over one thing or another, we rode to Charlotte in silence. Which provided far too much time for reflection.

Had Timmer ordered a covert investigation? Surely he wanted to know who we were. It was obvious he hadn’t called 911. Was he afraid of a police presence in the cottage? Of an inquiry into the nature of the event and those who were present?

Had we blundered into something more sinister than a pitch for the delights of a subterranean abode?

Slidell phoned early the next morning. Spent time reemphasizing themes he’d highlighted during the previous night’s trudge down the beach and the endless drive home. Finally got to the point.

“Vice boys knew the name right off. Vincent Aiello. Online, goes by Twist.”

“Good work.”

“You know that dark web thing you been talking up?”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve bee—”

“There was a kiddie porn site down there called PlaySchool. Users went in through some sick-as-shit browser—”

“TOR?”

“Sounds right. Keeps your cyber-prowling secret, so word on the street had PlaySchool as a nice, safe hidey-hole for viewing and trading kiddie porn. Vice guys say there were over a hundred thousand users and tens of thousands of posts involving sexual abuse and exploitation of minors.”

“You’re using the past tense.” Hiding my revulsion.

“Two years ago, the feds shut the fucker down. They arrested the creator and head administrator, a douchebag in Philadelphia name of Sammy Lowenstein, a busload of child porn producers, and a couple hundred U.S.-based users.”

“Jesus.”

“Messed up, eh? On the plus side, they also rescued thirty-two kids.”

“How does Vincent Aiello figure in?”

“Your boy Twist was a frequent flier.”

“Meaning?”

“He regularly posted content in the forums.”

“The FBI snagged Aiello in their net?”

“Yep. Prosecuted him on a number of counts of engaging in a child-exploitation enterprise.”

“I hope he stays behind bars till his dick falls off.” Repugnance now curdling my tone.

“Unfortunately, all charges had to be dropped.”

“Seriously?”

“To crack into TOR, special agents used what the DOJ described as—I’m quoting here—a network investigative technique approved by a federal court. Later, a different judge ruled that the FBI had to reveal the nature of said technique in order to move forward with prosecuting Aiello. The Bureau said kiss my sweet cheeks. The turd walked.”

“Bigger fish?”

“Apparently, the DOJ has related probes that are still ongoing.”

“Aiello lives local?”

“Dilworth.”

“What’s he do?”

“You ready for this? The guy’s a lawyer.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Solo practitioner, does something with patents, works out of his home.”

“Any previous arrests?”

“In 2010, he was charged with one count of possessing and three counts of transporting child pornography. That’s how he came to the notice of CMPD vice.”

“Let me guess. He skated.”

“Got everything thrown out because of a technicality. Apparently, they found the stuff in his car without probable cause to search the vehicle.”

“Bing said Vodyanov fought with Aiello. Attacked him, actually. That the incident got him kicked out of DeepHaven.”

“What’d they fight about?”

“You know what I know.”

“What the hell is DeepHaven?”

“I thought it might be a real estate office. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Because?”

“Why such an odd location? Why no commercial signage? Why so much security? Why use only the first names of clients?”

There was a pause over the line. Heavy. Then Slidell summarized aloud what we were both thinking.

“Aiello’s a pedophile. He’s living in Charlotte when Jahaan Cole goes missing. The kid’s name is in Vodyanov’s notebook. Vodyanov gets into a throwdown with Aiello and shortly thereafter turns up dead.”

I picked up the thread. “Aiello’s into kiddie porn but managed to stay under the radar until 2010, then again for the next six years. He’s a lawyer, he’s careful, undoubtedly more so since the FBI bust. We need to question him before he gets wind of our interest.”

“ We don’t need to do nothing . Just because I agreed to your little sortie last night don’t mean we’re now Starsky and Hutch.”

Expected. I pressed on anyway.

“Can you pull Aiello’s file? Talk to the feds? To the vice detective and prosecutor from 2010?”

“Sit tight until you hear from me.”

“I—”

“No promises. Just be ready when I call.”

After disconnecting, the revulsion hung on. I was fixed in place, wallowing in it, when a knock sounded on the door. I looked up. Through the window above the sink I could see a panel truck, through the one in the door a stoop-shouldered silhouette wearing a broad-billed white cap. I recognized the long-lost painter. Fred? Frank?

I let Fred/Frank in. He was in his mid-fifties, with sullen eyes and pockmarked skin that looked like it had spent its whole life in a cellar. As on our earlier encounters, I suspected that neither Fred/Frank’s cap nor his matching coveralls had enjoyed the company of detergent in the recent past.

Fred/Frank and I discussed the errant shade of paint. After he showed me the new color and I approved, he trudged upstairs. Several return trips for a ladder, more cans, brushes, drop cloths, and other paraphernalia, and Fred/Frank disappeared into the new study.

Recalling Fred/Frank’s fondness for sun tea, I filled my large glass jar with distilled water, threw in a mix of green, hibiscus, and peach tea bags, capped it, and set the jar out on the porch. God forbid I should fall short should Fred/Frank grow thirsty.

By ten, the place smelled like the inside of a chimney at a chemical plant. Unsure if that was normal, or healthy, I decided to vacate.

Throughout the morning, I ran errands. After lunch, I began work on an article for the Journal of Forensic Sciences. In the downstairs guest room/study. With the door closed to head off the fumes.

Around two, heavy clomping on the staircase caught my attention. I peeked out in time to see Fred/Frank hurrying down the hall.

“All finished?” To his retreating back.

“Got a phone call. Gotta go.”

“But—”

I heard the kitchen door open, click shut. Exasperated, I rolled a towel and jammed it along the crack below the door in the upstairs study. The hasty departure felt worryingly familiar. Why, I wondered, had I stuck with this guy?

At six, I left to meet Pete for dinner.

His news made thoughts of fickle painters, missing kids, pedophiles, faceless corpses, and strange bunkers dissolve like fog on a hot summer dawn.

Pete and I tied the knot young, kept it tied for two decades. Then came the nurse, the Realtor, the law-firm colleague. Unable to ignore the affairs, I left. For years, my simmering anger and his guilt kept us apart. The resentment and self-blame are gone now. We both agree. We’re better friends single than we ever were married.