Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“Sorry,” I added. “I appreciate your coming.”

“It ain’t the end of the world.” Cocking his chin at the rubble.

“It sure as hell doesn’t help our investigation. Everything relating to the Vodyanov case is toast.”

“Yeah?”

“What the fire didn’t destroy my overly zealous neighbor turned into mush.”

“Like what?”

“The MCME file that Joe Hawkins gave me. The photos I printed. My notes. The scraps from Vodyanov’s trench-coat pocket. Lizzie Griesser’s phenotype sketch and report. I’d just moved it all up here.”

“Your pal can print you another sketch.”

“That’s not the point.”

Slidell scanned with professional eyes. Then, “Any chance it wasn’t the wiring?”

“What are you saying?”

“You chafe someone’s ass lately?”

That scored him another livid glare.

“The fire boys break that window downstairs?”

“I assume so. It’s what they do, right? With big manly axes?”

“How’s this play? Someone’s caking his shorts not knowing what we’ve found. You being an easier target than a cop …” Slidell let the thought hang.

“Arson?”

Slidell didn’t answer.

“Who?”

“You tell me.”

“How could I have been so stupid?” The overload of adrenaline was making me shrill. “So catastrophically careless?”

“Lose the drama, OK? You have a lot of pics on your phone, right?”

“I was having battery issues, so I transferred everything to my laptop.”

“You saved all your shit in the mist or the fog or whatever, right?”

“No.”

Slidell’s brows floated up.

“Look, I’ve been a little freaked since Larabee’s death. Vodyanov stalking me here didn’t help.” If he did stalk me here. “Call it paranoia, whatever. I put nothing in the cloud.”

“You sent me the pics from your cell?”

“No.” The call from Gerry Breugger. The subpoena. The outing to Lake Wylie. The news about Boyd. With so much happening, I’d totally forgotten to forward the images.

Slidell gave the slightest of nods.

“Exposed wires. Flickering lights. Open paint and rags soaked in turpentine or whatever. Christ Almighty! What was I thinking?”

“My opinion, it ain’t all that straightforward.”

“Wait. You’re seriously suggesting arson? That I was targeted?”

“I’m suggesting it ain’t all that straightforward.”

“Small comfort. I was just as negligent about security. No lock on this door.” A shocking consequence hit me hard. “If what you’re saying is true, then everything we had could now be in the hands of … of … who ? The very assholes we’ve been tracking?”

“Your laptop was password-protected, right?”

“Of course it was. But I think I was hacked recently. Even if I wasn’t, any high school techie worth his binary code can bypass or change a password. Hell, I know how to do that!”

“Reel it in.” Slidell gestured with downturned palms.

He was right. I’d made reentry into strident. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Before the exhale, another realization.

“I can’t remember when I last cleared my browser history. If someone did break in, and if the creep logged onto my laptop before setting the fire, he would have seen my searches on Vodyanov, Body, Timmer, MKUltra, the Estonia . My Google Earth visits. My trips to the dark web, DeepUnder, Homes at the End of the World, World’s End House—”

“I get it.”

“And what about Joe Hawkins? What if the guy saw that file? Joe could lose his job for leaking it to me. Face legal action if Heavner decides to play hard ball. What if the creep downloaded stuff onto a thumb drive or—”

“Gimme some possibles.” Slidell yanked his notebook from a breast pocket sweat-stained by the newt’s tail.

I had no idea of his meaning.

“Say this wasn’t random. Say it is arson. Gimme some scenarios. Who? Why? Even if they’re crazy. Just keep talking.”

“I tangled with Heavner. That didn’t go well.” Half joking, half serious.

“Motive?”

“Fear of disclosure as incompetent? Maybe even obstructive? It’s been almost two weeks, and still there’s no ID on Vodyanov, no cause of death.”

“Go on.”

“Nick Body?”

“Why?”

“Fear of exposure as a fraud? Of bad publicity?”

“The shitbird thrives on bad publicity.”

“Maybe Body learned that you and I are investigating his brother’s death. Maybe he knew Felix had something to do with Jahaan Cole’s disappearance. With other kids going missing. Or maybe Nick himself was involved with the disappearances. Maybe he was responsible for Vodyanov’s death.”

“Who tipped him?”

“He and Heavner are old pals. Or it could have been someone at Sparkling Waters. Dr. Yuriev? Asia Barrow? Holly Kimrey jumped me outside the gate to the fenced property. Maybe the place belongs to Body. Maybe Kimrey’s paid to do Body’s dirty work. Maybe Body hired Kimrey to torch my place.”

Slidell scribbled as I spoke.

“Vince Aiello?” I was on a roll, spewing words with no thought. “Maybe Aiello fears three strikes as a pedophile and he’s going down. Did you talk to him today? Maybe inadvertently clue him?”

Slidell’s eyes rolled up and narrowed. Don’t go there.

“Yates Timmer was unhappy that we showed up at his cottage.” As understatements go, that one was epic. “Maybe he had Bing follow me here from Lake Wylie last night, though I don’t think the guy was in any shape to drive. Maybe Timmer ordered the fire. He could have had someone watching the annex. His goon saw me leave for dinner with Pete and struck.”

“Motive?”

“No idea. But Timmer’s DeepHaven setup gives off a bad vibe.”

Slidell wiggled impatient fingers.

“Too much security, too little transparency for a Realtor.”

“What he hawks ain’t exactly standard.”

“Selling bunkers and missile silos is perfectly legal. Why employ a steroidal bouncer?”

“Any other ideas?”

“Gerry Breugger?”

“Who the fuck is Gerry Breugger?”

“A freelance journalist who called looking for intel on the Vodyanov case.”

“Would Breugger go that far?”

“If he thought the story would put a shine on his Wikipedia bio.”

“Others?”

I lifted both palms and shoulders in frustration.

“Or maybe it was just turpentine and bad wiring.”

A beat as we both looked around. Slidell spoke first.

“I’ll send someone to slap plywood on this window and the one downstairs.”

“I can do it.”

“He’ll do it faster.”

“Thanks.” Detesting my role as a victim.

“You want I should have CSU swing by in the morning? The arson boys?”

“What’s the point?” I said.

“Can’t hurt to establish someone torched the place. Dust for prints.” With little enthusiasm. “Don’t touch—”

“I got it.”

When Slidell left, I tried phoning Ryan. Was rolled to voice mail.

Exhausted, I ignored my face and teeth and crawled into bed. A cue for my brain to begin trolling for worries over which to obsess. That night, the choices were endless.

At one point, I heard banging, figured Slidell’s minions had arrived to secure the window. Birdie joined me when the hammering stopped, probably peeved that his call-of-the-wild portal had been sealed. I reached down to stroke his head.

“So glad you weren’t hurt.” Mumbled, at last drowsy. “Was our arsonist a cat lover or just a cat burglar? Did you charm him? Or hunker down and sneak outside unnoticed?”

Faulty wiring or an intruder?

Suddenly I was wide awake, struck by a horrifying thought.

Had Birdie slipped out on his own when the downstairs window was broken or the back door opened? Or was he intentionally spared?