Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

If the latter, had leaving Birdie unharmed been intended to send a message? A message saying my intruder could have taken or killed my pet but didn’t?

Was there an intruder?

Was there a message?

A message telling me who was in charge?

A threat?

A threat from whom?

Or was my paranoia flaring again?

25

WEDNESDAY, JULY 11

CSU, the crime-scene unit, showed up at seven. Slidell’s “arson boys.” After they’d finished dusting the guest room/study, I cleaned up the glass. No doubt a death sentence for the vacuum, but I wanted it gone.

Next, using my phone, I emailed LaManche, explaining the fire and the demise of my laptop and asking that copies of the Pasquerault file be sent to the MCME. I’d planned to review all my reports and notes following dinner with Pete. Only one week until my testimony, and I was starting to get anxious.

When CSU wrapped up in the upstairs office, I plowed through the charred chaos. Found not a single readable document or viewable photo. What the fire hadn’t consumed the water from the hoses and the foam from the extinguisher had reduced to pulp.

Slidell phoned as I was depositing another five-gallon bag of slop into my outdoor trash bin.

“Aiello’s ass is parked in a room down the hall.”

“At the Law Enforcement Center?”

“No. I booked him into the Ritz.”

“How did you persuade him to come in?”

“Told him his name came up in a cold-case investigation.”

“He asked for no details?”

“I promised lots when he got here. Being an upstanding citizen, he agreed. That and the fact I mentioned the old jacket on kiddie porn. Maybe implied I was debating a call to the state bar.”

“Will he bring counsel?”

“He mentioned that. I mentioned how I hoped the media didn’t get wind of our chat.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“I want to sweat Aiello a while, let him take a solo stroll down memory lane.”

“What time will you start?”

“Eleven.”

“I’m in.”

I arrived on the second floor at 10:52. Slidell was not at his desk in the violent crimes division. He was not in the cold-case unit. A detective named Conover thought he’d gone to question a witness. Gave me directions I didn’t need.

Hiding my annoyance, I thanked Conover, hurried back up the hall, and let myself into a space the size of my pantry. Leaving the overheads off, I stepped to a lighted rectangle on the right-hand wall.

Through the one-way mirror, I could see the adjacent interrogation room, a stark duplicate of the one I was in. Same wall phone, same recording equipment, same institutional table and chairs.

No red light glowed on the camera tucked high in one corner. I wondered if Aiello had balked at being taped. The audio was working. Objection or not, Slidell would have insisted on that.

Slidell occupied one chair, his back to me. A yellow legal pad and a folder lay on the table before him, the contents of the latter mostly blocked by his bulk.

The man opposite looked like he’d never visited a gym in his life. Which I guessed had lasted maybe fifty years. His hair was dirty-blond, center-parted, and tucked behind his ears. His bottom lip was fuller than his top, giving his face a perpetual pout.

Aiello shoved a paper across the tabletop, I assumed some type of waiver form. Tossed a pen after. When Slidell leaned forward to collect them, I caught my first glimpse of Aiello’s eyes, Coke-bottle green and bereft of feeling.

Slidell was still in good-cop mode.

“OK, Vince. Glad we got all that legal mumbo jumbo out of the way. It’s OK if I call you Vince?”

“Could we move this along?”

“I appreciate you coming in. You need anything? A coffee? A soda?”

“I’m good.” Pointedly checking his watch. Which was gold and the size of a manhole cover.

Slidell shuffled his papers, selected and studied one. Or appeared to. Smiled, friendly as hell.

“You’ve lived in Charlotte since—”

“Since 1984.”

“You’re a lawyer, right?”

“I am.”

“You help folks protect their inventions?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

Aiello took Slidell through a brief discourse on the U.S. Patent Act, exclusive rights, trademarks, limited monopolies, for all of which Slidell feigned avid interest. He appeared to take notes. Finally laid down his pen.

“You know how you can never fill up your bathtub? I got an idea for this gadget plugs the overflow drain so’s you can have a nice, deep soak. Think that’d qualify?”

Aiello listed the five requirements: patentable subject matter, utility, novelty, nonobviousness, and enablement. Advised Slidell to apply for a utility patent, describing his device as a machine with a new useful purpose.

Slidell listened, overnodding. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” Then, reading from a printout, “You live alone, right?”

“Last I checked, that’s not a crime.”

“You own property in Dilworth.”

“We both know these things.”

“A house on Mount Vernon Avenue. That’s near Latta Park, yeah?”

“As I said, I have a busy day. What’s this all about?”

“Real pretty park. I used to walk my dog there.”

“Please spare me the small talk.”

“Will do.” Quick flick of a smile. “Tell me what you know about Felix Vodyanov.”

“Who?” Clearly surprised at the question.

“Felix. Vodyanov.” Slowly.

“Don’t know the man.”

“I think you do.”

“You are mistaken.”

Aiello tried to cross his arms on his chest. The parts involved were too large for the arrangement to work. The flabby forelimbs dropped back to the armrests barely containing his torso.

“We’ll circle back to Vodyanov,” Slidell said. “Talk about his brother.”

“Who?”

“Nick Body. You three buddied up through Yates Timmer, correct?”

“I’ve never heard any of those names.”

“That’s not the story coming from Timmer’s muscle. According to Bing, you and Vodyanov had one hell of a throwdown.”

“You said you had questions about a cold case.” Still cocky but showing the first cracks.

“He’s cold enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Vodyanov entered long-term parking right after the two of you went at each other.”

“Long-term parking?”

“He turned up dead.”

“I’m sorry for the man’s misfortune.”

Slidell switched tacks. An old trick to catch a witness off guard. “Twist. That’s an odd handle. How’d you get it?”

Seconds passed. Aiello looked like he was counting the concrete blocks in the wall to Slidell’s left. Or deciding on a strategy.

“Probably not your dancing skills,” Slidell said.

“Boo-hah. The cop does comedy.”

“I’m guessing it’s a reference to your favorite pastime.”

The pouty lips tightened.

Slidell pulled a photo from his file and skimmed it across the table. Through the speaker, the paper made a slithery, hissing sound. Through the glass, I caught a flash of bright pink beads.

“Jahaan Cole.” Slidell’s words were suddenly curdled with loathing. “She was nine when some degenerate piece of shit yanked her out of her life. You get your rocks off leering at naked kids, Twist . You know anything about that?”

Aiello’s Adam’s apple took a roller-coaster ride in his fleshy throat.

“Look at her!” Slidell finger-jabbed the image.

Aiello glanced down, quickly away.

“What happened to her?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“OK, fine. I heard about her on the news.” The Coke-bottle eyes were now round and flat. “Everyone did. Because of past … difficulties … I was caught up in the hysteria, questioned illegally. I had an alibi. I wasn’t in Charlotte when the child disappeared.”