Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

Skinny knew the Cole file inside and out. Knew Aiello hadn’t been a suspect. I understood his motive.

The chair legs screeched as Slidell popped to his feet and leaned across the table. When he spoke again, nose inches above Aiello’s, his voice was low and dangerous.

“That’s the cold case I want to talk about, you dumb prick.” Sending droplets of spit onto Aiello’s face. “Only this one’s never going cold on my watch. So. You want we should dive down that hole? Or maybe you’re suddenly remembering your pals?”

Aiello raised a hand to wipe the saliva from his skin, reconsidered, and dropped it.

“I’m waiting, asshole.”

Aiello held perfectly still a moment before responding.

“Please step away.”

Slidell hesitated, then dropped back into his chair.

“Nick Body is a radio personality. But I’m sure you are cognizant of that fact.”

“He’s a boil on the buttcheek of humanity, but go on.”

“Body has a large national audience but avoids the limelight when off air.” Aiello was choosing his words carefully. “He fervently safeguards his privacy and allows very few into his inner circle. I am not one of those few.”

“You met Body through Timmer.”

“I did.”

“Timmer sells real estate.”

“He does.”

“What’s DeepHaven?”

“My word, detective. You have done some digging.”

“You need I should repeat the question?”

“DeepHaven is a sort of social club.”

“For suckers buying into Body’s conspiracy bullshit?”

“Nothing like that. Body and his brother are mere members like the rest of us.” Another pause for word choice. “DeepHaven is a gathering place for those sharing the same concerns as Yates Timmer.”

“Wackadoos wanting to live underground.”

“In his day, Edward Jenner was considered a wackadoo. You’re familiar with Jenner, of course?” Raising supercilious brows. “Vaccination?”

“Talk about Vodyanov.”

Aiello said nothing.

“You need a visual aid on him, too.” Sharp. “I got one. It ain’t pretty.”

“I hardly knew the man.”

“You fought with him.”

“ He attacked me .”

“Was Vodyanov into hard candy, like you?” Slidell’s face was red and moving toward claret. “You two pair up to ogle toddlers outta their diapers?”

Aiello’s eyes returned to the concrete blocks.

“Why was Vodyanov carrying info on this kid?” Slidell snatched up Cole’s photo, glowering hard.

“If you’ll calm down and keep your distance, I’ll tell you what I know.” Again, the arm-cross failed. “But this cannot get back to DeepHaven.”

“Those cretins are the least of your worries.”

A moment of mental editing. “Felix Vodyanov was delusional and dishonest.”

“Explain that.”

“Here’s an example. He liked custom-made clothing he couldn’t afford, so he shopped resale. You know what I’m talking about? Stores where high-end items are sold on consignment?”

Slidell probably didn’t but nodded.

“Then he’d cut out the labels so no one would know.” Aiello smoothed down the front of his shirt. “He’d buy cheap tobacco and transfer it to fancy European packaging.”

“I got a nephew’s pretentious like that. Don’t make him a perv.”

“Vodyanov was also paranoid. He’d pay only in cash, had no credit cards, no cell phone, constantly created and abandoned internet accounts. He went through aliases like the rest of us go through tissue.”

“Where did he live?”

“I don’t know. At DeepHaven, one does not query the personal lives of others.”

“Yet he told you where he bought his skivvies.”

“I certainly didn’t ask.”

“The guy have a job?”

“He did research for Body’s blogs and podcasts. Apparently, little bro was too cheap to support the lifestyle to which big bro aspired.”

“Why’d you clock him?”

“I told you. I was defending myself.”

“Why’d he jump you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m listening.”

Very deep sigh. “Early last month, people started reporting that someone was looking for me. I had no idea who. Or why.”

“People?”

“Neighbors, a client, the gardener.”

“Go on.”

“One day, I saw a man on the sidewalk outside my home. He was just standing there, staring at the house. It was Felix Vodyanov.”

Flashback. A face lit by a streetlamp in a parking lot at Sharon Hall.

“What did he want?”

Aiello’s fingers interlaced, tightened so hard they paled. Discomfort with the upcoming part of the story.

“He used to ask me questions about kids. I don’t know why he was interested or why he chose me.”

“What kids?”

“Missing kids.”

Slidell again jabbed the Cole photo, now back on the table.

Aiello nodded. “And others.”

“What others?”

“I don’t recall names.”

“Don’t jerk me around.”

“I’m not.” Aiello was sweating visibly now. His skin looked silky yellow through the filter of the mirror. “More than once, he accused me of kidnapping and molesting children. Of being behind these disappearances.”

“What made him think that?”

“The man was insane.”

“And there’s that pesky arrest record you got.”

“I was never convicted.” Churlish. “Everyone misunderstands. Viewing images does not equate to hurting children.”

“Go on.” I couldn’t see Slidell’s face but knew he was struggling to control his temper.

“For a while, he dropped the whole subject. Then, as I said, maybe six weeks ago, he started this stalking business. When I saw him outside my home, I confronted him. He said he’d come to force me to level with him. To tell him what had happened to these kids. I told him to go screw himself. He tried again at DeepHaven. That’s when I hit him.”

Slidell looked at Aiello a very long moment. Then, “Don’t move.”

“I really must—”

Slidell gathered his papers, got to his feet, and crossed to the door. I met him in the hall.

“What do you think?” Wiping his face with a grayed square of fabric yanked from a back pocket.

“He never asked how Vodyanov died.”

“You noticed that, too.”

“Still, my gut says he’s telling the truth.”

“But not all of it.”

“Exactly.” The hands on the wall clock were pointing to the twelve and the five. “Listen, I still have some cleaning up to do. And a file to collect and read before my testimony next week.”

“Go.” Pocket-jamming the hankie. “I’ll trot this wanker through his story a couple more times. See if it hangs together when he’s balls to the wall.”

A wave of hot, humid air engulfed me when I left the building. Slogged me across the lot to my car.

I was at the MCME in minutes. The lobby was almost empty, not unusual for a Wednesday afternoon in July. An elderly woman slouched in a chair, crying quietly into a lavender tissue. A death investigator stood flipping through papers on a clipboard.

I swiped my card, passed through the bio-vestibule to the secure side of the facility, and went straight to my office. No sign of Heavner. Mixed feelings about that. Part of me wanted to confront her. Another part wanted to avoid another skirmish with Dr. Death.

Once at my desk, I logged onto my computer and checked my email. Nothing from LaManche. I busied myself with other messages and requests, other tasks. The Pasquerault file finally arrived around four. After downloading and printing the relevant portions, I logged off and headed out.

I made a not-so-quick stop at the vet’s office to pick up a case of Birdie’s preferred food, apparently stored in a warehouse in suburban Dubrovnik. I was back at the annex by five.