Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

Our eyes met. Ryan’s ice-blue and troubled, Slidell’s red-rimmed and bleary. A beat, then Skinny’s gaze returned to the page before him.

“I remember most of these North Carolina alerts coming across the wire. West Virginia’s off the patch. I’ll float queries, try to contact the lead in each case.”

“What happened with the warrant?” I asked.

“Still a nonstarter. Judge says all I’m arguing is a dead guy and a place makes me nervous.”

“Are you kidding? Kimrey jumped me—”

“Outside the gate. She needs stronger evidence suggesting criminal activity on the property. Of course, I can’t mention nothing you got inside the gate, it being from an illegal entry and all.”

“Any word on who holds title?”

“Expecting that any minute.” Slidell rose with a slowness that bore witness to his exhaustion. “Had one amusing moment yesterday.”

I waited, far from amused.

“Got a call from Cootie Clanahan.”

“Jahaan Cole’s elderly neighbor,” I explained to Ryan.

“Cootie’s been devoting serious thought to my queries. Recalls one detail about the hinky cop banged on her door this spring. She says the guy spoke with an accent. Suspects Swedish, maybe Norwegian.”

“Russian?”

Slidell shrugged.

“You think it could have been Vodyanov?”

“He tailed you and Vince Aiello just before he died.”

“Why approach Cole’s neighbor?”

Slidell shrugged again, a sluggish levering up of one shoulder.

“I’ve printed a new copy of Lizzie’s phenotype sketch. You could show it to Cootie, see if she can ID him,” I suggested.

“After I look into these kids.”

When frustrated, I am harsh in my self-appraisal. Following Slidell’s departure, I sat a while, constructing a mental register of all the ways I’d botched the investigation. Another of all the things I’d done to bring disaster down on myself. Feeling like a loser.

Ryan went off, returned sometime later, and resumed his place in the chair beside mine. For a few seconds, I felt his eyes on my face. Then he leaned very, very close and spoke in hushed tones, almost a whisper. “Anything I can do to cheer you up?”

I felt his lips brush my ear. The heat of his body tight to mine.

“Tempting offer.” My voice felt thick in my throat. “But I need to stay focused.”

Ryan raised his brows and flicked his naughty-choirboy smile.

I pressed a palm to his chest. The electricity sizzled between us. I didn’t push him away.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” he purred.

“Ah, Jesus, Ryan.”

He took both my hands in his and pulled me to my feet. Released one and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt.

“You are a terrible influence.” A tiny smile lifting the corners of my mouth, I undid the next two.

We scampered upstairs.

Our little dance in the sheets forced the negativity to run for cover. Once again dressed and back at my laptop, I was able to think more logically.

In my heart, I knew everything came back to the fenced property. That it was critical to gain legal access.

Ryan stayed upstairs to pursue whatever lead he’d kicked loose regarding his purloined pony.

Unsure what tidbit would ring his or her honor’s bell, I opened a blank document and entered every detail I could recall from every interview I’d conducted or witnessed. Desai. Yuriev. Barrow. Ramos. Keesing. Bing. Aiello. Then I went back over my notes. Twice. The second time through, I paused on Duncan Keesing.

Keesing witnessed a frightened child being driven onto the fenced property. When was that? Did the date track with the disappearance of any child on my list? If I could show a correlation, might that be the judge’s smoking gun?

When questioned by Slidell, Keesing had denied further knowledge of Vodyanov. Drive back out to Cleveland County?

When Harry and I were kids, we spent hours alone together. Especially when Mama was having one of her “bad days.” Sequestered in the secret clubhouse cubby off our bedroom, we’d play mind games, taking turns creating long sequences of memory challenges—strings of words, numerals, names of states or vegetables—then presenting the list for the other to recite back blind. Points for accuracy. Points for speed.

I closed my eyes as I had long ago in that tiny closet. Visualized Keesing’s phone. The numbers jotted on the lid. Thanks to all those years of practice, the area code was easy. Ditto the exchange. The next three digits because they formed a pattern: 2-4-6. Try as I might, the last numeral eluded me.

I punched in a ten-digit combo. Got a woman named Tammy. I tried again. Got voice mail for Bill and Irene. On my fifth attempt, a man answered.

“Yeah.” Startled, maybe alarmed.

“Duncan Keesing?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Temperance Brennan. I stopped by to see you last Saturday?”

“How’d you get this number?”

“You showed it to me.” True, indirectly. “Remember? You said it was your SOS line?”

“Didn’t figure you’d be calling it.”

“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Don’t know there’s ever a good time for bad news.”

“Oh, no, sir. This isn’t bad news. I just wondered if I could ask you a follow-up question.”

Fuzzy air. Then a cat meowed loudly.

“Mr. Keesing?”

“I’m here. Calculating if you’re my first time talking on this thing.”

“I’ve been wondering about the child you saw in the car entering your neighbor’s gate. Do you know what date that took place?”

“Damn, lady. I told you that?”

“You did, sir.”

Another pause, then, “You’re talking three, four years ago.”

“I know, sir. But it would be very helpful if you could be more precise.”

“Helpful with what?”

“An investigation.”

“That little one come to harm?” Voice rising.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics.”

“That why that fat cop come by my trailer?”

“Mm.”

Objects clattered, then the cat let loose a piercing screech.

“Goddammit, Sarge. Git.” To me. “I gotta go. All this ringing’s got my cat’s balls in a twist.”

“If you think of anything, would you please contact me?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I gave Keesing my number. He may or may not have written it down.

We disconnected.

I returned to the timeline. The interviews. As before, I kept checking the clock, impatient for a call from Slidell. Again.

I started by focusing on Felix Vodyanov. The victim. The faceless man.

I browsed the interviews, plucking out facts and observations.

Ryan came downstairs around one. Banged around in the refrigerator, then placed two sandwiches on the table. A diet Coke for me, a Grolsch beer for himself.

“Going well?”

“Eh.”

“Bounce it off me.”

I did. Between bites and swigs.

“Barrow thought Vodyanov was a spy. Ramos thought he was terrified of being killed. Keesing and Aiello thought he was nuts.”

“There are things known and things unknown and in between are the doors of perception.”

“Rod Serling?”

“Aldous Huxley. Or maybe it was Jim Morrison.”

“Right. So. Barrow said Vodyanov, aka Vance, had been at Sparkling Waters more than once. That his issue was taphophobia. That he stayed to himself. That Yuriev alone tended to his medical care and administered his meds.”

“Was that unusual?”

“No idea.” I rolled a questionable item around on my tongue. “Is this a beet?”

“Yes.”

“On ham and cheese?”

“Go on.”

“Vodyanov’s body was found close to the Cleveland County property. He may have stayed or worked in the bunker. Does taphophobia seem compatible with underground living?”