Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“Not really.”

I pictured my autopsy-room photos of MCME 304-18. The mangled face and belly. The missing hands. The bruising that Heavner had failed to note.

“Vodyanov’s body showed multiple hematomas in various stages of healing.”

“From falls? Blows?”

“Who knows?”

“How old was Vodyanov when he died?”

“I put him at mid-to-late forties or early fifties.”

A thought tapped softly deep down in my subconscious. I tried to haul it up but couldn’t.

“What else did others say about Vodyanov?”

“Keesing said sometimes he’d be all wound up and shaking. Speculated about a condition that made him unsteady. Bing called him Felix the fall guy. Klutzoid. Mocked him.”

Tap. Tap .

“In the weeks before his death, Vodyanov tried to contact several people. Vince Aiello. Me.”

“Maybe this Cootie Clanahan?”

“Maybe.”

Tap! Tap!

“Vodyanov’s thumb drive listed Depacon, Zoloft, and Seroquel.”

“Do those drugs make sense for the treatment of taphophobia?”

I hardly heard Ryan’s question. Data bytes were clicking together in my mind.

Bruising. Unsteady movement. Middle age. Mood stabilizers.

In a blinding moment of absolute clarity, the thought broke through.

Jesus on a tightrope!

“What?”

“Just give me a few minutes.”

Fingers flying over the keyboard, I got back online and linked from site to site. At one point, I heard Ryan request car keys, the door open and close.

Thirty minutes later, I was so jazzed I couldn’t sit still.

I knew the reason Vodyanov had been at Sparkling Waters.

I knew that he’d killed himself.

I knew why.

31

It was then that things kicked into warp speed. Had Ryan stayed, I might have acted with more caution. Perhaps avoided a spectacular mistake.

He didn’t. Though his offer was sincere, I assured him my cerebral vessels and all other systems were fully online and insisted he return to France, knowing he was anxious to get back on Neville’s trail. Lots of discussion, in English and French, and in the end I won. Ryan’s retirement was recent, his career as a PI in its infancy. He needed to establish his reputation. That’s the argument he bought.

I dropped Ryan at the airport, outlined my breakthrough on the way. He didn’t scoff, didn’t shout hallelujah. Just listened, squinting at me and nodding. I think his mind was on the damn horse.

Back home, I began punching Slidell’s number every thirty minutes. Was on my fourth volley when the phone buzzed in my hand. I checked caller ID, clicked on, unsure what to expect.

“Mr. Keesing. That was quick.”

“Yes, ma’am. I got to pondering. You know, ’bout that young ’un. Your questions grabbed hold of my mind, so I been feeling outta sorts since you called.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“I’m taking out the lunch trash, and suddenly it hits me. Duncan, you dimwit. You put that child on your barrel.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It ain’t worth crap, but I do some drawing and painting. You seen it.”

Flashbulb image. Not an aquarium crab, a rear window? Not claws, pigtails? Not shells, beads?

“You painted your memory of the child on your barrel?”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure did. The little face looking outta that car. I guess I just wanted to get something down, case anything come of it. And the barrel was new and needed some beautifying.”

Easy. Don’t spook him.

“Did you happen to recall the date?”

“Yes, ma’am, I put that right on there, real small, down by her chin. It happened further back than I thought.” I heard movement, as though the phone was being shifted from hand to hand. “The year was 2013. I’m guessing it was probably in the fall, ’cause the month starts with a one. And I recall the leaves was changing.”

“And the day?” Pulse quickstepping.

“The rest of the numbers is rusted away. Surprised any of it lasted. Tell the truth, I used some paint that weren’t in its prime. That help you any?”

“A great deal. Would it be all right if someone came to look at your barrel? To shoot a few pictures?”

“Warn ’em it smells like a shitpot and watch out for snakes.”

“I’ll do that.”

We disconnected. I didn’t have to check.

Jahaan Cole disappeared in October of 2013.

I spent a moment calming my nerves, then dialed Slidell again. This time, he answered.

“Christ Almighty. Can’t you get the hint I’m tied up?”

I relayed what I’d just learned from Keesing. “You should send someone out to photograph that barrel and take his statement.”

“As soon as I can.”

“He said the barrel was relatively new. Maybe you can pinpoint the exact date of purchase. Even if that’s impossible, what he witnessed might still be enough for a warrant.”

“You’re a lawyer now?”

I ignored that. “Are you getting anywhere with the list of missing kids?”

“Can’t talk now.” Lots of commotion in the background. Voices. Bleating phones. I figured Slidell was in the squad room and it was hopping. “Gimme Ryan.”

“Too late. He’s making his way back to France. We need to grill Yuriev.”

A weary sigh.

“Vodyanov didn’t go to the ashram to be treated for taphophobia,” I said. “That was a cover—”

“I gotta cut you loose for a while.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard correctly.

No response at the other end of the line. I sensed Slidell weighing options. Finally, “There’s another one.”

“Another one what?” I snapped.

“Missing kid. An eight-year-old girl. It’s not my case. Obviously. But the lead asked me to pitch in.”

“My phone didn’t sound an Amber Alert.”

“Being issued as we speak.”

“What happened?” Skin feeling suddenly cold.

There was some shuffling as Slidell flipped pages. “April Siler, blond hair, green eyes, eighty-two pounds, fifty-six inches tall. Last seen wearing white shorts and a red-and-white-striped top. Disappeared from the athletic fields behind Carmel Middle School. The mother was watching the younger brother play baseball. The area was crawling with parents, siblings, lots of teams playing at the time, so the kid was allowed to roam unsupervised. When the game ended, she was nowhere to be found.”

“When was this?”

“Call came in at sixteen thirty yesterday afternoon.”

“Why the delayed alert?”

“Looked like a probable noncustodial parental abduction. Turns out that’s not the case. The father’s in Denver, been there since Wednesday.”

“A zillion people around, and someone snatches a kid in broad daylight?” Way too harsh. Slidell wasn’t to blame. As the bearer, he was taking the hit.

I listened to more silence. Longer this time. Much longer.

“Gotta go.” Gruff.

“Keep me updated,” I said, more controlled.

“Right.”

“You have to find this kid.”

“I know that.”

After disconnecting, I got a glass of iced tea. Store-bought, not steeped on the porch. Downed it. Breathed deeply several times to clear the old noggin. Slow the old ticker.

The noggin counseled restraint.

The ticker urged otherwise.

Sparkling Waters Ashram looked as summer-camp-monasterial as it had two weeks earlier. Same security fence. Same cameras. Same guardhouse. I skipped all that and went straight to the squat pink box housing administration.

E. Desai’s replacement looked up when I came through the door. Blond hair, not from a bottle, the real deal, aquamarine eyes, skin so pale it was almost translucent. The name bar on the desk now said Z. Kantzler .

“Welcome to Sparkling Waters.” Kantzler beamed a smile that would have made her predecessor proud. “May I assist you?”