Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“Go on.”

He didn’t.

“Detective Slidell can compel you to talk,” I said.

“No. He cannot.”

He had me there. I didn’t like it.

“Who paid for Vodyanov’s stays at Sparkling Waters?”

“Mr. Body.”

“Did he come to visit his brother?”

“Never.”

“Did Vodyanov mention Hardin Symes? Jahaan Cole? Timothy Horshauser?”

“No.”

A tightening at the corners of the hard little eyes. There, then gone. I suspected Yuriev was lying.

“They are kids who were murdered or who vanished without a trace. Their parents have no idea what happened to them.”

“I’m very sorry—”

“Vodyanov supported his brother in exploiting those tragedies.”

Yuriev sat stiffly. His features were fast receding into shadow.

“Detective Slidell and I suspect Felix’s support went beyond mere exploitation.”

“Is that a question?”

“Here’s one. Ever hear of Holly Kimrey?”

“No.”

“Yates Timmer?”

“No.”

More lies?

“Another child disappeared yesterday.” No reason to bring that up, but the arrogant bastard was pissing me off. “Her name is April Siler. She’s eight. Know anything about her?”

Yuriev’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “Why are you badgering me in this way?”

“Because I think you’re a lying sack of shit.”

Deep sigh. Slight wag of the head. Then, “Felix was a very circumspect man. That he revealed anything about his childhood, even in counseling, was surprising to me. Normally, he spoke little of his personal affairs or acquaintances. But there was one name he mentioned occasionally. Another of his brother’s employees. Floy Unger.”

Not the answer I’d expected. “Unger was employed to do what?”

“As I understand it, he would receive the podcasts as audio files, encrypt them, decrypt them, whatever one does, then set them up for broadcast. Besides Felix, I believe he was one of the few people to interact face-to-face with Mr. Body.”

“And?” Sensing that Yuriev was again holding back.

“I have only Felix’s version. His personal view. I’ve never met Mr. Unger.”

“Go on.”

“From Felix’s comments, I must conclude that the man is odious.”

“Odious?”

“Dishonest and capable of violence.”

“Your point?”

“If anyone harmed children, it was Unger.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Any further comments would be pure speculation.” Another pause as Yuriev sat staring through the glass. Or at it. “Read Mr. Body’s blogs.”

“I’ve done that.”

“His most recent ones. Listen to his latest podcasts.”

I studied the side of Yuriev’s face. He was right, of course. As Vodyanov’s treating physician, he was bound by confidentiality. Still, I was pissed.

“One question,” I said. “In your professional opinion, what drives Body?”

A long moment, then, “I suspect Mr. Body applies his mother’s directive in a very different way.”

“Meaning?”

“He does whatever it takes to succeed and make money.”

“Do you know where I can find Floy Unger?” Unable to think of further questions to pose.

Yuriev slowly nodded.

Driving away, I wondered. Why so little emotion? Was Yuriev cold by nature? Or had years of dealing with the disturbed and depressed totally drained the man?

I phoned Slidell while waiting for my takeout order at Baoding. Of course, he didn’t answer.

Once home, while sharing cashew chicken and Hunan beef with my feline companion, I did as Yuriev suggested. The experience left me feeling like I’d swum through raw sewage.

Slidell called as I was stashing the little white cartons in the fridge. He listened as I briefed him on my conversation with Yuriev.

“A bad gene that makes a bad protein that makes you sick and wastes your brain cells.”

“Yes.” Way to go, Skinny. I’d never heard a more concise definition of Huntington’s.

“And you get it from a parent.”

“Usually.”

“And it kills you.”

“It does.”

“That sucks.”

“Very much.”

I described Body’s latest tantrums.

“So the world’s about to end.”

“Nuclear war, natural disaster, pandemic. Pick your calamity. And a new twist. The bastard’s saying his brother was murdered.”

“Why?”

“Felix had uncovered secret information about the government kidnapping kids.”

“That’s bullshit.” Slidell sounded as repulsed as I felt.

“It is.”

“But I meant, why go there at all?”

“Typical media ploy. Get out ahead of a scandal.”

“But why ?” Added hours without sleep hadn’t improved Slidell’s disposition.

“How the hell would I know?” Or mine. We were both edging toward shrill. “Maybe he thinks we’re closing in. Maybe he thinks Heavner’s about to release the tox report.”

“Is she?”

“You think she’d tell me?” Hearing my tone, I brought it down a level. “Whatever Body’s provocation, these tirades make his earlier ones sound like yogic meditation.”

“What’s your read on Yuriev?” Also more controlled.

“The bastard knew those kids’ names.”

“He admitted that?”

“No. But I could sense it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, it all ties together. Cole. Horshauser. Maybe this new one.”

“That’s going a stretch.”

“Body renews his crusade about child abductions. Voilà! Another kid disappears in his own backyard.”

“You’re really liking Vodyanov for these disappearances?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“He definitely didn’t snatch April Siler.”

“No. Yuriev fingered a guy named Floy Unger.”

“Hold on.”

I heard protesting springs, then the slow, two-fingered clicking of keys.

“Unger’s in the system. The FBI investigated him for running an investment-pool scam. Hold on.” More keys. “He was collecting money to build apartments in storm-ravaged areas, assuring a twenty-two percent return. The first wave of investors were getting paid, but off the backs of later victims.”

“Sounds like a Ponzi scheme.”

“Then there’s something about an impersonation and advance-fee scheme—”

“The Nigerian email-type crap?”

“Yeah. Not much stuck. He did a nickel at Butner for a pump-and-dump securities fraud.”

“Sounds like Unger is strictly white-collar.”

“Well hell- o . Floy Unger was charged with assault in ’09. Pleaded out to a lesser.” Another, longer pause. “Nothing since then.”

I heard the whir of a printer. The unhappy springs. Wondered at the absence of background noise.

“Any progress on April Siler?”

“Got one solid lead. A witness claims he saw the kid leaving the athletic fields with a woman in a ball cap. Another says she saw the kid getting into a van. Same description.”

“Anyone get the plate?”

“No.” Leaden with fatigue. “I been helping with the tip line. Which don’t make for heart-pumping action. The kid’s snatched by gypsies. Locked away by nuns up in Boone. Transported to Roswell so aliens can study her innards. There are some freakin’ loons out there.”

“Indeed.”

“But I did score some intel on that property. You were dead-on. There’s an underground Atlas F missile silo inside that fence.”

“Wait. Are you talking about Cleveland County?”

“No. The convent in Boone.”

“Hilarious. Owned by whom?”

“Originally, Uncle Sam. In ’08, the property sold through something called—let me get this right.” More squeaking springs. “The Formerly Used Defense Site program. FUDS. Can’t beat the military for alphabet soup.”