Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

Slidell’s knock was answered by a flicking drape in the bay window. No one came to the door. He pounded again, harder, fingers curled into a fist.

“Beat it.” A warbly voice said, probably Kimrey.

“Police. Open up.”

“Go away.”

“Not happening.”

“What is this shit?”

“A little party I call open the fucking door.”

“Why should I?”

Slidell lifted his badge and waggled it in front of a tiny window at eye level.

“How about we talk warrant?” Kimrey said.

“How about we talk murder?”

“What the fuck?”

“I’m not getting any cooler standing out here.”

The door opened the length of a security chain, enough to allow Kimrey to eyeball Slidell. Apparently, what he saw made an impression. Acting with the enthusiasm of a dead man walking, he closed and liberated the door, then withdrew, leaving a gap large enough for us to pass through.

Friends tell me the annex needs a makeover. The decor here was so outdated it should have been wearing vinyl boots and a pillbox. The L-shaped space was small but crammed with an abundance of furniture way past its shelf life. Swag lamps hung from the corners of the ceiling. Olive shag carpet covered the floor.

Straight ahead, up the back of the L, was a dining alcove containing a sideboard, table, and chairs, all pretending to be maple. Metal shelving ran below a window at the far end. A drone-sized fly was sluggishly buzzing one of the panes. A walking cane leaned in one corner, wood, with a derby handle and leather wrist loop.

The living room was directly to the right, in the foot of the L. Gold floral paper covered one wall. The others were bare save for warehouse imitations of great works. Van Gogh’s Starry Night . Monet’s Sunrise . Botticelli’s Birth of Venus .

A flat-screened Sony obscured most of the bay window. Opposite the TV, against the flowery paper, was a grouping upholstered in beige brocade. A matching armchair squatted to either side of a sofa, a faux chrome-and-glass coffee table cowered in front. Identical end tables held identical lamps composed of peony ceramic bases crowned with bubblegum-pink tasseled shades.

Except for the TV, the whole place looked like it was frozen in time. Being generous, I’d say the sixties.

A green bakery box gaped open on the coffee table. A crumb and sugar scatter on the glass suggested the recent ingestion of doughnuts.

Floy Unger was on the sofa, bony knees winging, hands clasped and hanging between them. He looked tired. And something else. Scared?

Holly Kimrey slouched in the chair facing our way, legs outstretched, ankles crossed. Eyes focused on a remnant of chocolate glazed. A man sat opposite, motionless, his back to us. I saw thick black hair and a sunbaked neck suggesting future melanoma.

A fist tightened in my belly.

Was I about to meet the notorious Nick Body?

35

“Anyone else attending this little freak show?” Slidell, gaze bouncing the room and the trio in it.

Unger continued staring at a point in space somewhere beyond his knees. Kimrey remained fixated on the pastry. The black-haired man said nothing.

“I’m talking here, people.” Almost a snarl.

Unger flinched. No one else reacted.

Slidell shot me a stay put look, then, hand hovering at his Glock, moved off to make a sweep of the house. I watched him pass through the dining alcove into what I assumed was a kitchen, then reverse down a hall into what I assumed were bedrooms and baths. In seconds, he was back. A quick nod to me, then he strode across the nasty shag toward the unfortunate brocade, every sense on high alert.

I joined Slidell and got my first glimpse of the guy whose back had been to us. Despite the added years, leatherized tan, and leaner physique, I recognized him as the third person in the MKUltra conference photo. The man with Felix Vodyanov and Yates Timmer. Nick Body.

“Holly tells me you’re quite the pair.” Gravelly words escaping from somewhere far back in Body’s throat.

I glanced sideways toward Kimrey. Up close, he looked older than I’d imagined. I noted broken veins in his cheeks, starbursts around his eyes and at the corners of his lips. A faint stubble shadow.

“We do what we can.” Sarcasm coating Slidell’s tone.

“I know you’re a cop.” Body raised his chin in my direction. “Who the hell’s she?”

“Your worst nightmare.” The taut shoulders and harsh tone told me Slidell had his full Chuck Norris on.

“Amusing.” Body’s whole affect was arrogance.

“Why’d you order your flunky to set fire to her townhouse?” Glancing at Kimrey.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

“Holly is my assistant, nothing more.”

“I checked. Your assistant’s got a long, crowded sheet.”

Body shrugged, an awkward hitch of one beefy shoulder.

“The dumb shit left prints.”

“What the fuck?” Apparently, Kimrey wasn’t as fixated on the doughnut as he looked.

“Cops plant evidence,” Body said. “They’re famous for it.”

“Hard to plant fingerprints.”

“Tell that to Johnnie Cochran.” Body draped a casual arm over his chairback, unconcerned.

The feigned indifference triggered a repugnance so powerful it overrode my resolve to stay silent. “Why have people I questioned about you left town or stopped talking?”

“You noticed.”

“I did.”

“I paid them off.”

“Why?”

“To shut down the meddling.”

“What did you hope to gain?”

“What do you hope to gain?”

“The truth.”

When Body smirked, his lips went tight to his front teeth, down at the far reaches. It was the kind of smirk a viper would make, if a viper could smirk.

“Did you murder your brother?” I asked.

Utter silence.

“These questions too tough for you, Nick? I could use shorter sentences.” Adrenaline had me wired to the far side of the galaxy.

“I loved my brother.”

“You love his Huntington’s?”

“You are thorough.” Icy.

“I am.” Icier.

“I begged Felix not to do it. He wouldn’t listen.”

Beside me, Slidell was radiating agitation from every pore.

“Still, it must have been a relief.” I pressed on, sensing a weak spot. “His disease could have been embarrassing. Cost you followers. Maybe investors in your missile-silo scam.”

More silence. No smirk.

“Hogs ate him, you know.” Cruel, but the adrenaline was in full command.

“Don’t talk about my brother like that, you bitch.” Body’s jaw tightened all the way down to his throat.

“Yuriev camouflaged the Huntington’s,” I hammered on. “Is Heavner on board to sugarcoat the death?”

“Who?”

“Margot Heavner. Your pal, Dr. Morgue.”

Unger seemed to return from his point in space. His gaze went to Body, some inner conflict playing out on his face. Body’s eyes narrowed in warning. Unger turned away.

“Dr. Heavner is an investor in one of my projects,” Body said. “Nothing more.”

“We know all about DeepHaven,” I said evenly, forcing my face blank to mask my repugnance. And shock.

Out of patience, Slidell retook control. He moved a step closer to Body. “You use that show of yours to spread lies and sell your worthless safe houses. You spew any horseshit that enters your head.”

“Yes.” Again the viper smirk. “I do.”

Slidell was through screwing around. “Where’s the kid, Body?”

“What kid?”

“Should I say kids?”

“You’re nuts.”

“Jahaan Cole. Timmy Horshauser. You want I should go on?”

“I’m aware of those children. I’ve discussed their disappearances publicly. Beyond that, I know nothing.”