Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“Your phone’s in there, too.”

“I owe you.”

“Gotta keep it on the down low.”

“Subterranean.”

The cadaver eyes locked onto mine.

“No way it came from me.”

“No way,” I said.

5

Back behind the wheel, in the patch of gravel hosting nothing but old beaters and tricked-out bikes, I checked my watch. Which was hard to read in the slanty amber-violet of early dusk.

8:02. Too early for my dinner date, too late to go home.

The Harris Teeter bag lay on the passenger seat, taunting me with its purloined intel. I lifted a handle and dug out my phone and the brown envelope, which felt disappointingly thin. Unsealing the flap with one index finger, I slid free the collection of paper-clipped sheets and flipped through them.

Photocopies. An incident report from the Cleveland County Sheriff’s Department. A morgue intake form, case designated MCME 304-18. Preliminary autopsy notes, very brief. A few crime-scene pics. A speed-read of the docs suggested that, lacking some fine citizen stepping forward, hope of an ID was as bleak as I’d feared.

I scooped the swab-kit tube and a Sharpie from my purse and added the case number. Through the clear plastic, I could see the white wadded gauze with its plastic dowel. I hadn’t initialed the tube’s small white cap, normal protocol for a tech collecting a sample.

Ignoring the alarm again pinging in my brain, I returned the envelope and the tube to the bag and headed out.

Several zip codes later, I pulled into a small shopping center in a far more privileged section of town. Wine shop, nail salon, mom-and-pop brokerage firm. Tasteful lanterns oozing warm yellow onto well-behaved flora in window boxes and stone-sided planters.

I parked outside a tiny walled courtyard outfitted with scrolly wrought-iron tables and chairs. A sign on the brick announced Barrington’s in hushed script. I crossed the courtyard and entered through a bell-tinkling door.

The sole commonality between Barrington’s and Sassy’s was the presence of food. OK. And dimness. At the chili joint, the low lighting was due to cutting corners on utility bills. At Barrington’s, the candles and sconces were carefully orchestrated for gastronomically appropriate ambience.

My fellow townsmen love to make lists of the Queen City’s finest. The best microbreweries. The top gyms. The tastiest noodle shops. My colleague and friend Lizzy Griesser is a Charlotte expat living in Virginia. Lizzie keeps up with local news and takes such reviews seriously. Thus, the night’s venue. In the category of fine dining, Barrington’s regularly blows the competition out of the skillet.

The restaurant has only fourteen tables. All of which are filled most nights. When Lizzie finalized the date for her bimonthly pilgrimage south, she phoned immediately. That booking had taken place in mid-May.

The hostess led me to a two-top deep in one corner. I’d just hooked my purse strap and the handles of the Harris Teeter bag over the seatback when Lizzie arrived.

How to best describe Dr. Elizabeth “Lizzie” Griesser? She checks all the boxes that should make her pretty by twenty-first-century Western standards. Bright hazel eyes. Full lips. Button nose that turns up just the right amount at the tip. Somehow the combination doesn’t quite work. Instead, her features seem painted on a canvas oversized for proper scale.

Lizzie is older now. Her eyelids droop, and her jawline sags a little. But she’s not unattractive. Far from it. She’s just, well, odd.

My friend dropped into the seat opposite mine. Which made her appear shorter than her actual five feet nine inches. Lizzie’s frame is also a bit outside the curve, her legs contributing far more than their share to her height.

“Am I late?”

“Just got here.” I smiled, maybe a little too broadly. Nerves. The pinging id. “How’s your mother?”

“Makes me wish I’d taken a job in Missoula.”

“There’s a lab in Missoula?”

“I could start one. Get me a hat and a bandanna, screw cowboys while wearing my boots. But wait. Isn’t Montana the state that elected that jerk to Congress? The one who body-slams reporters?”

“In its defense, the place has a lot of big sky.”

“And must be far cooler than here. Damn.”

“The Lut Desert must be cooler than here.”

“Look, Tempe, I’m not a gusher, but I really appreciate your taking an interest in Mom. Your visits are truly above and beyond.”

“It’s just around the corner from my townhouse.” Not exactly. “And she’s an interesting lady.”

“She’s ninety-nine and thinks I’m still in school.”

Lizzie completed her doctorate in molecular biology in 1972. When I hit the local forensics scene, she was working in serology at the CMPD crime lab. One winter day, we shared a tuna salad sandwich and a laugh over the peculiarity of names. Lizzie’s mother was called Temple. Tempe—Temple. We found the coincidence funny.

Over the years, Lizzie and I consulted on dozens of the same cases. Though she was at least a decade my senior—a guess, she’d never say—the collegial camaraderie morphed into friendship via dinners, movies, and shared tales of parental woes.

Eventually, Lizzie’s father died, and her mother began to forget. How to brush her teeth, find the pharmacy, use the remote. Temple Griesser was currently a resident at Sharon Towers, Charlotte’s oldest assisted-living and retirement community. Lizzie was now employed by a private DNA lab in Richmond. I dropped in on Temple as often as I could.

The waitress came and introduced herself as Suzy. Suzy asked our preference in water, then filled our glasses from a pitcher awash in lemons. After issuing menus the size of window shades, she queried our wishes from the bar.

“Mom’s happy enough,” Lizzie continued when Suzy had gone. “Oblivious to everything but her cactus collection.”

“I’ve learned a lot about succulents.”

We took a moment to peruse that evening’s offerings. To sip our lemony drinks.

“How about you?” Lizzie laid down her menu. “How’s your maternal situation?”

“Mama is engaged to be married.”

Lizzie’s brows shot to her hairline. Which, like them, was silvery gray.

“Don’t ask,” I said.

Suzy returned with Lizzie’s martini, my Perrier. She ordered the duck, I went with the chicken. Unless it’s winter—rabbit potpie season—I always do. I’m a sucker for the garlic smashed potatoes.

We were finishing our meal when I finally made my play. Setting down my fork, I broached the subject that was causing the pinging.

“There’s something I want to roll past you.”

“Shoot.”

“First, some background.” I told her about my conflict with Margot Heavner.

“I’m sorry about Larabee,” she said when I’d finished. “He was solid.”

“He was,” I agreed.

“Word is Heavner’s a she-beast.”

She is. I didn’t say it.

Lizzie waited as I reached behind me for the brown envelope and the tube and placed both on the table. She’d noticed the green bag the minute she’d arrived, hadn’t asked.

“A body was found Friday out in Cleveland County. Hogs had devoured the viscera, hands, and face.”

“So no visual, no prints.”

“Exactly. Heavner may run DNA, but that’ll mean waiting into the next eon for results. And what are the chances of getting a cold hit?”

“The vic carried no form of ID?”

“None.”

“Doesn’t sound good.” Guarded. Lizzie was getting the first hint where I was headed.

“It doesn’t.”

“A mugging gone wrong followed by a body dump?”

“The guy had two hundred dollars on him.”