Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

Climbing the stairs, I went to my bathroom and rested my forehead on the mirror. The glass felt cool against my flushed skin.

Goddamn nosy, interfering reporters! Goddamn Winborne!

I breathed deeply and let it out slowly.

I have a temper. I admit that. Occasionally, that temper triggers overreaction. I admit that, too. I despise such lapses. And I resent those able to trip that switch in my head.

Emma was right. The article was benign. Winborne was doing his job and he'd outmaneuvered us.

I took another deep breath.

I wasn't angry at Winborne. I was angry at myself for being outsmarted by plankton.

I straightened and stared at myself in the mirror, assessing.

Hazel eyes, bright, some would say intense. Crow's-feet at the corners, but still my best feature.

High cheekbones, nose a bit on the small side. Jaw holding firm. A few gray hairs, but the honey-brown still in charge.

I stepped back for a full body view.

Five-five. One twenty.

Overall, not bad for an odometer reading forty plus.

I locked on to the hazel gaze in the glass. A familiar voice sounded in my brain. Do your job, Brennan. Ignore the distractions and focus. Get it done. That's what you do. Get it done.

Boyd padded over and nudged my knee. I directed my next comment to him.

"Screw Winborne." The eyebrow hairs went crazy. "And the byline he rode in on."

Boyd shot his snout skyward in full agreement. I patted his head.

After splashing water on my face, I applied makeup, twisted my hair into a topknot, and hurried downstairs. I was filling pet dishes when the front door slammed.

"Honey! I'm home!"

Pete appeared with yet more groceries.

"Planning a reunion of your entire Marine unit?"

Pete snapped a salute and replied with the Marine Corps motto. "Semper Fi. "

"How did it go with Herron?" I extracted a jar of pickled herring from Pete's bag and placed it in the fridge.

Reaching around me, Pete grabbed a Sam Adams and popped the cap on a drawer handle.

I bit back a rebuke. Pete's annoying habits were no longer my problem.

"Spent my time doing recon," Pete said.

"You couldn't get anywhere near Herron," I translated.

"No."

"What did you do?"

"Watched a whole lot of prayin' and making joyful sounds unto the Lord. When the show let out, I floated Helene's picture to a few of the faithful."

"And?"

"They are a spectacularly unobservant flock."

"No one remembered her?"

Pete drew a snapshot from his pocket and laid it on the table. I crossed to study it.

The image was blurry, a blowup of a driver's license or passport photo. A young woman stared, unsmiling, into the camera.

Helene wasn't pretty, though her features were even in a bland sort of way. Her hair was middle-parted and drawn back at the nape of her neck.

I had to admit. Helene Flynn had little to distinguish her from a thousand other women her age.

"Afterward I had a chat with Helene's landlady," Pete said. "Didn't learn much. Helene was polite, paid her rent on time, had no visitors. She did volunteer that the kid seemed agitated toward the end. But Helene's leaving took her by surprise. Until the envelope with the final rent showed up, she had no idea Helene was leaving."

I looked again at the face in the photo. So forgettable. Witnesses would give unusable descriptions. Medium height. Medium weight. No recall of the face.

"Flynn had no other photos of his daughter?" I asked.

"None post-dating high school."

"Odd."

"Flynn's an odd bird."

"You said he hired an investigator."

Pete nodded. "Former Charlotte-Mecklenburg cop named Noble Cruikshank."

"Cruikshank simply vanished?"

"Stopped sending reports and returning phone calls. I did a little digging. Cruikshank wasn't in the running to be CMPD poster boy. Got invited off the force in ninety-four for substance abuse."

"Cocktail of choice?"

"Jimmy B neat. Cruikshank's also a non-nominee for PI of the Year. Seems he's pulled his disappearing act on other clients. Takes a job, collects an upfront fee, goes on a bender."

"Wouldn't a PI lose his license for that?"

"Apparently Cruikshank doesn't believe in paperwork. That was also a problem with the CMPD."

"Flynn didn't know Cruikshank drank and wasn't licensed?"

"Flynn hired him off the Net."

"Risky."

"Cruikshank's ad said he specialized in missing persons. That's the skill set Flynn needed. He also liked the idea that Cruikshank worked Charlotte and Charleston."

"When did Flynn hire him?"

"Last January. Couple months after Helene dropped out of sight. Flynn thinks their last conversation was in late March. Cruikshank said the investigation was moving forward, but provided no detail. Then nothing."

"Where did Cruikshank go on his other benders?"

"Once to Atlantic City. Once to Vegas. But not all Cruikshank's clients were unhappy. Most that I contacted thought they'd gotten their money's worth."

"How did you find them?"

"Cruikshank gave Flynn a list of references. I started with those, picked up new names as I worked my way backward."

"What do you know about Cruikshank's final activities?"

"Cruikshank never cashed the last check Flynn sent him. That was the February payment. There's been no activity on his credit card or bank account since March. He owed over twenty-four hundred on the former, had four fifty-two in the latter. The last phone bill was paid in February. Account's since been cut off."

"He must have had a car."

"Whereabouts unknown."

"Cell phone?"

"Terminated in early December for nonpayment. Wasn't the first time Cruikshank had been dropped."

"A PI without a mobile these days?"

Pete shrugged. "Maybe the guy worked alone, did all his phoning from home."

"Family?"

"Divorced. No kids. The split wasn't amicable. The wife's remarried and hasn't heard from him in years."

"Brothers? Sisters?"

Pete shook his head. "Cruikshank was an only child and the parents are dead. Toward the end of his stint with the Charlotte PD he'd become pretty much a loner, and wasn't close to anyone."

I looped back to GMC.

"If you can't get to Herron, what's your next step?"

Pete pointed a finger heavenward. "Fear not, fair lady. The Latvian Savant has just entered the footrace."

Pete was a law student when we met. He'd already adopted the nickname back then. I never learned who coined it. I suspected it was Pete.

Rolling my eyes, I returned to the groceries and put a package of feta into the fridge.

Pete tipped back his chair and rested his heels on the table edge.

I started to object. Not my problem. Anne's? She invited him here.

"And how was your day, sugar britches?"

I retrieved the Post and Courier, dropped it on the table, and pointed.

Pete read Winborne's article.

"Hey, nice use of alliteration. 'Buried Body Barrier Beach.'"

"Pure poetry."

"I take it you're not pleased this kid talked to the press."

"I'm not pleased with any of it."

I hadn't even thought about Topher. When had Winborne buttonholed him? How had he persuaded Topher to give a statement?

"The photo's not bad."

I shot Pete a look.

"What's this cruise ship thing your friend screwed up?"

"I don't know."

"Gonna ask her?"

"Definitely not."

Roast peppers, salmon spread, and Ben amp; Jerry's into the fridge and freezer. Chocolate chips and pistachios into the cabinet. Then I turned back to Pete.

"A man is dead. His family doesn't know that yet. I view Winborne's story as an invasion of that family's privacy Am I way off base?"

Pete shrugged, then drained his beer.

"News is news. Know what you need?"