Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

"Currants and anchovies don't really mix. Tell me what happened with Herron."

"I never actually met Herron."

Pete described his day with the GMC accountants. He wasn't exaggerating. It sounded deadly. I remembered what Gullet had told me.

"Someone in the sheriff's office ID'd that brick building in the pictures on Cruikshank's disc."

"Oh, yeah?" Garbled by pizza.

"It's a free clinic run by GMC."

"Where?"

" Nassau Street."

Pete's jaw froze, then he swallowed. "That's where Helene Flynn worked. At least at one point."

"That was my guess. So it makes sense Cruikshank would stake the place out."

Pete wiped his mouth, balled his napkin, and tossed it onto his plate. "Is Gullet going to follow up?"

"Neither Dewees nor Cruikshank is topping the sheriff's agenda. I showed him the two fractured vertebrae, but he's still not convinced either man was murdered."

"Maybe I should-"

"Gullet definitely does not want you making contact with anyone at that clinic. He was very clear on that."

"What could it hurt-"

"No."

"Why not?" Pete's voice had an edge. I knew that edge. My estranged husband was not a man who liked to be blocked.

"Please, Pete. Don't jam me up with Gullet. He's already letting you and me go where we have no business going. We've got Cruikshank's files and computer. We have a lot to lose. I don't want to risk it. I have to help Emma clear these cases."

"You've done what you can. Emma's the coroner here. Gullet's her battle."

My gaze drifted into the darkness outside the screen. The surf was a silvery white line beyond the lumpy black cutouts I knew were dunes.

I made a decision.

"Emma's sick."

"How sick?"

I told him about the non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, and about Emma's recent relapse.

"I'm sorry, Tempe."

Pete placed his hand on mine. We sat without talking. Outside, the ocean sounded a thundering ovation.

My thoughts were on Emma. Pete's? Good question. I hadn't a clue what he was pondering. Helene Flynn? GMC cash flow? Cruikshank's code? Dessert?

Puzzled by the quiet, Boyd nudged my knee. I patted his head and got up to clear pizza debris. A change of topic seemed indicated.

"I found an eyelash when I screened the Dewees grave soil. It's black. The hair in the grave was blond."

"Aren't everyone's eyelashes black?"

"Not without mascara."

"Think it's from whoever buried the guy?"

"The students who dug him up both have light hair."

"Locard's exchange principle." Pete beamed a "savant" smile.

"I'm impressed," I said.

Pete had cited a concept well-known to criminalists. Locard stated that two objects coming into contact will each transfer particles, one to the other. A crook in a bank. A sniper on a tree branch. A murderer digging in sand. Every perp carries trace evidence from a scene and leaves some behind.

"You going to call this guy Winborne?" Pete asked.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten.

"Eventually. I may play around with Cruikshank's files a little longer."

"Why did the accountant cross the road?"

Pete was on an accountant roll. I just looked at him.

"Because the file said that's what they did last year."

I'd barely hit the couch when my eyes fell on Pete's cap. My restless subconscious whispered again. Yo!

What? NBA? Hornets? Turquoise?

Teal!

Jimmie Ray Teal.

When had I read that article? The last morning of the field school. Less than a week.

Pete was moving through the house, battening, I assumed.

I called out. "What day is garbage pickup?"

"Hell if I know. Why?"

I'd taken a load of papers to the front-yard Dumpster the previous Monday.

"Why?" Pete repeated himself.

I grabbed a flashlight and bolted out the front door and down the steps. Wind was now seriously whipping the palmettos. I could smell rain. The storm wasn't far off.

Flipping the Dumpster lid, I heaved out a blue plastic newspaper recycling tub.

I started at the bottom, hauling out papers, checking dates with my beam, holding the rejects down with one foot. Halfway through, I became aware of a car moving up Ocean Boulevard. I continued working through the stack.

The headlights drew closer.

Bingo! May 19. Front section. Gusts rippled the pages in my hands.

The car slowed. I ignored it.

I found last Friday's business review, classified ads, local and state news.

The car stopped opposite "Sea for Miles," twin beams angled toward the Dumpster.

I looked up, but could make out only the lights.

Ryan? I felt a flutter in my chest.

The car did not move on or turn into the drive.

I shielded my eyes.

The driver gunned the engine. Tires spit loose dirt and the car shot forward.

Something flew toward me.

Dropping the paper, I threw up my hands.

SOMETHING HARD WINGED OFF MY ELBOW. PAIN FIRED UP MY arm. I felt liquid and smelled beer.

With my good hand, I swept my flashlight in an arc. The beam fell on a beer bottle angled against the Dumpster.

Thrown by whom?

Kids on a joyride?

Some joy.

Intentionally aimed? At me personally?

Last Friday's paper was now scattered across the yard with portions pasted by the wind to the outside of the Dumpster. I gathered sections and returned to the house. Pete had moved from the kitchen to the den, and was scribbling on one of his legal pads. Glancing up, he noticed me holding my arm.

"Lightning strike?" At least it wasn't another accountant joke.

"Some moron whipped a bottle out a car window."

Pete's brows dipped. "You OK?"

"Nothing a little ice won't heal."

I made light of the incident, but inside me a gnawing doubt was beginning to sprout. Pete had spotted a strange vehicle at the house early Sunday morning. Now this. Was someone trying to deliver a message? Joyriding vandals didn't ordinarily stop and survey a target. Or aim at people. Express dislike of something I had done? Dickie Dupree? I resolved to pay closer attention to my surroundings.

While icing my elbow, I reread the story in last Friday's Post and Courier, and entered Jimmie Ray Teal into my spreadsheet.

Teal, Jimmie Ray, 47. Male. Last seen May 8 leaving Jackson Street apartment. Brother. Medical appointment.

I was wondering about Teal's racial background when another thought struck me. The city councilman's son, Matthew Summerfield, was another missing person. But the kid didn't really fit the pattern of the other Charleston MPs. What pattern?

Summerfield, Matthew IV, 18. White male. Last seen February 28 leaving Old City Market. Drug user.

I fell asleep listening to Pete's kick-ass storm.

That night I dreamed disordered dreams. Ryan holding an infant. Gullet shouting words I couldn't catch. A toothless man panhandling with a Hornets cap. Emma beckoning from a dark room. My feet wouldn't move, and she receded from me.

I was awakened by the sound of my cell. Reaching for it, I felt pain in my elbow.

"Gullet here." I could hear voices in the background. Phones. "We've got us another one."

My stomach tightened.

"Storm washed a barrel up south of Folly Beach. Couple of fishermen took a peek, found a body. The area's county, so my office caught the call. Miz Rousseau's indisposed again, said you should be included. Appears you're becoming de facto coroner, young lady."

At 7 A.M. the young lady was not up to a snappy retort. "Give me directions," I said, fumbling for pen and paper.

"Got no time for you getting lost. Meet me at the morgue in thirty minutes."

"What's the rush?" Bristly. But Gullet was right. I'd probably have trouble finding the place.

"Tide's coming in."