Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

Agitated, I clicked off and tossed the remote onto the couch. Dear God! What if we'd made a mistake?

At one, I gave up. After rechecking Daniels's address in the white pages, I grabbed my keys and was out the door. I didn't know what I expected to learn. Something from his manner, something from his expression?

Apparently Daniels wasn't into sand and surf. His condo was in a golf course complex complete with overgroomed foliage, tennis courts, lagoon, and pool. Each unit looked like its roof had been sliced lengthwise, with the surviving half left pointing skyward. Trés avant-garde.

Daniels lived in 4-B. Leaving my car, I slipped on shades and a sun hat. Now who'd seen too many Columbo episodes?

I checked a few numbers, decided I was headed for a cluster of villas to my left. The path wound through beds mounded with pine needles and planted with marigolds and crepe myrtle bushes that would one day be trees. Water sprayed from unseen spigots, sparking sunlight and magnifying the scent of flowers and earth.

Traversing the grounds, I noticed Beemers, Benzes, and high-end SUVs nosed up to individual units. Oiled bodies tanned on poolside chaises. Though not oceanfront, Daniels obviously wasn't sitting in the cheap seats. My reaction was the same as when I'd first found Daniels's Seabrook address in the telephone directory. How does a poverty clinic nurse afford such digs?

I had no plan. When I found Daniels's unit I would do what felt right.

What felt right was to knock. So much for Columbo .

No answer.

I tried again, with the same result. Leaning in, I peeked through a tall, thin window paralleling the door.

Daniels liked white. White walls, white wicker mirror, white bar stools, white kitchen cabinets and countertops. A white staircase shotgunned straight to a second floor. That's all I could see.

"Looking for Corey?"

I spun at the sound of the voice.

Red suspenders. Straw hat. Bermuda shorts. U.S. Postal Service shirt.

"Didn't mean to startle you, ma'am."

"No," I said, my heart settling back down. "I mean yes. Is Corey here?"

"Pretty predictable, that one. If he's not working, he's out fishing." The postman smiled up at me, one hand on his pouch, the other holding a folded magazine. "You a friend?"

"Mmm." Fishing? Boat? I did a little fishing of my own. "Corey does love his boat."

"Man's got to get away sometimes. Funny world, isn't it? Big boy like that's a nurse while tiny little girls are fighting in Iraq."

"Funny world," I agreed, my mind fixing on what I'd just learned. Daniels owned a boat!

Climbing three steps, the postman held up the magazine bundle. "Stick that in the slot?"

"Sure."

"Good day, ma'am."

I waited until the postman was moving down the path, then re-crossed the porch and rifled through Daniel's mail. Boating magazine. PowerBoat. The rest of the stack consisted of envelopes and fliers, all addressed to Corey R. Daniels. With one exception. A standard white envelope with a frosty little window. Probably a bill. The addressee was Corey Reynolds Daniels.

Shoving the mail into the slot, I headed back to the car.

The boat slips nearest to Daniels's condo were at Bohicket Marina, just past the entrance to Seabrook Island. Seemed like a good place to start.

I was there in minutes. A woman leatherized by way too much sun and wearing way too little swimsuit directed me to a sportfish cruiser on pier four.

Lines ticked masts as I walked out onto the dock. Or was it sheets? Sheets to the wind? My mind was really on a rip.

Daniels's boat wasn't one of the largest, maybe a thirty-five-footer. It had a pointy bow with a metal rail shooting to midship, a covered center console, a platform off the stern, and a cabin that looked like it could probably sleep four.

My eyes roved, taking in detail. Fighting chairs. Outriggers. Rod holders. Fish box. Bait station. Live well. The craft was definitely outfitted for fishing. But not today. Everything was secured and Daniels was nowhere to be seen.

Condo minimally a half million. Boat probably another three hundred thousand. How did he do it? The guy had to be dirty.

Sometimes it's a sight, a smell, a spoken word. Sometimes there's no trigger at all. Something just goes boing! and that cartoon strip bulb goes on.

My eyes fell on the boat's name.

Boing!

THE HUNNEY CHILD .

Some great-great-grand-something picking up the tab.

My nephew's living here now and he's got a dandy of a boat.

Corey Reynolds Daniels.

Althea Hunneycut Youngblood. Honey.

Honey had married into the Reynolds family. She had a nephew who'd returned to Charleston. She had given that nephew her boat.

Honey lived on Dewees Island.

Willie Helms had been buried on Dewees Island.

Corey Daniels was Honey Youngblood's nephew. He knew Dewees Island.

Was Marshall right? Had we really arrested the wrong man? Did Daniels have the ruthlessness and brainpower to be the main guy?

Call Gullet?

No. I needed more.

I needed to get to a different marina. Throwing myself behind the wheel, I headed to Isle of Palms.

The Aggie Gray took ten minutes to chug in. The crossing back to Dewees Island took another twenty. It seemed a lifetime.

Luck was with me. There was an unattended golf cart at the ferry dock. Jumping in, I sped toward the administrative center.

Miss Honey was in the nature museum, cleaning an aquarium at the sink. A box of fist-size shells rested at her elbow.

"Miss Honey, I'm so glad I caught you."

"Caught me? Land's sake, girl, where else on the Lord's green earth might I be?"

"I-"

"Cleaning house for the hermit crabs." Honey nodded toward the box. Here and there I could see a curled appendage cautiously testing the outside world.

"Miss Honey, you mentioned your nephew last time we spoke."

The gnarled hands slowed, but continued scrubbing the tank. "Corey being mischievous again?" She gave the second of four syllables a very hard e.

"We're looking into some patient care questions at the GMC clinics and how they are staffed and all, and I'm curious about Corey's training."

"Being a nurse doesn't mean he" – the old woman hesitated – "isn't right."

"Of course not. Such stereotypes are absurd."

Honey was scouring so hard her curls were bouncing.

"Corey was going to be a doctor. Followed his heart instead. Boys grow up. What can you do?"

"Corey trained in Texas?"

"He did."

"Where?"

"University of Texas. He called it UTEP." Pfft. "What kind of name is that for a school? Sounds like a spray for foot fungus."

Honey ran water into the aquarium.

"What caused him to return to Charleston?" I asked.

"Got into trouble, lost his job, got hurt, got broke."

The old woman looked up, and the pale eyes crimped into the tiniest of frowns.

"My nephew would have made a fine doctor."

"I'm sure he would have. What were his nursing specialties?"

"ER at first, then neurology." New-rology. "Before he came back he'd worked his way into the OR. Did surgical nursing for two years. Mite messy for my taste. But you can't tell me slicing and sewing folks is an easy job. Yep. For my money, Corey turned out just fine."

I was barely listening. Two more disparate facts had clicked into place.

I was now concerned that we really had arrested the wrong man. The killer was looking more like Daniels.

And Daniels was still out there.

I felt cold all over.

I had to phone Gullet. No. I had to speak to Gullet. Against all logic, I was coming to believe Marshall's story that Daniels was setting him up. Persuading the sheriff to consider the idea would require face-to-face effort.