Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

“She’s nervous,” Pete said.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“You OK?” Pete studied my face. “You look tired.”

“Rinaldi was killed yesterday.”

Pete’s brows did that confusion thing they do.

“Eddie Rinaldi. Slidell’s partner.”

“The cop shooting that’s been all over the news?”

I nodded.

“You’ve known Rinaldi forever.”

“Yes.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Shit, Tempe. I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“You holding up all right?”

“Yes.” I could manage only monosyllabic replies.

Pete took my hand. “I’ll call you.”

I nodded, faked a smile, afraid speaking would unleash the pain that was a tangible presence in my chest.

“That’s my Tempe. Tough as a lumberjack.”

Pete kissed my cheek. Then he was gone.

Closing my eyes, I gripped the back of Summer’s empty bar stool. Behind me, conversation burbled. Cheerful diners, enjoying the company of others.

My nose took in sesame oil, garlic, and soy, smells from the happy years, when Pete, Katy, and I made Sunday-evening outings to Baoding.

The past few days had been overwhelming. Rinaldi. Katy. The chief. Boyce Lingo. Takeela Freeman. Jimmy Klapec. Susan Redmon. Now Pete and Summer.

I felt a tremor low in my chest.

Took a deep breath.

“Waiting for take-out?” The voice was right at my ear.

I opened my eyes. Charlie Hunt was leaning down, face close to mine.

“Buy you a Perrier?” Charlie asked.

What I did next I will always regret.

“Buy me a martini,” I said.

I DON’T REMEMBER THE REST OF THAT NIGHT OR MUCH OF MONDAY. Arguing with Charlie. Driving. Tossing items into a supermarket cart. Fighting with a corkscrew. Otherwise, thirty-six hours of my life disappeared.

Tuesday morning I awoke alone in my bed. Though the sun was just cresting the horizon, I could tell the day would be clear. Wind teased the magnolia leaves outside my window, flipping some to show their undersides pale against the dark green of their unturned brethren.

The jeans I’d worn Sunday lay kicked to a baseboard. My shirt and undies hung from a chair back. I was wearing sweats.

Birdie was watching me from under the dresser.

Downstairs, the TV was blaring.

I sat up and swung my feet to the floor, testing.

My mouth felt dry, my whole body dehydrated.

OK. Not too bad.

I stood.

Blood exploded into my dilated cranial vessels. My eyeballs pounded.

I lay back down. The pillow smelled of Burberry and sex.

Dear God. I couldn’t face students in my condition.

Staggering to my laptop, I sent an e-mail to my lab and teaching assistant, Alex, saying I was ill and asking if she could proctor the bone quiz then dismiss class.

When I raised my lids again the cat was gone and the clock said eight.

Forcing myself vertical, I trudged to the shower. After, my hands trembled as I combed wet tangles from my hair and brushed my teeth.

Downstairs, the classic movie channel was pumping out The Great Escape. I found the remote and clicked off as Steve McQueen cycle-jumped a barbwire fence.

The kitchen told the story like a graphic novel. Heaped in the sink were remnants of a frozen pizza and Dove Bar wrappers and sticks. Two empty wine bottles sat on the counter. A third, half-empty, had been abandoned on the table beside a single glass.

I ate a bowl of cornflakes and knocked back two aspirins with coffee. Then I threw up.

Though I rebrushed my teeth, my mouth still tasted noxious. I chugged a full glass of water. Tried Advil.

As expected, nothing helped. I knew only time and metabolism would provide relief.

I was crushing the pizza box when my mind began to dial into focus.

It was Tuesday. I’d spoken to no one since Sunday.

Though Monday was a holiday, I’d surely been missed.

Smashing the crumpled cardboard into the trash, I hurried to the phone.

Dead air.

I followed the cord to the wall. The connector was snugly snapped into its jack. I began checking extensions.

The bedroom handheld was buried under the discarded jeans. It had been left in talk mode, blocking operation of the rest of the system.

Had I turned it off? Had Charlie?

How long had the line been out of service?

After disconnecting, I hit TALK. Dial tone. I disconnected again.

Where was my cell? Using the house phone, I dialed that number.

Nothing.

After considerable searching, I found the mobile downstairs in the back of a drawer in the study. It had been shut off.

Doubtful Charlie did that, I thought, wondering at my alcohol-addled motivation.

I was hooking the mobile to its charger when the landline rang.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?”

Slidell’s tone sent an ice pick straight through my brain.

“It was a holiday,” I said defensively.

“Well, ex-c-u-u-u-se me if murder don’t take time off.”

I was too sick to come up with a clever rejoinder. “You’ve made progress finding Rinaldi’s shooter?”

Slidell allowed me several heel-cooling moments of muteness. Background noises suggested he was at police headquarters.

“I’m barred from the investigation. Seems I’m too invested to be objective.” Slidell snorted. “Invested. They talk about me like they’re talking about a goddamn portfolio.”

It was probably a good decision. I kept the thought to myself.

“But I got a gut feeling this is all connected. I work Klapec and the Greenleaf cellar, eventually I nail the slime that took Rinaldi out.”

Slidell stopped. Cleared his throat.

“I talked to Isabella Cortez.”

“Who?” The name meant nothing to me.

“Takeela Freeman? Grandma?”

“Right. What did you learn?”

“Nada. But I also talked to Donna Scott-Rosenberg. The lady tells a good story. Her version puts the cemetery caper square on Finney.”

“Big surprise. What does she say about Susan Redmon’s remains?”

“Says when her family left for California she decided packing body parts would be too risky. Didn’t want her old man to find them. Didn’t want to leave them behind in the house. So she gave them to one of her Goth buddies, a kid named Manuel Escriva.”

I was sweating and nausea was threatening again.

“Escriva wasn’t hard to find. He’s doing a nickel-dime for possession with intent to distribute. Took a drive up to central prison yesterday.”

In one way Slidell and I are much alike. Though devastated by Rinaldi’s death, neither of us would permit others to see our pain. But, while Skinny had carried on, I’d come apart. I’d blown off the investigation, and for the first time in my life, was failing to carry out my academic duties. Shame burned my already flushed face.

“Guy’s an arrogant little prick. Took some bartering, but Escriva finally admits to selling the bones for fifty bucks.”

“To whom?”

“Neighborhood witch doctor.”

“Cuervo,” I guessed.

“None other.”

“Except for unlawful possession of human remains, that puts T-Bird in the clear.”

“I ain’t so sure. Escriva said Cuervo was into bad shit.”

“Meaning?” The phone felt clammy in my palm.

“I pose that very question, Escriva just gives me this cocky little smirk, makes me want to rip his face off. Then he demands something it ain’t possible to arrange with the warden. Things get a little heated. As I’m leaving he calls out. I turn around. He’s still grinning, making some kind of voodoo symbol with his hands. He says, ‘Beware the demon, cop man.’”

“You’re saying Escriva accused Cuervo of devil worship?”