Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

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Apple-style-span #1 Bones,
When Charlotte police discover the body of a teenage girl along a desolate stretch of two-lane highway, Temperance Brennan fears the worst. The girl’s body shows signs of foul play. Inside her purse, police find an airline club card bearing the name of prominent local businessman John-Henry Story, who died in a horrific fire months earlier. How did Story and the girl know each other? Was she an illegal immigrant turning tricks? Was she murdered? Was he? Tempe must also examine a bundle of Peruvian dog mummies confiscated by U.S. Customs. A Desert Storm veteran named Dominick Rockett stands accused of smuggling the objects into the country. Could there be some connection between the trafficking of antiquities and the trafficking of humans? As the complications pile on, Tempe must also grapple with personal turmoil. Her daughter, Katy, grieving the death of her boyfriend in Afghanistan, impulsively enlists in the army. Meanwhile, Katy’s father, Pete, is growing frustrated by Tempe’s reluctance to finalize their divorce. As pressure mounts from all corners, Tempe soon finds herself at the center of a conspiracy that extends all the way from South America to Afghanistan and right to the center of Charlotte. A tour de force of imagination,Bones of the Lostis a roller coaster of plot twists, punctuated by Tempe’s fierce wit and forensic know-how. “A genius at building suspense” (New York Daily News), Kathy Reichs is at her brilliant best in this sixteenth installment of the Temperance Brennan series. With the Fox seriesBonesin its ninth season, Kathy Reichs has reached new heights in suspenseful storytelling.

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Like many former spouses, Pete and I remain permanently linked. There’s our daughter, Katy, of course. And pets. When Pete travels, his dog, Boyd, is a guest at my town house. My cat, Birdie, bunks with Pete when I’m out of town. Sharing custody helps on both sides.

Over the years, Pete’s ring tone has come to signal a discussion of Katy, or the exchange of details concerning animal transfer. Occasionally a request that our daughter wants filtered through her old man the softy.

Tonight was not the ordinary call.

Pete never dialed my office line.

Oh, God!

I saw the girl zipped in the bag across the hall. The girl who’d been left to die on the roadside.

I saw Katy.

“What is it? Has something happened?” Fingers death-gripping the receiver.

“Relax. Katy’s fine. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been phoning you all afternoon.”

“It’s a long story. You’re sure Katy’s okay?”

“I Skyped with her this morning. Night there. Her unit was just back from a training exercise.”

“How’d she look?”

“Wired. Tired. Bunch of GIs shouting nearby. How much can you tell?”

One year ago, Katy was a researcher at the public defender’s office, bored, bitching, but safe in Charlotte, her single joy in life her boyfriend and absentee landlord, Aaron Cooperton. Out of college and completing a stint in the Peace Corps, Coop had joined the International Rescue Committee and volunteered for aid work in Afghanistan. He was on his way to Kabul to fly home to Katy when an IED blew up his convoy.

Katy was devastated by Coop’s death. Unaware of her close connection to him, the Cooperton family had excluded her, even barred her from the private funeral they held in Charleston. Katy was left with no closure and no way to grieve.

I watched my daughter start her mornings red-eyed and ragged, drag through her days. I listened and did what I could to comfort. Took her with me on a working trip to Hawaii. Nothing helped. It gutted me to see her in such pain.

Maybe I should have guessed what was coming.

Suddenly Katy was sparkling again, enthused about life. The dark shadows under her eyes slowly faded. Her chin reclaimed its cocky tilt. When she visited, it was no longer for hours, but for minutes squeezed in between pressing commitments.

It was Pete who told me she’d enlisted. In a call like this. Katy had kept her plans secret until the papers were signed.

“Don’t worry,” she’d said when finally we’d talked. “I won’t be in combat.”

Right.

On May 14, 2012, the United States Army opened HIMARS, High Mobility Artillery Rocket System, and MLR, Multiple Launch Rocket System, units to female soldiers for the first time. Early the next year, the military lifted its long-standing ban on women in combat.

Upon completion of her BCT, basic combat training, Katy requested MLR as her military occupational specialty, or MOS. Following AIT, advanced individual training, she was off to Afghanistan.

WTF?

I’ve consulted to JPAC, the military’s central remains-identification lab in Hawaii. I can play the acronym game, too.

I brought my mind back to the current conversation. “But how did she seem?”

“Psyched. Talked about doing the same training as the men. Artillery. Cannon platoons—”

“Oh, God.”

“She’s a tough kid. She’ll be okay.”

“You’re right. It’s just—”

“I know, sugarbritches. You see violent death every day.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“She’ll probably end up a general.”

“You think she’ll make a career of the army?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Why do you suppose she chose not to enlist in an officer candidate program? She’s a college graduate.”

“I think it was the time commitment.”

But Pete hadn’t called about Katy. He’d have done that this morning after he talked to her. I waited for him to get to his point.

“So what’s the long story?” he asked.

Really?

I summarized my adventures at the courthouse and was shifting to the hit-and-run case when Pete cut me off.

“Sounds like your day sucked. How about dinner?”

“What’s the occasion?” Wary.

“Can’t I ask a soon-to-be ex-wife to dinner?”

I had a hunch what he wanted. Wasn’t about to get roped in.

“No way I’m playing marriage planner for Summer, so don’t ask.”

In midlife, most men lust after sports cars. Pete had set his sights on a trophy wife. Summer was my fiftysomething ex-husband’s thirtysomething bimbo fiancée. Best in show for tits. DQ for lack of IQ.

“You know how she is,” Pete said lamely.

I knew only too well. I’d agreed to mediate for Bridezilla once already. Ended up catching flak from both sides.

“She needs guidance.”

She needs a muzzle and a tranquilizer dart. I didn’t say that.

The wedding from hell, postponed twice, now loomed near. At least five million people had been invited. School friends, work friends, friends of friends. Facebook boasted fewer chums than Summer.

“The wedding’s in less than two weeks.”

“Wait a day. That will change.”

“She’s panicking.”

“Give her a Valium.”

“She likes you a lot.”

“Look, Pete. Summer is your problem, not mine.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that I have depositions all week and a trial on the docket the instant we get back from Tahiti. I’ve been running around auditioning photographers, picking up thank-you cards, crap you wouldn’t believe. Every day there’s a new crisis.”

Typical Pete. For two decades I’d shouldered most of the child-rearing responsibility because his professional calendar always came first. Car pools; dentist, doctor, and orthodontist appointments; gymnastics, ballet, and swim-team runs.

Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy fussing over your baby bride’s Barnum and Bailey three-ring you’d have noticed your daughter these past months, caught the signs she was about to make a dangerous decision.

I didn’t say that, either. I waited, annoyed and anxious to hang up and phone for a taxi.

“Tempe. Are you listening to me? I need the papers.”

The divorce agreement. I’d signed but not delivered it to Pete. Could have with little effort. So why the procrastination?

“Right. They’re on my desk at home. I should have given them to you ages ago. Sorry. Of course, come and get them anytime. There’s no need to take me to dinner.”

“I want to take you to dinner.”

I started to protest. Pete cut me off.

“I’ll pick you up out front. And I promise. Not a word about the wedding.”

“I don’t think—”

“How was it you planned to get home?”

Side-out, Pete.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER A SHINY new BMW convertible swerved to the curb Red - фото 11

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, A SHINY new BMW convertible swerved to the curb. Red with black leather interior.

Trophy wife. Trophy car. I fought an impulse to roll my eyes.

Less commendable was Pete’s fashion sense. Sure, he could muster a suit and tie for court, but a golf shirt and khakis was his normal attire. My ex’s guiding principle: comfy and cool.

As I dropped into the passenger seat, my brows rose at the sports jacket, blue shirt, and navy slacks.

“Don’t we look snazzy.” Excluding the sockless loafers.

“I’m having dinner with a lovely lady.”

Orbital roll beyond my control.

“Nice wheels.” Keeping it light.

“Got a good deal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Took ’er up to Asheville over the weekend. Purred like a kitten. Summer squealed at every switchback. Almost squealed myself once or twice.”

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