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

I dropped behind my desk and gestured to the chair opposite. With Dew again in it, the thing looked as if it had been designed for toddlers.

“Long see, no time.”

Dew either missed or chose not to acknowledge my joke.

“I have information that might be of interest to you.”

“About my Jane Doe?”

“About Dominick Rockett.”

“The somewhat less than legal importer.”

Still not the slightest hint of a smile.

“Dr. Brennan, you are an accomplished professional. In our very brief encounters I have sensed that you care deeply about your work. More importantly, I believe you are a moral and honorable person. Opening the mummy bundles would have made your job infinitely simpler. Yet you chose not to. I respect you for that. And I trust you.”

Straight Capote, effeminate and proper.

“I feel duty-bound to share certain knowledge that I withheld during our previous conversations.”

Dew shifted as if to lean back. Changed his mind, accurately distrusting the carrying capacity of the chair.

“In the course of our investigation we have discovered that Mr. Rockett has holdings in a company called S&S Enterprises. Since S&S is a privately held entity, little information is publicly available about its structure, activities, or shareholders.”

“What does S&S do?”

“The interesting thing is not what the company does. What has caught our attention is the size of Mr. Rockett’s holdings. Based on what we’ve ascertained thus far, it seems his interest totals upwards of a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Pretty big bucks.”

“As we discussed earlier, Mr. Rockett’s officially reported earnings are modest.”

“Money from his military pension and his import business.”

Dew nodded. “Thus, we must question the source of income allowing such a substantial position.”

“ICE thinks the guy’s dirty.”

Dew continued as though I hadn’t spoken.

“There is another fact my colleagues and I find intriguing. Another reason I feel I should take you more fully into our confidence.”

Dew looked down at his hands, which lay motionless in his lap. Back up at me.

“Until recently, one of the owners of S&S Enterprises was a local entrepreneur named John-Henry Story. I believe this is a person with whom you are familiar?”

“The John-Henry Story who died in a fire last April?”

“I am told you identified Mr. Story’s remains?”

I nodded, too shocked to answer.

Shocked but pleased. It was the link that could bring ICE on board.

“I also have something to share,” I said. “You recall the girl you viewed in the cooler?”

Dew’s oddly lavender eyes narrowed.

“The kid run down and left to die?”

Dew started to speak. I raised a silencing palm.

“When found, that kid had John-Henry Story’s airline club card in her purse.”

Dew straightened a cuff but said nothing.

“Are you hearing me, Agent Dew? Dominick Rockett, your suspected smuggler, was involved in S&S Enterprises. S&S Enterprises was owned, at least in part, by John-Henry Story. My Jane Doe was carrying Story’s plastic when she died.”

Dew’s face remained unreadable.

“Surely it would be useful to your investigation to know who this girl is.”

“Does your detective—” Dew rotated one enormous pink hand.

“Slidell.”

“Is Detective Slidell not convinced this youngster was a prostitute?”

“I fail to see the relevance of that.”

“There could be many explanations for this coincidence you describe, none having to do with Dominick Rockett.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence.” Cool.

Dew waited a very long time before answering.

“As I’ve explained, my mandate is to investigate the illicit importation and distribution of cultural property.” Ever so patient. “At present our focus is on Dominick Rockett’s financial status as it relates to his potential culpability in such activities. Should it turn out that your victim was somehow connected, I will, of course, reconsider. But an airport lounge card in the purse of a suspected prostitute?”

Dew tipped his head and raised his brows. Seriously?

I fought the urge to kick his prissy but substantial derriere out of my office. Instead I smiled.

“Is there someone else who might—”

“At the moment we are woefully understaffed.” Dew rose. “For now, regretfully, your girl’s case must remain with local authorities.”

• • •

My roommate was in the kitchen when I came through the door.

“Hey, Bird.”

The cat sat, curled his tail around his legs, and regarded me with round yellow eyes.

I dropped my briefcase, squatted, and stroked his head.

He stood and arched his back. Looking hopeful? Expectant? Maybe just hungry.

More guilt. I’d yet to buy cat food.

Why hadn’t I stopped at a supermarket? At least a convenience store?

Now I would pay the price for obsessing with work and ignoring household.

The cat, not so much.

Knowing the refrigerator was a dead zone, I went to the pantry. Birdie nosed through the crack as the door swung open. Placing his forepaws on the bottom shelf, he stretched to his full bipedal height and sniffed.

Right. Instant grits it is. With the remaining tuna.

Watching the cat devour his second supper of porridge à la mer, I had to smile. After two frustrating days, it was nice to please someone.

Quick check of my house phone. No messages.

Quick check of the produce bins. One three-pack of romaine lettuce going brown. Four shriveled carrots. A cucumber the consistency of Play-Doh.

The shelves held orange juice, Diet Cokes, plum preserves, olives, condiments, and a carton of milk ten days past its sell-by date.

The freezer offered one frost-covered burrito and a chicken potpie.

While the potpie heated, I logged in to Gmail.

Nothing from Katy.

Relax. She’s fine. No news is good news .

Nothing from Ryan.

Why hadn’t Katy contacted me? E-mail? Text? She knew I’d be crazy with worry. Daily communication wasn’t possible, but she’d been so good. And she’d never failed to Skype at a prearranged time.

Gran’s clock bonged eight. Though tired and anxious, I forced myself to stay busy.

The rest of the e-mails were either ads or matters of no urgency.

I ate the pie, which was heavy on legumes and light on poultry. Washed the cat dish. Paid a few bills. Watched an episode of Boardwalk Empire with Birdie purring in my lap.

Fought the urge to check Gmail every ten minutes.

At ten I showered and hit the sack.

Sleep? Who was I kidding?

No toe testing or tentative wading. My brain dove straight into a whirlpool of anxiety.

Who was the dead girl? Why was she out with no identification or keys in the middle of the night? Had someone removed the contents of her purse?

Why lift her ID but leave John-Henry Story’s club card?

That one I could answer. The card was in the purse’s lining. But why? Was the girl hiding it? Did someone take her ID but miss Story’s card? Her killer?

What value could an airport lounge card have? It was not a credit card.

Story had been dead six months. Slidell said the card hadn’t been used in that time. Couldn’t be used without Story.

Another possibility broke through.

Could John-Henry Story still be alive? If so, had he faked his own death? To gain what?

And. More disturbing. If Story hadn’t died in that warehouse, whose bones had I examined?

I turned on the light and checked my phone for an e-mail or text from Katy.

Shit.

Lights out.

Neurons in gear.

John-Henry Story was fifty-one when he died. My Jane Doe was maybe fifteen. Had Story asked the girl to travel with him? For him? Where? For what reason?