Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

Bang!

The previous night’s dream flashed in my brain. A horse’s white blaze gone gold. Equine teeth.

More images popped.

A maxillary fragment.

Crumbling adipocere circling a drain.

A lopsided gold sliver with two tapering points.

An open-beaked duck.

A pointy-stemmed mushroom.

Rico.

My hand flew to Ryan’s wrist. “Ohmygod! I know what it is!”

“My arm?”

I released my grip.

“The gold thing Danny and I found. I found.” I was totally psyched. “The fragment we thought was part of a dental restoration. Well, I did. Danny wasn’t sure. But the dentist didn’t think so. Craig Brooks. He was right. Well, he was wrong and right. It was dental but not a restor—”

Setting his fork on his plate, Ryan raised two calming hands. “Take a breath.”

I did.

“Now. Slowly. In English. Or French. But comprehensible.”

The band segued into a way-too-twangy rendition of “Hawaii Calls.”

I reeled in my thoughts.

“I’ll bet the bandstand the thing we found with 2010-37 is a broken dental inlay.”

“Whose bandstand?”

“Look.” I spun the coaster and pointed to the logo. “What’s that?”

“A Playboy bunny.”

“The whole Playboy shtick is passé now, but it was huge in the sixties. Did you notice Rico’s tooth?”

“Shaken, not stirred.”

I rolled my eyes, a gesture wasted in the dark.

“I had a North Carolina case in which the victim had a dental crown with a gold symbol shaped like a Playboy bunny. It’s how we finally got him ID’ed.”

“Did he also have Eat at Joe’s tattooed on his—”

“The crown was strictly decorative. I did research. I learned you can get them as full gold crowns with cutouts shaped like crosses, martini glasses, stars, half-moons—”

“The ever popular bunny.”

“Yes. Or you can get what’s called a sparkle. That’s an acrylic crown that looks like a natural tooth with a gold shape affixed to the front.”

“Are these little gems permanent?”

“You can do it either way. Rough-backed sparkles are permanently bonded to the tooth. Smooth-backed sparkles can be slipped on or off at will.”

“For that special night-on-the-town look.” Said with disdain.

“Different people, different tastes.”

“J. Edgar loved marabou trim. Doesn’t mean fluffy pumps will be filling my shoe rack.”

I ignored that.

“The North Carolina guy was a migrant worker missing since nineteen sixty-nine. He was Latino. My research suggested that the wearing of ornamental gold caps is popular among Hispanics. Some articles talked about the pre-Columbian roots of the custom.”

“The Mayans also cut out people’s hearts. Doesn’t mean we should give that a whirl.”

“That was the Aztecs.”

Ryan started to comment. I cut him off.

“Spider Lowery’s Huey went down with four crew members aboard. Three were recovered and ID’ed straight off. The fourth, the maintenance specialist, was never found.”

“I’m guessing he was Latino.”

“Luis Alvarez. He was Mexican-American.”

“Wouldn’t gold hardware be mentioned in Alvarez’s dental antemorts?”

“His file contains no dental or medical records. Besides, if Alvarez added the sparkle after his last checkup, that wouldn’t be in his record.”

“Or he might have removed the thing when reporting for duty.”

“Exactly.”

Rico appeared at our table.

Ryan requested the check.

Rico pulled out his pad. As he summed, I tried observing his tooth. No go. His lips were compressed with the effort of the complex math.

Finally a slip hit the table.

Ryan and I reached for it. Argued. Our usual ritual.

I won. Handed Rico my Visa.

Smirking at Ryan, Rico headed off.

“What about Spider Lowery?” Ryan asked.

“What about him?”

“Might he have slipped into something a little more gold? He could have picked the thing up in Nam.”

“He could have.”

“Or he might have gotten the little doodad before shipping out, but removed it when he was around Mommy and Daddy.”

“Another possibility.”

“Is there anyone he might have told?” Ryan asked. “A buddy? A sibling?”

I remembered the photo session in my car.

“The brother’s dead, but Plato said Spider was close to a cousin. They played on the same high school baseball team.”

“The cousin still live in Lumberton?”

“I don’t know.”

“Might be worth a phone call. You know, cover all bases.”

True.

The band launched into “If I Had a Hammer,” the singer trying hard for Trini Lopez but missing badly.

“But Spider Lowery died in Quebec,” I said.

“Or the FBI screwed up the prints. I’d say the first step is to establish that your gold duck-mushroom thingy is, in fact, a broken gold sparkle. Then go from there.”

True again.

Rico returned with my card. I signed and added a tip. A big one, hoping for a smile.

Nope. With a mumbled “ Mahalo ,” Rico was gone.

“Does Alvarez’s file contain photos?” Ryan asked.

“Several.”

“Any smiling shots?”

In my mind’s eye I pictured the three black-and-whites.

A head-and-shoulders portrait of a uniformed young man.

A grainy reproduction of a high school graduate.

Nine sweaty soldiers, one glancing away from the camera.

I looked at Ryan.

Suddenly I was in a frenzy to reexamine that snapshot.

SUNDAY DAWNED COOL AND RAINY. I AWOKE, NOTED CONDITIONS, and went back to sleep. Apparently, my cohorts reacted in a similar fashion. Or no one even raised a lid.

At nine thirty, muffled rattling sounds roused me again. Throwing on shorts and a tee, I descended to the kitchen.

Ryan was preparing French toast and bacon. The smell was orgasmic.

I rousted the ladies and the four of us shared another prickly meal. As we ate, the rain tapered off and the sun began gnawing holes through the clouds.

After breakfast, we went our separate ways, Ryan and Lily to view fish from a glass-bottom boat, Katy and I to snorkel and read on the beach.

I took my BlackBerry, figuring I could make calls from the sand. Knowing Danny was not an early riser, I put that one off. But I was anxious to talk to Plato Lowery.

As before, Plato did not answer his phone. Neither did Silas Sugarman.

Frustrated, I stared at my current screen saver, a shot of Birdie sitting on Charlie’s cage. The photo usually triggered a smile. Not this time.

The tiny digits told me it was six thirty p.m. East Coast time. I searched my brain for inspiration. Who might be available on a Sunday evening in Lumberton, North Carolina?

Idea. Why not? He’d proven useful before.

I got a number through Google. Punched it in.

“Robeson County Sheriff’s Department.” The voice was crisp, more New York than Dixie.

“Sheriff Beasley, please.”

“Not in.”

“Could you patch me through to him?”

“Not possible.”

“This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. Could you give the sheriff my number and ask him to call me back? It’s rather urgent.”

“What is the nature of your complaint?”

“It’s not a complaint. On May eleventh I conducted an exhumation in Lumberton. The sheriff was present. I need information concerning the disinterred remains.”

“The sheriff is extraordinarily busy.”

“As am I.” The woman was starting to piss me off.

“Your number?”

I provided it.

During the pause that followed, a gull cried out. I hoped the sound didn’t carry across the line.