Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

“Noted. What’s up?”

“Bad news.”

“I hate it when people open a conversation with that.”

“I did not. I complained about you going incommunicado.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“I received results from the DNA section on the gentleman found floating in the Hemmingford pond.”

“John Lowery. Spider.”

“Apparently not.”

“What?”

“According to the report, it is not Monsieur Lowery.”

“What?” I was hearing LaManche’s words, but their meaning was not sinking in.

“The sequencing did not match.”

“The sample was too degraded?”

“The sample was degraded, but the technicians were able to amplify. The results were exclusionary.”

“How did the LSJML get a comparative sample? Plato Lowery refused to submit a swab.”

“Local law enforcement in North Carolina was very cooperative. A sheriff whose name eludes me was particularly accommodating.”

“Beasley?” Of course. I knew this. I was in denial.

“ Oui. C’est ça. Sheriff Beasley recalled that John Lowery’s mother was hospitalized for a short period before her death. He found that the hospital had retained pathology slides. One specimen was sent to AFDIL. At our request, another was sent to the LSJML DNA section. Extraction was successful, and testing shows that the Hemmingford victim is not Harriet Lowery’s son.”

“But the sample was degraded.”

“Temperance, they have confidence in the results. The sequencing does not match.”

The naughty-nurse floater was not Spider Lowery? How was that possible? Then who was he?

Did the exclusion mean I was wrong about the man buried in the Gardens of Faith Cemetery in Lumberton in 1968? Was that man Spider Lowery and not Luis Alvarez, after all?

And what about Xander Lapasa? We still didn’t know why Lapasa was found wearing Spider Lowery’s dog tag.

“—sorry. I know this is not what you hoped to hear.”

“No, sir. It’s not. But thanks for letting me know.”

I was standing with the phone in my hand when Ryan came up behind me.

“Bad news?”

I shared LaManche’s news on the DNA exclusion.

“What about the FBI fingerprint match?”

“Yeah.”

“Tabarnac.”

“Yeah.”

I was about to tell Ryan about Katy’s blog when his cell phone sounded.

Katy and Lily chimed in from the kitchen.

Sunny day. Keeping the clouds away.

“Ryan here.” Waving down the giggles.

“Uh-huh.”

Ryan patted the front of his golf shirt. Found no pocket. Pantomimed writing.

I delivered pen and paper from the counter.

“OK. Shoot.”

He scribbled what looked like two names. A long pause followed.

“When?”

Pause.

“What’s the address?”

Ryan jotted something else.

“We’ll be there.”

“That was Lô.” Jamming the phone onto his belt. “For the past three years Francis Kealoha has been running with an SOS gang operating out of Oakland. Went by Francis Olopoto.”

“Probably his original Samoan name.”

“Logo’s a guy named George Faalogo.”

“Also a Samoan name.”

“Ted Pukui’s in the wind, but they’ve bagged Pinky Atoa. They’ll let him cool his heels awhile, then grill him. Hadley Perry is otherwise engaged. Since you’re her rep on the case, Lô invited us to observe.”

“Is that standard here?”

“How would I know?” Ryan lowered his voice. “Maybe the little fellow has designs on your awesome little ass.”

I narrowed my eyes and cocked my head in the direction of our daughters.

“Then why would he invite you?” I whispered.

“He knows I have first dibs.”

My eye roll was of Olympic quality.

“Is Atoa being charged?” I asked.

“No. The guy owns a pit bull that’s supposed to be mean as a snake. Gata.”

“I think gata means snake.”

“Apparently Gata killed some neighbor’s Chihuahua. Atoa thinks he’s being hauled in because of that. Lô and Hung will focus on the dog for a while, then spring Kealoha and Faalogo.”

“I’ll be ready in ten.”

We took Ryan’s rental car, a Pontiac G6. As he drove, I used his cell to phone Danny. First off, I told him about the crash.

“Why didn’t you call right away?”

“You were at your arrival ceremony.”

Next I told him about LaManche’s report. He was as shocked as I was.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wish I were. Have you heard from AFDIL concerning the remains I exhumed in Lumberton?”

“They said no way on nuclear DNA, doubted they’d even get mitochondrial. Besides, there’s no Alvarez maternal to provide a sample for comparison. Looks like we can kiss that avenue goodbye.”

“LaManche said Harriet Lowery’s specimens were pretty degraded. I think it’s worth trying to locate another source.”

“Will your lab foot the bill for a second round of tests?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Should I ask Plato one more time?”

“Got any other ideas?”

“I’ll make the call,” Danny said.

“What a mess,” I said.

“A real conundrum.”

Within the hour things would really hit the slag heap.

MIST COATED THE WINDSHIELD AS RYAN AND I DROVE INTO town. All the way, he flicked the wipers on, then off. On. Off.

The Honolulu PD is headquartered in a white stone building parked on Beretania Street like a big square ship. Though mere blocks from the Botox, designer labels, and brightly striped umbrellas of Waikiki Beach, its denizens hail from a different world.

Lô’s directions sent us to the third floor. We rode an elevator packed tight with the usual assortment of clerks, detectives, and uniformed cops checking in or out, carrying sealed evidence bags, or sneaking off to wherever it is they cloister to smoke.

The homicide squad was a large open room filled with desks shoved into clusters of twos, threes, and fours. Lô and his partner occupied a solo pair at the back.

Like Lô, Hung was a surprise. Tall and muscular, she had bone white skin and glossy black hair chopped off at the ears. Her chestnut eyes contained colored flecks that sparked like chips of glass from the sea. Only a subtly humped nose kept the woman from being a stunner. I liked that she hadn’t changed it.

Lô made introductions. Hung’s first name was Leila.

We all shook hands. Lô dragged over chairs and we sat.

Hung went straight to the point. I liked that, too.

“Back in the eighties the Sons of Samoa was mostly a social group. Later it became a full-fledged gang in Hawaii. SOS died down for a while, then revived around nineteen ninety-eight as a prison gang called USO Family or USO, United Samoan Organization. It’s complicated, but uso can mean brother in Samoan.”

“If you’re male, referring to a male sibling,” I said. “It can also mean sister, if you’re female referring to a female sibling.”

Hung looked at me. Behind us, a phone rang. Someone answered.

“She’s an anthropologist,” Ryan said.

“Sure she is.” Hung continued. “At one time USO was only Samoan, but intel says the group is now mixed race and has approximately two hundred members in Hawaii.”

“USO is pretty much restricted to our correctional facilities,” Lô added.

“Kealoha and Faalogo were SOS,” Ryan said.

“Right. SOS spread from Hawaii to California, Utah, and Washington State. On the mainland SOS are usually Crips.”

Though I didn’t interrupt, I must have looked confused.