Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“Cheech and Chong?”

“Mulally and Babin. You’ve talked to them?”

“Not yet. But I’m familiar with their rap sheets. Impressive.”

“Hippo says it’s too early to arrest Bastarache.”

“Hippo’s right. We don’t want to move until our case is airtight.”

“You know his whereabouts?”

“We’re on him.”

Ryan studied his shoe. Cleared his throat.

“Call me Ishmael.”

Surprised by his sudden swerve to game playing, and the pansy lob, I identified Ryan’s quote. “Moby-Dick.”

“The book’s about?”

“A guy chasing a whale in a wooden boat.” I smiled.

“The book’s about obsession.”

“Your point?”

“You’re being a pit bull with this Évangéline thing. Maybe you should ease back.”

The smile faded. “Ease back?”

“You’re acting obsessively. If the sister was on the level, the kid died over thirty years ago.”

“Or was murdered,” I snapped. “Isn’t that the point of cold case investigations?”

“Did you listen to what you said a few moments ago? Has it entered your thinking that Hippo may be justified in his concern for your safety?”

“Meaning?” I hate it when Ryan plays protector. I sensed him assuming the role, and it made me churlish.

“Obéline Bastarache is missing and presumed drowned. Cormier is definitely dead.”

“I know that.”

“Some asshole tried to take you out on a staircase yesterday. There’s a good possibility it was Mulally or Babin.”

“You suspect they sent the Death lyrics e-mail?”

“Everything I’m hearing says these clowns need instructions to use Velcro. The Internet may be beyond their learning curves.”

“Then who?”

“I’m not sure.” Ryan stood. “But I intend to find out. It’s very likely that more people are involved. People you wouldn’t recognize. So you ought not be setting yourself up as a target. Free for lunch?”

“What?”

“Lunch? Peanut butter and jelly? Tuna on rye?”

“Why?” Petulant.

“You gotta eat. After that, I know a good place to start asking questions.”

Over the weekend, a thirty-eight-foot Catalina had been discovered at the bottom of the Ottawa River, near Wakefield, Quebec. Bones littered the sloop’s V berth. The remains were believed to be those of Marie-Ève and Cyprien Dunning, a couple missing since setting sail in rough weather in 1984.

Following Ryan’s departure, I spent the day with the boat bones.

At ten, Hippo phoned to say that Opale St-Hilaire was alive and well and living with her parents in Baie-D’Urfé. The St-Hilaires had scheduled a sitting with Cormier on the occasion of Opale’s sixteenth birthday. They’d been satisfied with the experience.

At eleven, Ryan phoned to cancel lunch. No reason given.

At noon, Harry phoned while I was in the cafeteria. No message. I returned her call but got voice mail.

By four, I was outlining a preliminary report on the boat bones. One male. One female. All skeletal indicators pointed to Mr. and Mrs. Dunning.

Ryan phoned again at four thirty-five.

“Heading home?”

“Shortly.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Why?”

“Thought I’d float Mulally and Babin past your caretaker.”

“The pair that inquired about my condo. I’d totally forgotten.”

I heard the flare of a match, then deep inhalation. When Ryan spoke again, his voice had changed subtly.

“I came down on you pretty hard this morning.”

“Forget it. You’re frustrated with your cold cases. With the Lac des Deux Montagnes and Phoebe Quincy investigations. I’m frustrated over Évangéline.” I swallowed. “And you’re concerned about Lily.”

“She’s doing her part. Sticking with the program.”

“I’m really glad, Ryan.”

“How’s Katy?”

“Still in Chile.”

“Pete?”

“Engaged.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I heard Ryan draw smoke into his lungs. Exhale.

“It’s hard to go back.”

Lily to sobriety? Ryan to Lutetia? I didn’t ask.

“Tempe—”

I waited out another long inhalation, unsure where this conversation was heading.

“I’d like to hear about Hippo’s buddy’s skeleton.” Ryan’s tone was all business again.

“Any time.”

“Tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Dinner?”

“I’ll have to check with Harry.”

“She’s welcome to join us.”

“Somehow, that invitation sounded deeply insincere.”

“It was.”

Whoa, something whispered from deep in my brain.

29

RYAN WAS SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON HIS JEEP WHEN I TURNED onto my street. Sliding from the hood, he flicked a wave. I returned it. His image flashed in my rearview as I plunged into my underground garage. Faded jeans. Black polo. Shades.

A decade down the road and the man still gave me that jolt. For once, Harry’s appraisal was perfect. Ryan was hot-damn good-looking.

All the way home I’d replayed our phone conversation. What was it Ryan had started to say? Tempe, I’m the happiest man on the planet. Tempe, I miss you. Tempe, I have heartburn from the sausage at lunch.

My neural factions squared off for their usual debate.

You were attacked. Ryan’s looking for excuses to keep you in his sights.

You’ve been threatened before. Your safety is no longer Ryan’s personal concern.

He wants to question Winston.

He could do that on his own.

He wants to know about Hippo’s girl.

The Rimouski skeleton is not his case.

He’s curious.

It’s an excuse.

Those were his words.

His voice said otherwise.

After parking, I checked Winston’s basement workshop. He was there. I explained what Ryan wanted. He agreed. I could tell he was curious about my bruised cheek. He could tell from my demeanor it was a bad idea to ask.

Ryan was in the outer vestibule when Winston and I arrived on the first floor. I buzzed him into the lobby.

“Nice shoes,” I said of Ryan’s red high-top sneakers.

“Thanks.” Ryan looked at Winston. “Undercover.”

Winston nodded knowingly.

I rolled my eyes.

“Dr. Brennan explained why I’m here?” Ryan.

“Yes.” Winston, solemn as a mortician.

Ryan produced the mug shots of Mulally and Babin.

Winston stared at the faces, brows furrowed, upper teeth clamping his lower lip. After a few moments, his head wagged slowly.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Take your time,” Ryan said.

Winston refocused, then shrugged both shoulders.

“Sorry, man. It was so hectic that day. These dudes bothering Dr. Brennan?”

Ryan pocketed the pictures. “If you see them again, do let me know.” Grave.

“Absolutely.” Graver.

Ryan dug a card from his wallet and handed it to Winston. “I feel better knowing you’re here.”

The men locked gazes, acknowledging responsibility for the womenfolk.

I’d have done another eye roll, but it would have bothered my head.

Ryan held out a hand. Winston shook it then left, a soldier with a mission.

“Undercover?” I snorted. “With whom? The Disney police?”

“I like these shoes.”

“Let’s see what Harry’s doing.” I headed toward my corridor.

Whatever my sister was doing, it required her presence elsewhere. A fridge note explained that she’d left and would return later in the week.

“Maybe she got bored,” Ryan suggested.

“Then why come back?”

“Maybe something came up that needed her attention at home.”

“She’d need a passport to go to Texas.”