Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

Ryan opened the 2.jpg e-mail. An Observer box sat to the right of the Starbucks door. Placing the curser on it, he zoomed in. Though fuzzy, the words were legible.

FOURTH CRASH VICTIM DIES

I was holding the same headline in my hand.

Ryan spoke first.

“Assuming the photos were scanned in order, the first two were taken Wednesday morning. That’s yesterday. We went to Starbucks yesterday.”

I felt my flesh crawl.

“Jesus Christ, Ryan.” I threw the paper on the sofa. “Some nutcase has been stalking me with his Nikon Cool Pics. Who cares exactly when the damn things were taken?”

I couldn’t stand still. I began pacing.

“Knowing when the photos started may provide a clue about motive.”

I stopped. He was right.

“Why yesterday?” he asked.

I thought back over the past few days.

“Take your pick. On Friday I told Gideon Banks his daughter had killed her baby. On Saturday I excavated bear soup. On Sunday I scraped two guys out of a Cessna.”

“Dorton was ID’ed as the plane’s owner on Monday.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Pearce was ID’ed as the pilot on Tuesday. That’s also when we tossed the Foote farm.”

“Wasn’t the Cessna’s payload also discovered that day?”

“The coke was found on Monday, reported on Tuesday.”

“Makes me think somehow Dorton’s behind this. He gives the word on Monday or Tuesday. One of his henchmen starts clicking away on Wednesday.”

“Maybe. What about this. Slidell and Rinaldi were already looking at Darryl Tyree last week for the death of the Banks baby. By Wednesday they knew that Tyree and Jason Jack Wyatt were telephone buddies.”

“The Cessna passenger.”

I nodded.

“Tyree could have sent the e-mails.”

I thought about the warning in each subject line.

“Back off from what? ” I asked.

“Dogging Tyree?” Ryan threw out.

I made a face. “Slidell and Rinaldi are after Tyree. Why threaten me?”

“You’re the one who examined the baby. You’re the one pressing to find Tamela and her family.”

“Maybe.” I wasn’t persuaded. How hard was I really pressing?

“Maybe it’s the privy victim,” Ryan suggested. “Maybe someone thinks you’re getting too close on that.”

“Slidell didn’t talk to Lancaster County until Wednesday. According to your reasoning, this scumbag was already following me around by then.”

“What about the feathers?”

“We didn’t learn about the Spix’s until this morning.”

Boyd joined us. Ryan reached out and scratched his ear.

“We excavated the privy on Tuesday,” he said.

“Hardly anyone knew what we were looking for or what we found.” I counted on my fingers. “Larabee, Hawkins, Slidell, Rinaldi, the CSU techs, and the backhoe operator.”

Boyd swiveled and nudged my hand. I stroked him absently.

“I should call Slidell.”

“Yes.”

Ryan stood and wrapped his arms around me. I pressed my cheek to his chest. The tension in his body was palpable.

When Ryan spoke his chin tapped the crown of my head.

“Whatever twisted mutant did this doesn’t realize the world of hurt that’s about to befall him.”

Charlotte is neighborhoods. Elizabeth. Myers Park. Dillworth. Plaza-Midwood. Most cling to the past like Boston biddies gripping the genealogy charts that identify them as Daughters of the American Revolution. Zoning is enforced. Trees are protected. Nontraditional architecture, if not banned outright by a homeowners’ ordinance, is viewed with disapproval by obdurate residents.

But that times-of-yore grip has slipped uptown, where the theme is concrete, glass, and steel. Those same Charlotteans who sip martinis on magnolia-shaded patios in the evening take pride in their city’s skyscraper core during the working day. In fact, it is the preservationists who are on the run uptown.

One circle out from the nerve center lie four wards, three of which have undergone modernization in recent decades.

Though not exactly Williamsburg, Fourth Ward is the city’s version of an historic district. The neighborhood is whimsical Victorians, tasteful brick condos and town homes, narrow streets with towering shade trees. There is even a faux colonial tavern.

In First and Third Wards there was no pretense at historic preservation. During the eighties and nineties, the old was bulldozed for the new, and run-down bungalows, shabby repair shops, and seedy diners gave way to the modern multiuse concept. Offices and homes above, specialty shops below. Condos, apartments, and lofts proliferated, all with views of man-made ponds, and names like Clarkson Green, Cedar Mills, Skyline Terrace, Tivoli.

Lija’s town house was in Third Ward’s Elm Ridge, tucked between Frazier Park and the Carolina Panthers practice fields. The complex consisted of double rows of two-story duplexes facing each other across grassy courtyards. Each unit featured a wide front porch with a swing or rockers, bird feeders and hanging ferns optional.

In the early dusk, Elm Ridge looked like a pastel rainbow. In my mind I heard the architectural planning session. Charleston yellow. Savannah peach. Birmingham buff.

Lija’s was the last unit in the eastern row of the middle pair. Miami melon with Key West holly-berry shutters.

Ryan and I climbed to the porch and I rang the bell. The doormat stated HI, I’M MAT!

As we waited my eyes were drawn to the swing, and my heart seemed to drop to my toes. My gaze darted left then right. Was the stalker out there, even now, watching us?

Sensing my apprehension, Ryan squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, forced my lips into an upward arc. I would give Katy a heads-up when I had her alone, but I would not transmit the full extent of my fear to her.

My daughter hugged me, stated approval of my look, the black linen number with a slapdash iron job. Then her eyes went to Ryan.

My date had chosen an ensemble of ecru pants, blue blazer, pale yellow shirt, and yellow and navy polka-dot tie.

And high-top sneakers. Red.

With an almost imperceptible cocking of one eyebrow, Katy smiled at Ryan and relieved him of the hors d’ouevres. Then she led us inside and introduced us to the other guests, Lija’s current boyfriend, Brandon Salamone, a woman named Willow, and a man named Cotton.

And the irresistibly handsome Palmer Cousins.

Cousins’s outfit suggested whole colonies of homeless mulberry worms. Silk tie. Silk shirt. Silk trousers and jacket with modest input from merino sheep.

Katy offered wine and beer, excused herself, returned and again offered wine and beer, then asked in a whisper that I join her in the kitchen.

A black lump lay in a broiler pan on the stovetop. The room smelled like the inside of a barbecue kettle.

Lija was working at something in the sink. She turned when we entered, threw up both hands, returned to her task.

To say she looked tense would be like saying Enron’s accountants did some rounding up.

“I think we burned the roast,” Katy said.

“We didn’t burn it,” Lija snapped. “It caught on fire. There’s a difference.”

“Can you do something with it?” Katy asked.

The roast didn’t look burned. Burned would have been an improvement. It looked incinerated.

I jabbed it with a fork. Briquettelike chunks snapped off and rolled to the pan.

“The roast is toast.”

“Great.” Lija yanked the drain plug. Water rushed down the pipes.

“What are you doing?” I asked her back.

“Thawing chicken.” She sounded close to tears.

I crossed to the sink and poked the rock she was holding.

Lija replaced the plug and turned on the tap.

At the rate she was going, her Pick-of-the-Chix would defrost in several decades.