Bone Deep (16 page)

I said, “Does it matter? I’ve got what was in the Pelican cases.
You don’t. I’m willing to part with some of it, but when we had our little talk you gave me a fake name for the maid—I checked. And who was the guy in the ski mask?”

“Oh . . . Christ,” he muttered, “you’re
not
a fed.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t work something out,” I told him. I suggested he go to a motel for the night, then tried to press for more information.

Deon had already cut free of the conversation, though. Speaking to himself, he said, “I am so screwed,” and hung up.

•   •   •

HALF AN HOUR LATER,
Tomlinson, instead of being flustered and in a funk, came through the door acting like his old self. “I’ve never heard this dog bark, have you?” he asked, scratching the retriever’s ears. “Probably because of the throat injury, but it could be he’s waiting for the right moment. I’m trying to learn patience from him.” He cupped the dog’s head. “Aren’t I, Mr. Flamingo?”

The dog pulled away, stared at a lamp, and sneezed.

Flamingo . . . Matecumbe . . . Largo . . . Tomlinson had tried several experimental names, seeking a geographical fit. We had found the dog a few months ago lost in the Everglades, traveling south toward the last inhabited spot—an outpost named Flamingo. In Tomlinson’s mind, he would have continued onward, swimming across Florida Bay to the Keys. I’d had to pry the teeth of a decomposing boa constrictor out of the dog’s neck.

I said, “Flamingo might be the worst name ever.” When I said it, however, the retriever snapped to attention.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered.

“Aren’t we all?” Tomlinson said, suddenly despondent again.
“First time in my life I actually wanted to kill someone. Ski Mask—the crazy Harley gangbanger. I’d bet they’re one and the same. So, after Dunk dropped me at the gate, I did a power meditation, just me and the stars trying to get my humanity back on track.”

He reached to pet the dog, adding, “It’s a classic Buddhist koan. Does a dog have Buddha nature? Doc, the reality is, we’re all part wolf. It scared me how fast I reverted.”

The dog, who dodged Tomlinson’s hand, smelled of fresh mullet and mangroves, and he was dripping water on the floor. I shooed him outside and used disposable automotive towels, not a lab towel, to mop up. The nearest washing machine was at the marina and I was tired of making trips.

“I’m sorry about Lillian,” I said.

He replied with a
Me, too
shrug. “A Masonic brother found the names of the other two ladies and I called them. They’re fine, thank god. I’m still waiting to hear how Lillian died. How it happened, or whoever did it, that won’t change anything. For Lillian’s sake, I’m trying to move on.”

“That’s not the impression I got from Duncan,” I said.

“I know, I know . . . But between the Venice exit and Tuckers Grade, I said prayers for Lillian’s safe transition. I feel better now. God calls us all. How’s it go?
The wise and dumb and the very well hung.
I’m taking a
Live in the moment
approach. If Ski Mask stuffs a rag down my throat, I’ll simply disappear before he lights the match.”

I removed my glasses and cleaned them. “Are you okay?”

“A little thirsty, that’s all.” Tomlinson selected a graduated beaker from the shelf, went out the door, and returned with a bottle of twenty-one-year-old El Dorado. With reverence, he poured 250
milliliters of rum over ice. It was a recent preference, drinking fine rum from a beaker of borosilicate glass, laboratory grade. Twenty bucks apiece, those beakers cost me, but no point in warning him again.

“Duncan says he put the phone on speaker when Deon Killip called,” I said. “Give me your version of the conversation.”

No new details, so I told Tomlinson, “I’ve got something to show you. It’ll cheer you up. While I get it ready, you can explain why you’re acting so weird.”

Looking through the screen door, Tomlinson fixated on the retriever. “Strange that he never even woofs. Just sort of grunts when he’s gotta piss. Did you get those tests back yet?”

The dog had been raised in Atlanta, I’d discovered, by a hunting trial enthusiast who had also been a noted geneticist. The dog’s oddities—not barking was only one of them—had piqued my curiosity. So, a week ago, I had sent off blood and hair samples, interested in the DNA results.

Tomlinson was buying time, though, so I said, “He can damn sure growl. And you’re dodging the question.”

“
Okay.
The problem is Mick. I’ve got a full read on him now.”

My pal was serious. I mounted the digital microscope on the table and listened while he explained. “Part Indian, my ass—he has a lowlife pirate streak in him. That’s why I want Mick to believe I’m a harmless flake. He won’t let his guard down if he thinks I’m tricky. Before we left, I sold him a dime bag of Seven Mile Bridge at a discount. That should grease the skids.”

“Sold him dope,” I said.

“
Weed.
When will you ever learn the difference? My own special hybrid. Two tokes, you’re over the hump and walking on water.” Tomlinson plopped down at my desk, holding the beaker in his hand as if it were a brandy snifter. “Live the part, don’t play it—the
Strasberg approach to acting. At the drum ceremony, Ava and the twins were convinced I was a flake, too.”

It is not unusual for Tomlinson, who is an unorthodox character, to veil himself in the caricature of what people believe him to be. Typically, he does it to entertain or charm. He becomes the cheery butt of his own jokes; the drug-numbed jester who welcomes mockery with feigned confusion and a humility that, in private moments, he will confide is a test of his own Zen Roshi training.

I carried a bottle of water to the desk and sat on the folding chair. “It’s better than wanting to murder someone. But where’re you going with this?”

He asked, “What’s your read on Ava?”

I hadn’t mentioned our brief re-meeting at the Albrights’ swimming pool. “Promiscuous,” I said, then told him what had happened.

Tomlinson wrestled with something—possibly the desire to ask if the woman’s breasts were real—but stayed on topic. “There’re a few dark souls who go through a greed incarnation. Only manipulators use sex as a weapon. With Mick, greed’s behind his whole
ancient calling
act. A gift for finding arrowheads because his ancestors speak to him—
please.
And he claims he killed mastodons in a previous life. All total bullshit. That’s the sort of paranormal gibberish that no thinking person would fall for—but a lot do.”

I had to take a sip of water before saying, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Dunk, of course, was onto him from the start. Doc?” Tomlinson hunched forward in the chair. “Remember Mick saying he teaches yoga? Actually, it’s more of a fitness thing, Brazilian yoga or aerobics yoga. He’s just a trainee. But here’s the interesting part: Ava told me she and the twins did a yoga retreat in Asheville a while back.”

“
Meditation
retreat,” I corrected. “Leland mentioned it. They maxed out his credit card.”

“Yoga, mood rings, mediation—to a suit like Leland Albright, it’s all the same. Trust me, this is my wheelhouse. Today, I put it together, but I played dumb and let Mick lecture me on the subject. It’s one of those franchise deals—Brazilian yoga, Jazzercise, cross-training. It’s all similar. Lots of sweating to loud music. Mick’s on the lowest rung at the Venice studio. But the regional manager is the head yoga stud, which is based in Sarasota. He was the headliner at Asheville. A franchise gig—a chain owned mostly by French and Saudis. See the connection?”

I liked the direction this was going. “Does it have to do with Paris auction houses? I was just reading about that. Or something to do with the Muslims who took flight training in Venice?”

Tomlinson tugged at a strand of hair while his expression read
Someone’s a little slow today
.
“No. Umm, I’ll take it a step at a time. Ava and the twins attended the gig in Asheville—an obvious link. The head yoga stud also visits his franchise studios and works with new teachers—a link with Mick. But it’s more than that. Mick can’t say enough about this yoga teacher guy. He was almost an Olympic gymnast, a real motivator named Enrique Jones. You’re a jock. Ever heard of him?”

“I don’t follow the sport.”

“Well, Enrique likes to talk—especially about his female students. According to Mick, screwing students is one of the perks. The yoga stud—Enrique—he uses it like a carrot to his male trainees, who, in fact, are just salesmen. Like a pyramid scheme. He charges them a fee but keeps the fire burning with stories about his sexual conquests.”

I said, “I see where this is going now.”

“That’s right. There’s a rich Sarasota wife who’s crazy about Enrique. Supposedly wants to leave her husband, and bring along a ton of money, if Enrique will just say yes. Enrique is no gentleman, Doc. Told Mick that she’s a
oral savant
. And he used her first name. It was Ava.”

I said, “She’s promiscuous, I told you. But I don’t see Ava walking away from Leland’s money for a yoga instructor. This guy wants to marry her?”

Startled by my naïveté, Tomlinson made a fluttering sound through his lips. “Dude, a yogi-gymnast can blow himself. Why the hell would he? No . . . Greed, that’s the connection. Turn it around. Mick tells Enrique there’s money in rare fossils. Enrique knows Ava’s husband owns a phosphate mine. Then Mick brags to Enrique about how much Finn Tovar’s private collection is worth. Ava wants in on it, or maybe Mick and Enrique work out their own deal. There are a lot of scenarios.”

I asked, “You’re saying it was the yoga teacher in the ski mask.”

“No. Mick would’ve known, and he’s not that good an actor. With Enrique, it’s more about sex. He bragged about doing the mother-daughter thing, but the Sarasota mother doesn’t know.”

I said, “You mean, Ava doesn’t know?”

“Yep. He’s screwing one of the twins, too. Cockhounds like him make even me cringe. Leland Albright and I didn’t exactly hit it off, but I feel sorry for that man.”

We talked for a while longer before I told him that I was meeting Mick tomorrow, just Duncan and me, no one else. Tomlinson understood but wanted to know, “How are you going to handle the magic tour guide?”

I said, “He thinks I’m a cop, so Duncan will do most of the talking. I’ll be the negotiator, though, if this collector can produce the stone owl.”

“That’s not what I mean. Mick sees himself as the high mystic of bone hunting. You’ve got to play to his ego. He’s the expert, you’re the student.” Tomlinson’s expression urged
Pay attention
, then he added, “You have to convince him you’ve got a bad case of fossil fever. Like you’ve decided
My
god,
Mick’s the teacher I’ve been waiting for.
Play it straight, he won’t give you the time of day.”

“I’m not much of an actor either,” I said.

“His ego will take care of that. Put your brain in wind tunnel mode and let Mick’s bullshit blow right through you. I’ll be sending you good vibes from Sarasota.” He gave it a few beats before adding, “I’m having lunch with Ava.”

That was a surprise. In response to my accusing look, Tomlinson said, “I’m not that low. You told Leland I haven’t touched her and I won’t. Information is all I’m after. Ava sees me as a harmless, charming goof.”

“It’s the charming part I’m worried about,” I told him.

He finished his drink and placed my twenty-dollar beaker on the desk. “I’m a social scientist, don’t forget. Today Mick had no idea my questions were classic personality probes. You ask a person
Are you
honest?
he’ll say yes, which is meaningless. But combine it with opportunity:
If my Crow Indian friend has artifacts to
sell, could you find a buyer?
See? Plausible temptation has to be introduced to make an accurate assessment. That’s straight from the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.”

I said, “You asked Mick that? I already know the answer.”

“Which is why I didn’t bother asking,” Tomlinson said. “On the phone, I asked Ava and she said maybe.”

“She admitted it?”

“Could be she was playing the role of the bad girl, although I doubt it. Ava’s greedy. At the drum ceremony, after a few drinks, she complained about the prenup she has with Leland. If she maxed out his credit cards, could be she’s squirreling away cash. But she would need a really big score before she drops the hammer on a wealthy husband.”

Impressed, I tapped my bottle of water against the beaker. “Welcome back, Dr. Tomlinson.”

Tomlinson’s Nordic eyes were sharp and mildly predatory. “They suspect we have the missing relics,
hermano
.”

“Mick said that?”

“No, Ava—it flowed from her thoughts right into my head. There’s a reason she invited me to her house for lunch tomorrow. Doc . . . I’m going to find who’s responsible for what happened to Lillian. There’s more to this than some whacked-out Harley cowboy.”

His mood began to soften, which promoted me to say, “You don’t know for sure Lillian was murdered.”

“She was; I could smell it in the smoke. But that’s not the only reason. You never sat with Duncan’s aunt and watched a Montana sunrise. Rachel was lionhearted in her day. Now she knows she’s in for a long, cold trip if she doesn’t get her packing done. She needs those owls.”

He glanced at the digital microscope. “You were going to show me something.”

I lifted the mastodon tusk from the cupboard and placed it on the desk. “A message from the Ice Age,” I told him.

Tomlinson managed a smile. “Really? I haven’t heard a word from those folks in years.”

At noon the next day, in the palmetto heat of inland Florida, Mick swung a machete, tossed a branch aside, then turned his ear to the sky. He listened for a moment before asking, “Was that a trombone? Or maybe a Jet Ski?”

An elephant is what he’d heard, Toby trumpeting somewhere to the north. I had suspected we were near the Albright property but had no idea it was that close. I hadn’t told Fallsdown about the Albright family pet, so kept it to myself. “It could have been. How many people are you expecting?”

Mick, who’d already made it clear he didn’t trust me, said, “You ask a lot of questions.”

Rather than remind him
I also paid you eight hundred dollars
, I followed Tomlinson’s advice from the night before. I said, “Sorry. Duncan warned me about that.”

Behind me, I could feel Fallsdown listening.

Mick said, “About what?” then asked Duncan, “What did you tell this dude?”

I said, “I found my first megalodon teeth a couple of days ago.
That’s no big deal to someone like you, but I’m a little overeager. Dunk told me to keep my mouth shut, that I could learn a lot.”

“That’s true.” Mick turned to Duncan. “You gave him good advice.”

I said, “The teeth and some other fossils are in the car, if you’re interested. And this big whale vertebra, really incredible. Plus, some manatee ribs.”

“
Dugong
, not manatee,” Mick said, then shared his irritation with Fallsdown, who was clearing his throat. “Are you sure this guy’s a biologist?”

“He’s got a nice setup,” Dunk replied. “Lots of aquariums. I’ve been in his lab.”

“His
laboratory
?” Mick chuckled. “A biologist who doesn’t even know the difference between a modern manatee and dugongs from the Pliocene. That’s what a college degree will get you out here.” Chiding me, he added, “They’re the same genus,
Sirenia
, but totally different animals. Where’d you get your diploma? I’ve met a lot of preppy so-called paleontologists, biologists—the whole list. Get you guys out in the field, you’re clueless.”

I reminded myself of Tomlinson’s advice:
Put your brain in wind tunnel mode and let Mick’s bullshit blow right through you
.
Which is why I replied, “
Sirenia
—sure. Sirens, mermaids on the rocks. The Latin root. I should’ve known.”

Mick, wearing a backpack larger than my dive bag, fanned a haze of mosquitoes from his face and continued toward the creek. “You’re in my dojo now. Finn couldn’t stomach
classroom cowboys
—that’s what he called people like you. And this collector you want to meet, he’s
almost
as good as Finn was.” He hacked a few more limbs before curiosity got the best of him. “Where’d you find the meg teeth?”

I had been undecided whether to admit I knew Leland Albright.
If I did, I wanted to observe Mick’s reaction but spoke to his back anyway, saying, “I know a guy who owns an old phosphate mine near here. His stepson took me around.”

“Sure you do. What’s his name?”

When I told him, the magic tour guide stopped as if I had said a magic word. “You mean Albright as in Mammoth Ridge Mines?”

“Leland Albright. I’m doing an assessment of his property. It’s business, so I can’t say much else.”

“Mr. Albright wants
your
expert opinion?”

“Water quality, not fossils.” I forced a smile into my tone. “It’s not likely the subject of fossils will come up, but I was going to ask anyway. Would you mind if I contact you? I’m sure Albright’s company would pay a consulting fee.”

Mick’s ego unfurled like flower. “He let you on the property?” When I nodded, he became deferential. “Well . . . you couldn’t find anyone better. How much are we talking?”

“That’s up to me,” I said.

Duncan, who was smiling, stopped to retie his shoes so we could walk ahead in private.

I continued, “On consulting jobs, fees vary. You probably know this, but the contractor—that’s me—he gets something for his trouble if he hires an expert from another field. Whatever you bill hourly, I would add a percentage and pass it along to Albright’s company.” I lowered my voice. “But that’s strictly between us if it happens.”

Mick liked that. “Hell, just smart business. Sure . . . occasionally I provide expert advice if the money’s right. But let me get this straight. You’re talking about
the
Mammoth Ridge property—just north of here? They closed down years ago.”

I said, “I spent almost three hours touring the place Sunday.”

“No shit?”

“Strictly between us,” I said. “When I go back, it would be nice to have an expert along. Leland Albright—have you met him?”

“Of course. Well . . . not actually, but I’d like to.”

“That’s who hired me. What I’ll tell Leland is, I need unlimited access to the property. If he says okay, you’re in. But you can’t wander off by yourself. I’m serious about wanting to learn how to bone hunt.”

Mick talked about his respect for professionalism, then asked me, “Aside from meg teeth and the dugong rib, what did you find?”

I let a whiff of fever creep into my voice. “Enough to get me hooked. This ridge the stepson showed me, it was pure bone. Fragments, mostly, and that was the problem. I didn’t know what I was looking at. Megalodon teeth everywhere. A whale vertebra, of course, I recognized. With someone like you, though—”

“The key,” Mick said, “is training all the senses to find bones, not just the eyes. Describe the ridge you were on. I’ve heard rumors about a spot there—Finn got a hard-on just talking about it. Christ, but it couldn’t be the same place.” He touched a meg tooth that he wore as a necklace on a gold chain.

I explained that the area was the bend of an ancient river and, presumably, draglines had created the ridge. “Below the ridge was what might have been a creek until it was drained by digging. I could tell by the tree line. Oaks, I think, grew along the bank.”

“What color were the leaves?”

“I don’t know . . . sort of reddish, I guess.”

“Those were
swamp maples
,” he corrected, but was getting into it. “Did you see any really big bones? What you thought were dugong could have been points off a mammoth rib. Or mastodon, but they’re rarer.”

I let him watch me think back. “Yeah . . . now that you mention it, maybe I missed something so damn obvious—”

“What?”

“Fossilized wood—that’s what I assumed it was. Do you ever find petrified tree limbs?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Was there a lot of it?”

“I don’t know. I kicked some aside. But, like I said, I’m new at this.”

Mick’s eyes, dulled by smoking cannabis all morning, sparked. He waited until Duncan had caught up, then went into lecture mode to hide his excitement. “It’s a learning process. Me, I’m different. I was born with a gift and I thank God every day. Finn recognized it; used me as a tool, but also as a teacher. Old Man Finn’s ego”—Mick’s machete severed the top of a bush—“You would not believe what an asshole he could be. But Finn
knew
. The bones either speak to you or they don’t, and there aren’t many like me. Doesn’t mean you can’t learn. What I tell students is . . .”

While Mick lectured, I looked back at Dunk. His expression told me
Well played
.

Soon, Jet Skis: a two-cycle whine on the sudden musk of fresh water. The creek, framed by foliage, appeared: a slow-flowing stream, amber-glazed rocks, banks eroded naturally, but also in huge chunks that had been cut away by digging. Man spores, too: bottles, plastic, a flattened beer carton seeded in raw earth. This was no virgin spot. Pirate fossil mining had been done here.

The Jet Skis closer now, Mick said, “That’s them.” Then turned to Fallsdown and got serious while he lit his pipe. “The blood feud guy I mentioned, he’s not coming. Finn hated him, and vice versa, so I wasn’t surprised when he backed out. Instead, he’s sending his
grunts to get a feel for what you might have to offer. Stay cool, okay? I’ve never met the people he’s sending.”

Fallsdown, wearing jeans, long sleeves, and a red neckerchief, was sopped with sweat, not cool, but had no problem staying composed. “Why not keep it simple? I could meet the guy at a Starbucks instead of humping our asses through a mile of mosquitoes.”

A quarter mile, more like it. Our rental car was parked off the road on a survey lane, Mick’s truck behind us. I had left the car’s doors unlocked—for a reason. I suspected we were being set up and had laid a trap of my own.

Mick asked, “You want the truth about why we’re here?”

To me Dunk said, “The Fawnee brave has forgotten the Skin code of honor.”

“Like I would lie to you,” Mick laughed, striking another match. “Here’s the deal: River bottoms are public land. It’s illegal to collect artifacts from a place like this. The man—don’t even ask his name—he needs something on you in case you turn against him. See? That’s why his feud with Finn was never settled. They’re both assholes and they both had enough to hang each other, so it would’ve been mutually . . . What was that Cold War term?”

Two Jets Skis skidded around the bend. Mick finished, but I wasn’t listening. On the lead ski was Harris Sanford, the good-looking blond guy I had embarrassed in front of Owen by deep-sixing his rifle. Behind Harris was a man wearing a Harley vest, sleeveless, and a helmet with a tinted face shield. It wasn’t Harris’s beer-drinking buddy from Sunday. Too muscular.

The psycho biker, possibly.

Dunk was thinking the same thing. So was Mick, suddenly so nervous he dropped his pipe while his eyes focused on the guy.
Finally, dismissive laughter, and he retrieved his pipe, saying, “Lighten up, boys. No steel hook, and he’s not wearing gloves. The gangbanger I warned you about lost his left hand.”

Dunk, unconvinced, replied, “Ski Mask, yeah. I remember he wore gloves. But the way he handled his weapon wasn’t a guy with a hook.”

Mick said, “Not a hook—pinchers on a cable, more like a crab,” speaking in confidence from the side of his mouth while he waved at the Jet Skiers.

I was in the trees, watching, waiting, when a third Jet Ski appeared: a woman, a shorty wet suit protruding from her shorts, yellow neoprene, short dark hair, her body skinny enough to need warmth on this hot afternoon.

The woman and I made eye contact—her reaction was mild disapproval.

When Harris recognized me, a stronger reaction.

•   •   •

AFTER GLARING AT ME ONCE AGAIN,
Harris said to Mick, “The more you talk, the less sense you make. Have we met?”

For emphasis, his helmeted partner revved the engine while his Jet Ski pissed an arc of water onto the opposite bank. The woman flanked them but stayed out of it. Mounted on the skis, I noticed, were coolers, supplies, and miniature cameras on the handlebars—waterproof GoPros.

Mick had greeted the trio by introducing himself, but Harris was playing dumb. So Mick tried again, saying, “Quit screwing around. I’ve been in the biz twenty-some years, mate. You’re saying you never heard of me?”

The passenger seats of the vehicles were heavily loaded, equipment covered by tarps, but Harris replied, “Not a clue. We’re just out for a nice ride.”

“Get him on the phone,” Mick responded. “He told me to be here.”

“Buddy,” Harris said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked at his partner; the helmeted man stiffening, alert for whatever came next.

I slipped past Mick, saying, “I’m the problem,” and spoke to Harris: “Sorry about the other day. I didn’t know you and Owen are friends. No hard feelings?”

Over the aggressive thrum of an engine, Mick, who was confused, asked, “You know each other?” Then said to Harris, “This guy’s cool—a newbie. Dude, if the man didn’t trust me, we wouldn’t be here. So let’s break out the tools and bag some bones.” When he added, “I’ll personally vouch for this guy,” I made a mental note to thank Tomlinson for his advice.

Harris dropped the act. “Sure, I’ve heard of you—you’re the stoner who hustles tourists, seeds beaches with throwaway meg teeth.” He motioned toward me. “What? You think that asshole’s just another one of your Buckeye fossil hounds?”

Mick’s smile vanished. He looked at me, and took a step to distance himself. “What about him?”

Harris said, “As long as a tourist has money, huh? You didn’t bother to check the guy out, did you?”

“Well . . . but I asked around. Right from the start, that’s what I suspected. Is that it—he’s a cop?” Mick moved another step away.

I thanked my own good judgment when Harris said, “He’s a state-licensed biologist, you dipshit. The owner of Mammoth Ridge Mines hired him to write a report on their property. I don’t know
why you guys are here or what you’re expecting . . . Christ. But the man you mentioned—whoever that is—he’ll think you’re a goddamn idiot.”

Harris, who had already appraised Fallsdown, included him, finally saying, “Tough luck, chief.” Then signaled his partners to follow, and the Jet Skis screamed away.

Mick watched, saying, “Flaming asshole!” then turned to me. “
Harris
—is that what you called him? I wasn’t even told the guy’s name . . . as if I give a damn now.”

The truth added to my credibility, so I explained how Harris and I had met but played down the heroics. “Maybe it was a pellet rifle, but it sounded louder,” I said. “Guns, who knows? So I threw the damn thing as far as I could.”

Dunk caught my attention to warn
Don’t overdo it
, then he said to Mick, “All that really matters is I get my tribe’s stone carvings back. This collector you’re talking about, instead of jumping through his hoops, why not introduce us? Or at least tell me his name.” To me he added, “They planned to video us taking fossils. You notice the cameras? I don’t trust them already.”

Mick was still festering over Harris’s insults. “Ask any bone hunter in the South, they know my rep. What a prick that guy was.”

“Duncan has a good point,” I said.

“Preppy assholes,” Mick said. “Finn was right, the man—this big-time collector, supposedly—he hires know-it-alls, amateur punks. Did you hear how he talked to me? I’m booked every afternoon this week—fossil clients who pay top dollar. In one day, I could put my hands on bones those three clowns couldn’t find in weeks. Even then, they’d screw it up.” A detail popped into Mick’s head. “Harris—what’s his last name?”