Bones of the Lost (11 page)

“Where?”

“Seneca Square Shopping Center.”

“South Boulevard, near Tyvola.” My heart threw in a few extra beats. Seneca Square wasn’t far from the site of the hit and run.

“Ee-yuh. I’ll float a few questions. But unless your tipster dialed naked in a tiara, the chances of anyone noticing are probably zilch.”

Slidell was right. Which irritated the hell out of me.

“Any news on the vehicle?”

“No.”

“What about the smear on her purse?”

“The FBI’s mostly a jokefest of Fuckaround Frankies. But their paint data’s the shits.”

Slidell really did have a way with words.

“Forty thousand freakin’ samples, but ours didn’t hook up.”

“What we sent wasn’t paint?”

“Yeah, it was paint. But not from a car.”

“From what, then?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“What did the report say?” Barely masking my annoyance.

“Bunch of crap about solvents, and binders, and pigments, and additives. Methyl this and hydrofluoro that. Why can’t these fart-wads just speak English?”

“You’ll have someone figure out what the stuff is?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“How long will it take?”

“As long as it takes.”

When we’d disconnected, I closed my eyes and replayed the mysterious
call in my head. Female, saying the hit-and-run vic was scared. Accent? The connection was too lousy to tell.

Did the woman know my Jane Doe? If so, why not give me her name?

Scared of what?

The caller sounded frightened herself.

Frightened of what?

Everyone has access to a mobile or landline these days. Why use a pay phone? To maintain anonymity? Erroneously thinking the call couldn’t be traced?

Had the woman disconnected or had someone cut her off? Had she meant to say more?

At that moment my stomach definitely said more. Loudly.

I fired to the kitchen for a Diet Coke, returned, pulled the top item from the stack in my inbox, and read as I chewed the PowerBar I’d scored at the Circle K.

The form reported on human bones discovered on the shore of Mountain Island Lake. Amelogenin testing showed the remains were those of a male. Definitely not Edith Blankenship, a missing woman the cops thought they’d found. Terrific. So where was Edith? And who was the guy from the lake?

I wrote a brief report, attached the form, and placed both in a bright yellow folder in my outbox. No reason for the color, except that I liked it.

Next I responded to an invitation to the upcoming meeting of FASE, the Forensic Anthropology Society of Europe. Sounded great, but who had the time?

Enough paperwork.

Bunching my PowerBar wrapper, I shifted to the small autopsy room to undertake a more detailed examination of the mummy-bundle X-rays. I was on pooch three when the phone rang.

“Your special agent is back.” Mrs. Flowers was speaking with lips close, hand cupping the receiver. “Shall I send him to you?”

What the hell? Dew had been gone little more than two hours.

“Yes, please.”

Dew and I reached my office door at the same time. Again I noticed that, despite his size, the man’s every move was executed with grace and efficiency.

I dropped behind my desk and gestured to the chair opposite. With Dew again in it, the thing looked as if it had been designed for toddlers.

“Long see, no time.”

Dew either missed or chose not to acknowledge my joke.

“I have information that might be of interest to you.”

“About my Jane Doe?”

“About Dominick Rockett.”

“The somewhat less than legal importer.”

Still not the slightest hint of a smile.

“Dr. Brennan, you are an accomplished professional. In our very brief encounters I have sensed that you care deeply about your work. More importantly, I believe you are a moral and honorable person. Opening the mummy bundles would have made your job infinitely simpler. Yet you chose not to. I respect you for that. And I trust you.”

Straight Capote, effeminate and proper.

“I feel duty-bound to share certain knowledge that I withheld during our previous conversations.”

Dew shifted as if to lean back. Changed his mind, accurately distrusting the carrying capacity of the chair.

“In the course of our investigation we have discovered that Mr. Rockett has holdings in a company called S&S Enterprises. Since S&S is a privately held entity, little information is publicly available about its structure, activities, or shareholders.”

“What does S&S do?”

“The interesting thing is not what the company does. What has caught our attention is the size of Mr. Rockett’s holdings. Based on what we’ve ascertained thus far, it seems his interest totals upwards of a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Pretty big bucks.”

“As we discussed earlier, Mr. Rockett’s officially reported earnings are modest.”

“Money from his military pension and his import business.”

Dew nodded. “Thus, we must question the source of income allowing such a substantial position.”

“ICE thinks the guy’s dirty.”

Dew continued as though I hadn’t spoken.

“There is another fact my colleagues and I find intriguing. Another reason I feel I should take you more fully into our confidence.”

Dew looked down at his hands, which lay motionless in his lap. Back up at me.

“Until recently, one of the owners of S&S Enterprises was a local entrepreneur named John-Henry Story. I believe this is a person with whom you are familiar?”

“The John-Henry Story who died in a fire last April?”

“I am told you identified Mr. Story’s remains?”

I nodded, too shocked to answer.

Shocked but pleased. It was the link that could bring ICE on board.

“I also have something to share,” I said. “You recall the girl you viewed in the cooler?”

Dew’s oddly lavender eyes narrowed.

“The kid run down and left to die?”

Dew started to speak. I raised a silencing palm.

“When found, that kid had John-Henry Story’s airline club card in her purse.”

Dew straightened a cuff but said nothing.

“Are you hearing me, Agent Dew? Dominick Rockett, your suspected smuggler, was involved in S&S Enterprises. S&S Enterprises was owned, at least in part, by John-Henry Story. My Jane Doe was carrying Story’s plastic when she died.”

Dew’s face remained unreadable.

“Surely it would be useful to your investigation to know who this girl is.”

“Does your detective—” Dew rotated one enormous pink hand.

“Slidell.”

“Is Detective Slidell not convinced this youngster was a prostitute?”

“I fail to see the relevance of that.”

“There could be many explanations for this coincidence you describe, none having to do with Dominick Rockett.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence.” Cool.

Dew waited a very long time before answering.

“As I’ve explained, my mandate is to investigate the illicit importation and distribution of cultural property.” Ever so patient. “At present our focus is on Dominick Rockett’s financial status as it relates to his potential culpability in such activities. Should it turn out that
your victim was somehow connected, I will, of course, reconsider. But an airport lounge card in the purse of a suspected prostitute?”

Dew tipped his head and raised his brows. Seriously?

I fought the urge to kick his prissy but substantial derriere out of my office. Instead I smiled.

“Is there someone else who might—”

“At the moment we are woefully understaffed.” Dew rose. “For now, regretfully, your girl’s case must remain with local authorities.”

•  •  •

My roommate was in the kitchen when I came through the door.

“Hey, Bird.”

The cat sat, curled his tail around his legs, and regarded me with round yellow eyes.

I dropped my briefcase, squatted, and stroked his head.

He stood and arched his back. Looking hopeful? Expectant? Maybe just hungry.

More guilt. I’d yet to buy cat food.

Why hadn’t I stopped at a supermarket? At least a convenience store?

Now I would pay the price for obsessing with work and ignoring household.

The cat, not so much.

Knowing the refrigerator was a dead zone, I went to the pantry. Birdie nosed through the crack as the door swung open. Placing his forepaws on the bottom shelf, he stretched to his full bipedal height and sniffed.

Right. Instant grits it is. With the remaining tuna.

Watching the cat devour his second supper of porridge
à la mer,
I had to smile. After two frustrating days, it was nice to please someone.

Quick check of my house phone. No messages.

Quick check of the produce bins. One three-pack of romaine lettuce going brown. Four shriveled carrots. A cucumber the consistency of Play-Doh.

The shelves held orange juice, Diet Cokes, plum preserves, olives, condiments, and a carton of milk ten days past its sell-by date.

The freezer offered one frost-covered burrito and a chicken potpie.

While the potpie heated, I logged in to Gmail.

Nothing from Katy.

Relax. She’s fine. No news is good news
.

Nothing from Ryan.

Why hadn’t Katy contacted me? E-mail? Text? She knew I’d be crazy with worry. Daily communication wasn’t possible, but she’d been so good. And she’d never failed to Skype at a prearranged time.

Gran’s clock bonged eight. Though tired and anxious, I forced myself to stay busy.

The rest of the e-mails were either ads or matters of no urgency.

I ate the pie, which was heavy on legumes and light on poultry. Washed the cat dish. Paid a few bills. Watched an episode of
Boardwalk Empire
with Birdie purring in my lap.

Fought the urge to check Gmail every ten minutes.

At ten I showered and hit the sack.

Sleep? Who was I kidding?

No toe testing or tentative wading. My brain dove straight into a whirlpool of anxiety.

Who was the dead girl? Why was she out with no identification or keys in the middle of the night? Had someone removed the contents of her purse?

Why lift her ID but leave John-Henry Story’s club card?

That one I could answer. The card was in the purse’s lining. But why? Was the girl hiding it? Did someone take her ID but miss Story’s card? Her killer?

What value could an airport lounge card have? It was not a credit card.

Story had been dead six months. Slidell said the card hadn’t been used in that time. Couldn’t be used without Story.

Another possibility broke through.

Could John-Henry Story still be alive? If so, had he faked his own death? To gain what?

And. More disturbing. If Story hadn’t died in that warehouse, whose bones had I examined?

I turned on the light and checked my phone for an e-mail or text from Katy.

Shit.

Lights out.

Neurons in gear.

John-Henry Story was fifty-one when he died. My Jane Doe was maybe fifteen. Had Story asked the girl to travel with him? For him? Where? For what reason?

The gray cells offered no hypotheses.

Somehow Story’s card went from his possession to the girl’s purse.

The pink purse lying in the dirt by her body.

I pictured a deserted road, a sloping shoulder, headlights slashing the post-midnight darkness.

And had another thought.

Was John-Henry Story connected to the hit and run?

Had he been the driver?

Whoa. Now that was a stretch.

A stretch based on zilch. Pure dream sequence. Nothing scientific about it. Even if Story had staged his own death, the fire was in April, long before the girl’s murder.

Giving up on sleep, I threw back the covers and descended to the kitchen. Birdie padded along, confused but willing.

I heated a cup of water, dipped a peppermint tea bag, then poured the last of the milk into a saucer. Birdie lapped, unconcerned that his snack was a bit past its prime.

As I sipped tea, my thoughts took another route.

Dominick Rockett, the former soldier with the mutilated face. The importer caught with illegal antiquities. The investor in a company owned by John-Henry Story.

Where did Rockett get the funds to buy in to S&S Enterprises? Why that company? When? Before Story’s death? Supposed death? Was Story a factor in Rockett’s decision to invest?

Another coincidence?

Right.

Did Dominick Rockett know John-Henry Story? Work for him? With him? Doing what?

Was Rockett involved in the hit-and-run killing?

Suddenly the room felt chilly.

October. Winter really was coming. Soon it would be time to turn on the heat.

Placing my mug in the sink, I returned to the bedroom, my feline companion right at my heels.

I tucked under the covers, killed the light, and closed my eyes. Tried to clear my thoughts.

No Dominick Rockett. No John-Henry Story. No Jane Doe.

My higher centers began another loop.

The afternoon’s call.

Who was the woman on the phone?

Assuming the call was legit, what had frightened the dead girl?

Was the caller also afraid of this person?

Birdie leapt up, circled, and nestled into the crook of my knee. I ran my hand down his back, grateful for his unquestioning loyalty.

Flashbulb image. Charred fragments. So fragile I’d had to spray them with polyurethane before attempting to tease them from the ashy matrix in which they were embedded.

John-Henry Story?

If so, what was Story doing in that barn so late at night? Was he that hands-on involved in the business? Was he having financial difficulties? If so, might he have torched the place? Accelerants flame fast. Did he miscalculate and find himself trapped? But the arson investigators wouldn’t have missed that. There would have been evidence of accelerants, containers.

I pictured a figure backlit by fire and smoke. Panicky movements. Flames catching his clothes, his hair, his skin.

If Story didn’t die in that blaze, who did? A worker? A vagrant, asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Round and round.