Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

My cell phone rang as I was packing.

The caller’s number began with the digits 202. The area code for Washington, DC.

Normally, I ignore unknown numbers. Something told me to make an exception.

I looked at Birdie.

If a cat could shrug, he did.

Tossing a swimsuit into the rollaboard, I tapped the green icon.

“Temperance Brennan.”

“Dr. Brennan. I’m so glad I caught you. It’s Jada Thacker.” The voice was female, and clearly nervous.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if you remember me. We met years ago at an AAFS meeting in Seattle. I’d just graduated med school and was about to begin a residency in pathology.”

“Of course.” Total blank.

“I asked your opinion on a field course in forensic archaeology that I planned to take.”

A vague recollection began to coalesce. A very large young woman with enormous earrings and hair the shiny black of crow’s feathers.

And far too much bubbly enthusiasm for that late in the day.

Now that woman sounded pinched and anxious.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Thacker?”

“I just watched the interview you did for WTTG. I got your contact information from Ivy Doyle. The reporter. I hope that’s all right.”

“Uh. Huh.” It wasn’t.

“I’ll come straight to the point. Based on witness accounts, we believe people perished in this fire. I’m the interim medical examiner for the District of Columbia, so handling those deaths is my responsibility. As you so brilliantly pointed out in your responses to Ms. Doyle, proper processing of a fire scene requires a very specific skill set. A skill set no member of my staff possesses.”

Nope. No way.

“My techs are capable of basic recovery, of course. Most have worked fire scenes. But they’ll need expert direction and oversight for this one. Guidance from someone with extraordinary knowledge and vast experience.”

“Isn’t there a board-certified anthropologist in the DC area?” I asked, ignoring that Thacker was laying it on thick.

“Normally I’d rely on Gene Raynor. But Dr. Raynor is in Portugal and unavailable.”

“Aren’t there others?”

“I want you.”

I braced. Anticipating that for the second time in twenty-four hours a forceful young woman was about to try to sell me a line.

“I need your help, Dr. Brennan. I owe it to these victims and to their families to get the job done right.”

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Thacker. I have plans that will tie me up for the next few days. But I’d be happy to refer you to—”

“I’m going to share some intel. What I say must remain strictly between us.”

Confidential info was the last thing I wanted.

“The authorities suspect that the property was being used as an illegal Airbnb.”

“It was unlicensed?”

“Yes. According to witness statements, the second and third floors were subdivided into a warren of rooms, many without windows, none with fire escapes. One long-term renter claims there were at least four people sleeping on the upper levels when the fire broke out.”

“Why wasn’t the place shut down?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that the poor souls inside that building didn’t stand a chance.”

A new collage of images strobed in my brain, vivid as the day it happened. To me. The old row house in Pointe-Saint-Charles. The acrid smoke. The reeking gasoline-soaked rug. The hungry flames devouring the ancient wood.

Thacker’s voice snapped me back to the present.

“—obtained some names. One of those feared dead is a nineteen-year-old Canadian named Skylar Reese Hill. I’ve heard a recording of Hill’s nine-one-one call. The terror in the girl’s voice is heart-wrenching.”

“Hill is among the missing?”

“Yes. And her husband is demanding answers and not bothering with polite.”

I really didn’t give a damn about the husband who is suddenly greatly concerned, perhaps because he senses the possibility of money. But I was touched by the death of a nineteen-year-old struggling to stay alive.

Thacker allowed a moment of silence to emphasize the gravity of her next words.

“I’m begging you, Dr. Brennan. Please find it in your heart to help me. To help them.”

My gaze dropped to the half-filled suitcase. To the sundresses and sandals stacked beside it. While I’d been thinking about juleps and pecan pie, innocent victims had been perishing in an inferno.

Damnitdamnitdamnit!

“Okay.”

“Really? You’ll come?”

“Yes.” It was so far from okay it wasn’t even in the same galaxy.

“Thank you so, so much.” There was that bubbly that I recalled. “How soon can you leave?”

I glanced at the clock. Nine-seventeen. I had to repack, placate and deliver Birdie to my neighbor, then drive to the airport.

“Eleven.”

“I’ll book a hotel and a flight and call you right back.”

“Right back” was almost an hour later. The bubbly was gone, replaced by an elevated level of distress.

“I’m sorry this took so long. My secretary, my assistant, and I have all been on the phone. In addition to the normal Memorial Day frenzy of tourists, DC is hosting WorldPride 2025 and there’s some mammoth event this weekend. The district will be insane. The good news is that I managed to finagle a room at the Hyatt Place, which is right across the street from our office.

“The bad news is that there isn’t a single seat on any direct flight from Charlotte. I could get you here by seven, but it would involve changing planes and a long layover in Philadelphia.”

Mother of God. Could this get any worse?

“I’ll drive,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s only six hours.” In the wrong damn direction.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Text when you’re an hour out and I’ll arrange for a meet in my office. The fire investigator will be thrilled to have you.”

He wasn’t.

I don’t mind long road trips. Cross-country travel brings out the pioneer in me. Not that I was migrating west in a covered wagon. Or blazing a trail through uncharted wilderness.

I’d made the trip to DC many times. Still, I enjoyed reading each exit sign as it flew by. Mooresville. Greensboro. Richmond. Fredericksburg.

I played mental games imagining life in those towns. The school plays. The office rivalries. The neighborhood dramas.

The lure of the open highway. Unknown people. Unknown places.

At the height of the craze, my father owned a CB radio. When I could score the family car, I’d put my “ears” on and chat with Thunderman or Big El or K-Bone, believing they had no idea I was only a kid. Breaker! C’Mon! My handle was Scooter.

Eventually, my sister, Harry, ratted me out. Mama shut down my trucker pastime, fast and hard.

The day was warm and muggy, with fat dark clouds rolling and shouldering low in the sky. The farther north I went, the more imminent the rain seemed. I hoped the storm would hold off until I’d reached the hotel.

As soon as I’d disconnected with Thacker, I’d phoned Ryan. The call had not gone well. Though he’d tried to mask it, I could read the annoyance in his voice. The frustration. As he correctly pointed out, it was the second time that spring I’d canceled plans with him.

Suck it up, dude. I was disappointed, too.

The hasty transfer of the cat was also unpleasant. Released from his carrier, Birdie had shot under my neighbor’s couch and begun howling like his genitals were on fire.

Same sentiment. I wasn’t going to a damn spa, Bird.

Now and then an eighteen-wheeler went by too fast, a black or red blur that rocked my Mazda and roused me from my thoughts. I’d brought coffee in one of those insulated Yetis. With each blast, I downed more, and was soon afloat on caffeine.

For a while I listened to an audiobook. When that ended, I went back to the radio, switching stations as I left different NPR broadcast areas.

I am not a slow driver. Ryan tells me I have a lead foot. An overused descriptor but, in my case, accurate.

I took I-85 to I-95 and made good time. Was near Stafford, maybe an hour from the capital, when two things happened.

The storm broke.

Traffic ground to a halt.

Noting the sea of red taillights ahead, I braked.

Waited.

Nothing moved.

I waited some more.

Cursed.

I am also not a patient driver.

Irritated, I shifted into park and leaned back, resigned to the delay.

Rain slammed the windshield and drummed a million tiny bullets against my hood and roof. The wind gusted, swirling the deluge and occasionally yielding glimpses of the world outside my little bubble. During those brief intervals, vehicles emerged and took shape before vanishing back into the gray void.

As with most thunderstorms, this one passed quickly, and traffic began to crawl. In ten-foot bursts. Accelerate. Brake. Accelerate. Brake. I spent the next hour lurching my way forward.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have a temper. Always have had. My grandmother attributed this character flaw to my Irish genes. But Gran credited everything, good or bad, to that same Gaelic DNA.

As a kid I wasn’t great at keeping my temper in check. It had a high trigger point but once tripped, I’d spew venom on anyone and anything within range.

As an adult I’ve developed techniques to catch myself in that split second before I detonate and let loose. Sometimes I count. Sometimes I do yogic breathing. Sometimes I run through the lyrics of a song in my head.

The shattered plans for Savannah. The cranky cat. The long drive. The unforgiving traffic. The grim task ahead.

Alone in the car, I didn’t even try restraint. Letting the disappointment and frustration blast free, I cursed and wished pestilence on the unseen drivers in the vehicles around me.

The internalized tantrum helped. If not with the clogged artery that was I-395, then at least with my frazzled nerves. When the private outburst had played itself out, I asked my cell phone to dial Thacker’s number. She answered on the first ring.

I reported that my navigation app was putting me at forty minutes away. She commiserated about the traffic and said she’d meet me at the hotel.

With its stacked windows and lighted overhang projecting above glass front doors, the Hyatt Place looked like a thousand other high-rise inns in America. One corner of the building was all glass and steel. Flags flew from poles on the roof. Signs identified the brand in enormous vertical and horizontal letters.

It was almost seven when I pulled up to the entrance. A doorman with chocolate skin and smoke-yellowed teeth queried my intent. His name tag said T. Valentine.

I told T. Valentine I was checking in. Accepting my car keys, he offered help with my luggage. I thanked him and said I’d prefer to pull the bag myself.

The lobby was spacious and done in what the designer might have labeled cubist modern. Rectangular sofas and desks. Square footstools. Oblong slashes on the carpet. Lots of gray and yellow.

I looked around. Saw no one I thought could be Jada Thacker.

Why did I find the woman’s absence surprising? Nothing else was going as expected.

I crossed to one of the desk clerks, an Asian man so small his chin barely cleared the top of the counter. His tag said H. Cho.

I told H. Cho that a reservation had been made in my name. He beamed and asked for ID.

After a quick glance at my license and my face, H. Cho typed my name into the system. His smile held as he studied the screen. Faltered as his fingers again flew over the keyboard.

“I’m sorry, madam. Could the reservation be under a different name?”

“Perhaps Jada Thacker?”

More typing.

“No.”

An eight-hour drive that should have taken six. No holiday with Ryan. No room. No Thacker.

The tripwire in my brain tightened.

I took a deep breath.

It wasn’t H. Cho’s fault.

I opened my mouth to express my displeasure.

“Dr. Brennan.” Breathless.

I turned.

The person rushing toward me was not who I expected.