Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

The woman looked like an ad for Paris Fashion Week. Standing maybe six feet tall and weighing no more than one-fifty, she had high cheekbones and short black hair gelled straight back from her face.

“Dr. Brennan.” Fashion Week extended a hand. “I’m Jada Thacker.”

We shook, moi hoping I was hiding my surprise.

Apparently, I wasn’t.

“I know.” Thacker smiled broadly. “I’ve dropped a few pounds since that meeting in Seattle.”

“Such a long time ago.” Too flummoxed to summon a wittier response.

“My apologies for being late. Something came up as I was leaving the office.”

“Of course.”

“All set here?”

“Actually, no. The gentleman can’t find a reservation for me.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

H. Cho, who’d been following our conversation, perked up when the attention shifted to him.

“We’re fully booked, ma’am. The lady’s name isn’t in the system.”

“The doctor has come to DC to assist with the recovery effort at the Foggy Bottom fire. She’s just finished a very long drive and would undoubtedly like to freshen up. Surely, we can resolve this quickly.”

H. Cho raised both palms in a “what can I do” gesture.

Thacker turned to me, smile now a bit strained. “Please have a seat while I straighten this out.”

I nodded, crossed to one of the yellow sofas, and dropped. Snugging the rollaboard to my knees, I looked around.

The lobby was slowly filling with patrons. Or maybe I hadn’t noticed them when I’d arrived.

Across from me, a couple in matching stars-and-stripes sweatshirts studied a tourist brochure and seemed to agree on nothing. A teen slumped boneless in a chair to their right, working patterns on the armrest with one fingertip.

An old geezer in a rainbow blazer and red bow tie entered from the street and crossed to the elevators. When the doors opened a family of five bustled out. The tense hunch of Dad’s shoulders suggested he was not a happy fellow.

I was checking my watch, again, when a shadow fell across my wrist. I looked up. Thacker was standing close, proffering a room key.

“We’re good for one night.”

“One night?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll sort it. Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” The term didn’t do justice to the grievance my stomach was registering.

“How about I give you twenty minutes to get settled? I’ll order takeout and text the deputy fire chief to meet us at my office.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“What would you like to eat?”

“An entire Chinese buffet.”

DC’s chief medical examiner facility, the OCME, is located in the Consolidated Forensic Laboratory. Sharing the same address at the CFL are the Department of Forensic Sciences and the Metropolitan Police Department. Odd bedfellows. Nerds and cops under one roof.

That roof topped a six-story modern colossus at the intersection of 4th and E Streets in Southwest Washington. Lots of concrete, steel, and glass, with sun-activated solar panels shading one side. Pretty landscaping. And, blessedly, just steps from the hotel.

After swiping her security card, Thacker led me across a lobby whose speckled black-and-white tile gleamed with the commanding appearance of a surgical suite. At eight p.m. on the eve of a holiday weekend the cavernous space was largely deserted.

When I’d signed a register and presented ID, a bored-looking receptionist issued me a pass proclaiming VISITOR: Escort Required in bold block letters. Apparently, I wasn’t to be trusted unaccompanied.

Thacker and I crossed to the elevators, her three-inch stilettos clicking sharply. Thumbing a button, she explained that her office used a portion of the lobby level for intake but was mostly housed on the fifth and sixth floors.

When the car came, we ascended in silence, both doing that eyes-on-the-floor-indicator-lights thing. A previous occupant must have showered in Brut. The small cell reeked of the stuff.

Exiting on five, we walked a long hallway, Thacker’s stilettos muted by the institutional gray-on-gray patchwork carpet. As had been the case downstairs, I saw no one except a receptionist.

Thacker continued her tour, pointing out that the floor above was dedicated to administration, the floor we were on to death investigation. Located on our level were a tox lab and several autopsy rooms. She suggested we skip those areas, since I’d be seeing them soon. I agreed.

The offices we passed were set off by orange walls down low and frosted glass panes rising above. Plaques identified the occupants as pathologists, anthropologists, medico-legal investigators, and forensic identification specialists. A roster as familiar to me as my own hand.

Thacker’s digs—not small and not large—were nicer than most government accommodations I’d seen. Directly opposite the door, an L-shaped desk pointed across the room, then turned left along the wall. Matching wood cabinets hung above the wall arm. A computer sat in the desk’s center.

Occupying every other horizontal surface was evidence of the endless bookkeeping associated with handling the dead. Stacked printouts I suspected were intake rosters, correspondence, lab test results, and reports. Antemortem medical records sent from clinics and hospitals. CDs holding stored X-rays. Manila case files, some thick, others strikingly thin.

Floor-to-ceiling glass formed the back wall. Beyond the plants lining its double sills and the movable solar panels outside, I could see I-395. Twinkling ribbons of head- and taillights streamed in both directions, one white, one red.

Under the desk’s outward-projecting arm was a NASA-level ergonomic seat. Facing it were two chairs, each a complicated arrangement of black Naugahyde and chrome. A grease-stained white bag sat on the desk’s blotter.

Thacker had taken my quip literally. The bag looked enormous. The smells of garlic, ginger, and sesame sent my stomach into a full-gainer flip.

While Thacker got plates and utensils, I withdrew a collection of little white cartons, each decorated with a cheerful red pagoda. We were serving ourselves kung pao chicken, Sichuan pork, dumplings, and fried rice when a loudly cleared throat caused us to turn.

A figure stood framed in the doorway. Maybe five-six, the guy had the body of a former gymnast nurturing a fondness for pastry. Narrow face and shoulders. Pale gray eyes the size of dimes. Thinning blond hair combed painfully forward.

A patch on the man’s black shirt showed the Capitol with US and DC flags above, fire and medical symbols below. The words District of Columbia Fire and EMS wrapped the periphery.

A smoky film on the man’s face suggested he’d come straight from work. Its expression said he was not happy about being called away.

“Ah, Sergeant Burgos. I was expecting Captain Hickey.”

“He’s a tad busy.” The voice was high and nasal, the tone sarcastic as hell.

“Of course.” Thacker arced a palm toward the food. “Please join us.”

“No, thank you.”

“Dr. Brennan, I’d like you to meet Luis Burgos. Goes by Lubu if I recall correctly?”

Burgos didn’t confirm or deny.

“Sergeant Burgos is the investigator assigned to this terrible fire.”

I extended a hand.

Burgos didn’t shake it.

Alrighty, then.

“Please, have a seat.” Thacker’s palm was now aimed at the Naugahyde and chrome.

Burgos yanked the closest chair and sat. Raised his left ankle onto his right knee, body language radiating his eagerness to be gone.

Plate in hand, Thacker circled to her ergonomic perch. Noting that she’d taken only a few spoonfuls of edamame beans to gnaw on, I moved to the seat beside Burgos.

“Dr. Brennan is the forensic anthropologist I told Captain Hickey about. She’s come—”

“Where’s Gaynor?”

“Portugal.”

Burgos flicked the upraised foot several times but said nothing.

“If I’m not mistaken, Engine Company 23 was the first unit to respond to the fire?”

Burgos nodded.

“And you’ve been there with them right from the start.” Thacker’s voice oozed compassion and gratitude.

Burgos’s foot flicked again.

To me, Thacker said, “Sergeant Burgos is here to brief you on the situation.”

Burgos spoke to Thacker, ignored me. “The situation is that the bastard’s still hot and I’ve gotta get back there.”

“Of course. A short summary will give Dr. Brennan an idea of the conditions she’ll encounter.”

Burgos sighed. “What do you wanna know?”

Having worked with equally hostile cops, I recognized the signals. The man thought his time too valuable to be wasted on coaching a geek scientist.

“It would help to have a sense of the fire’s intensity,” I said.

“The call came in as a two-alarm, quickly went to three. Right now, there’s six engine companies with four personnel each, three ladder companies with five personnel each, a heavy rescue squad with five, an ambulance with two EMTs, a medic unit with two paramedics, an air unit, and a rehab unit on site. That give you some sense ?”

“Thank you. That’s very thorough. What does the air unit do?” I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

Burgos answered, still without looking at me. “Refill the firefighters’ air bottles.”

“The rehab unit?”

“Provide a rest platform and rehydration liquids.”

“That’s a serious crew.”

“Look, lady. You gotta understand.” Slow, a teacher to a dull student. “It’s Foggy Bottom. The building’s old and full of all kinds of flammable shit. The fire’s been burning since two in the morning. The motherfucker’s still got fuel and she don’t wanna give it up.”

“I understand that people may have died in that building. That there may be bodies in the rubble. I’d like to understand when I can recover those victims.”

“You go in when we say you go in.”

“Will that be tonight?” Thacker asked affably.

“Not a chance.” Sharp and officious.

On the desktop, beside the blotter, a miniature red rubber corpse lay with a single pen rising from its chest. I knew the medical supply company that had gifted that little gem to Thacker. Had one of my own.

Eyes on the macabre swag, I silently counted to three.

Drew a breath.

“Have you obtained an architectural plan of the building?” I asked.

“People are looking.”

I raised my brows in question. Pointless. Burgos still refused to make eye contact.

“Sir?” I prodded.

“Hickey can explain the layout.”

“You can’t?” Chilly. This guy was an arrogant prick.

“The structure dates to the turn of the century. The last century. No codes back then. The place was a disaster waiting to happen.”

“It was currently being used as an Airbnb?”

“So I’m told.”

I looked at my watch. The fire had been burning for more than eighteen hours. Since no one could have survived such an inferno, there was no urgency to my task. Still, the guy’s callousness was grating.

“How many stories?” I asked.

“Three. And a basement. A portion of the sonofabitch has pancaked down to that level.”

“Should I expect to go in tonight?”

“No way in hell.”

“When?”

“When every friggin’ hotspot is cool and Hickey gives the go-ahead.”

“I’ll be ready at dawn.”

“Suit yourself.”

Burgos pushed to his feet and strode from the office.

“That was pleasant,” I said to Thacker.

“Always is.”

“I think the gentleman dislikes me. Any idea why?”

Thacker forked an edamame bean. Pointed it in my direction.

“I believe it has to do with you not having a dick.”

Thacker jotted an address on a yellow Post-it and leaned forward to hand it to me.

“I’m sending a recovery team that knows a little about fire scenes. They’ll be there early. Join them.” A long brown finger pointed my way. “Make Lubu’s day.”