Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The US capital was established in 1790 by an act of Congress authorizing a federal district. President Washington chose a hunk of land lying where the Anacostia River meets the Potomac River, a location that offered easy access to the western frontier and was diplomatically sandwiched between the northern and southern states.

Washington’s choice of architect was Pierre Charles L’Enfant, a Frenchman who came to America to fight in the Revolutionary War. In 1791, L’Enfant began designing the District of Columbia from scratch—that scratch being plantation acreage, much grudgingly yielded, rolling hills, dense woodland, and soggy marsh. L’Enfant imagined a grand city of wide avenues, public squares, and inspiring buildings, his concept based on European models adapted to the New World notion of egalitarianism.

True to this crazy American ideal, instead of reserving the grandest spot for the leader’s palace, L’Enfant placed Congress at the highest elevation, a hill with a commanding view of the Potomac. Central to his scheme was a public walkway, a tree-lined grassy strip running for two miles from Capitol Hill to the river.

Today, Smithsonian museums flank both sides of that strip, now dubbed the National Mall. Natural History. Portraiture. Art. Air and Space. Other creations George and Pierre would never have imagined. War memorials sit among stately monuments to Lincoln, Washington, Jefferson, and others.

Setting forth at seven the next morning, cranky at having to check out of my room, I thought about the best way to navigate. I knew that modern DC is divided into four quadrants called, uncreatively, Northwest, Southwest, Northeast, and Southeast. That numbered streets run north and south, lettered streets east and west. That avenues named for the fifty states cut diagonally through the grid, often meeting at traffic circles or squares.

Smooth sailing, right? Not under normal circumstances. Definitely not with Memorial Day and WorldPride 2025 madness clogging every square inch of town.

My hotel—former hotel—was in the Southwest. The address Thacker had provided was in the Northwest, not far from Washington Circle and smack across Monsieur L’Enfant’s grand oeuvre . I hoped that the hour was too early for curious tourists, flag-waving pedestrians, gender-affirming rallies, and patriotic parades.

The kind WAZE lady giving traffic advice suggested taking D Street across to Maine Avenue, then Independence Avenue to Rock Creek Parkway. Seemed reasonable, so I did. Encountered only minor delays and enjoyed the parkway’s stretch of winding two-lane through the wooded urban canyon.

Exiting onto K Street, I made my way toward Twenty-sixth. Toward an address at the edge of Foggy Bottom, a hodgepodge hood composed of single-family homes dating to the 1800s, blocky midrise condos and apartments, and daunting buildings like the Kennedy Center and the Watergate Hotel. Throw in George Washington University and the area is a real mix.

Well before reaching the fire scene, my ears informed me that I was near. Through the car’s fully closed windows I could hear the muted whup-whup-whup of chopper blades overhead. The steely rattle and clank of girders and chains. The shush and thud of displaced rubble.

A sooty smell slowly infused the car’s interior. With every breath I imagined minute but toxic particulates gleefully worming their way into my lungs.

One block out, an MPDC patrol unit—all red, white, and blue—barricaded the street. A cop stood beside it, shoes ruthlessly shined, arms folded across her uniformed chest. Bronze aviators hid the woman’s eyes. A black mask covered her mouth and nose.

Ten yards from Officer Shiny Shoes, I spied a gap in the row of vehicles parked along the opposite curb. Quick U-ey. Then, with much sweaty maneuvering, I wedged my Mazda into the roller-skate-sized space with only inches to spare between a red Jeep Wagoneer and a piss-yellow Camry with a window sticker declaring I Brake for Aliens .

I sat a moment, cooling down and assessing. Wondering who’d ever paint a car that color.

A lot of the equipment and personnel on Burgos’s list were now gone. I counted only two engines and two ladder units, all bright shiny red. All with the Engine Company 23 logo on one side. Heavy construction paraphernalia had replaced the departed fire trucks, and search and recovery were in full swing.

A pair of EMTs leaned against a clunky, cuboid ambulance, one smoking, the other just leaning, both looking tired and bored. I assumed their presence was for the responders, not for the building’s inhabitants, now elsewhere or dead.

Reinforcing that assumption was an ME van sitting directly behind the ambulance. Its transport team dozed in the front seat, one with head resting on the wheel, the other with booted feet on the dash.

A pair of techs in protective gear stood outside a second vehicle bearing the OCME shield. Thacker’s death recovery team, I assumed. My crew.

I shifted my gaze to the reason we were all there.

Though smoke-blackened and badly damaged, with its easternmost section largely collapsed, the building had held on to enough of its original construction for those present to appreciate that it had once been a beauty. And grander than most of its neighbors.

Located on a corner, separated by a narrow gap from the rest of the row, the three-story brick Victorian had a rounded front topped by a copper-roofed turret. Lots of recesses and ornately trimmed balconies, windows, and doors. Wide steps.

An arrow of sadness pierced my chest. People had ascended those steps to enter that building. And they would never descend.

Chill, Brennan. Do your job.

Nerves hot, blood cool, I alighted and drew my recovery kit from the trunk. Pausing to tie my boots together at the laces, I looped them around my neck and started toward Officer Shiny Shoes. Seeing me, she straightened, spread her high-sheen footwear, and thumb-hooked her utility belt.

I smiled and waved my free hand.

Officer Shiny Shoes did not wave back. Merely followed my progress with unreadable eyes.

Drawing close I could see that the woman’s name tag said L. Comer. Knowing cops, I wondered how many ribald jokes that surname had prompted.

“Officer Comer,” I said.

Tight nod.

“Temperance Brennan.” I set down the case and pulled an ID from my pocket. “I’m here to help with recovery.”

Comer pointed the aviators at the small plastic rectangle, my Charlotte-Mecklenburg OCME security pass, then handed it back.

“Go ahead.” Chin-cocking the scene behind her.

“I’m to contact Captain Hickey.”

“He’s here.”

“Where?”

Comer shrugged, never disengaging the thumbs. “You’ll know him. Guy looks like André the Giant.”

That reference seemed oddly dated for a thirty-something cop. Wondering, pointlessly, if Comer was knowledgeable about wrestling history, I circled the cruiser and headed toward the action.

Comer hadn’t exaggerated.

At five yards out, I could see that one form loomed larger than life amid the firefighters still present. Though the double-layered turnout suit rendered accuracy difficult, I guessed the man’s weight at two ninety, his height at six-eight in stocking feet. Which must have been size sixteen.

I slowed to observe. The team appeared to require no direction from its leader. They spoke little, each doing his or her job confidently and efficiently.

Those jobs now seemed to involve wrapping up. Stowing ladders. Coiling hoses. Rinsing and decontaminating gear.

I expected to be approached and asked for ID. Either no one noticed me, or no one cared I was there.

“Captain Hickey,” I called out.

No response.

“Captain Hickey!” Too shrill?

Hickey’s head whipped around. I imagined him taking in my boots, jeans, and white tee. My death scene recovery case.

Maybe Burgos or Thacker had briefed him. Maybe he was just curious. A word to the colleague beside him, then Hickey strode in my direction.

Big strides.

As with Comer, Hickey’s face was largely concealed, the chinstrap, visor, and earflaps on his helmet hiding his expression. Only one clue. Through the clear plastic eye guard, I noted dark brows angled down and drawn together.

In puzzlement? Disapproval?

I braced for the same hostility Burgos had shown.

While walking, Hickey removed his helmet and tucked it under one arm. The sun was higher now and, despite the smoky haze, my mind logged an itemized first impression.

Sweat- and grime-covered skin, lighter in starburst creases cornering each eye. Irises the green of a Limerick spring. Rusty hair going every direction at once.

“Declan Hickey.” An enormous hand shot my way. “I’m guessing you’re the anthropologist.”

“Temperance Brennan.”

We shook. Hickey’s grip could have remolded steel.

“Thacker said you were coming.” Voice deep as an operatic basso. “Glad to have you on board.”

“Burgos told me you’re the man of the hour.”

The man of the hour? Seriously, Brennan?

Hickey shrugged a modest shoulder. “I was the first arriving chief so I’m in command. Burgos ran things down for you?”

“Sort of.”

“Burgos is an ass.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“What’s the current status?” I asked.

“The fire’s out. What remains of the structure has been deemed sound.”

“How many presumed dead?”

“The building was being used as an illegal Airbnb so who the hell knows. I’m told that reports submitted to the DC short-term rental hotline complained of no fire extinguishers, smoke detectors, alarms, or sprinklers. In other words, the place was a death trap.”

“Burgos said you’d interviewed one of the tenants?”

“Yeah. A guy named Billie Norris, an artist who’s rented one of the first-floor apartments for fourteen years. Odd duck. Norris thought there were four people in the upstairs rooms. A young woman from Canada, a gay couple, some guy he’s sure is a spy.”

“Really?”

“That was Norris’s take. Probably because the Harry S Truman is so close.”

I looked confused.

“The headquarters for the State Department. Like I said, the guy’s an odd duck.”

“How did Norris know who was in the building?”

“He gets reduced rent for issuing keys.”

“Who owns the property?”

“Norris says he’s never met the guy, does everything online. Guess title is a question for the cops.”

And the lawyers. I didn’t say it.

“Am I green-lit to go in?”

“Assuming everyone’s wearing proper safety gear.”

“I think the ME team is ready. Where do I suit up?”

“Follow me.”

“You familiar with DC?” Hickey asked as we walked toward a tent several yards up the sidewalk. He walked. I did more of an antelope caper thing to keep pace.

“I know we’re in one of the older parts of the district.”

“Foggy Bottom. You gotta love that name, eh?”

I did, actually. Nodded.

“The area’s hot now, listed on the national register of historic places. But Foggy Bottom started life as a blue-collar community of Irish and German immigrants and African Americans. Folks who worked local, you know? At the breweries, the glass plants, the gas and light company.”

“You’re a native Washingtonian?”

“Born and raised. My grancie’s house is right around the corner. The old gal’s lived in Foggy Bottom since before I was born. Keeps getting crazy offers from realtors wanting her to sell.”

Arriving at the tent, Hickey said, “The fire’s no threat now, so all you need is standard PPE and a hard hat. I’ll wait by my truck.”

I unzipped the door and stepped through the opening. The interior smelled of grass and sun-heated canvas tainted by the faint stink of burning.

Coveralls, helmets, gloves, and goggles filled portable metal shelving at the tent’s center. Boots lined the ground beside one wall.

I chose the smallest Tyvek suit in the stack. Was moving toward a curtained-off partition when my mobile rang. Sang.

Digging the phone from my pocket, I clicked on.

Bad news.

Thacker’s staff were still trying but had yet to secure a hotel room for me. They were now looking into short-term rentals.

Disconnecting with a not so gracious thank you, I slipped into the coveralls and snapped the fasteners with agitated thumbs. Laced on my boots.

Deep breath.

Grabbing the final items to accessorize my fetching look, I stepped out into the bright morning.

And felt my irritation skyrocket.

Ivy Doyle of the flawless skin, ginger hair, and Ruby Woo lips was talking to Hickey. Down the street, a two-man crew was unloading a camera and boom mic setup from a WTTG van.

On spotting me, Doyle beamed her perfect teeth and gave me a five-finger waggle. A few more words to Hickey, then she hurried my way.

“Dr. Brennan. How awesome to see you here.”

I may have nodded.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Raising a reassuring palm in my direction. “I wouldn’t dream of bothering you. I know you’re about to begin recovery of these poor lost souls. We’re here to get a few ox pops.”

When I didn’t respond.

“You know. MOSs? Man on the street comments?”

“Uh-huh.”

Not exactly comfortable in all the safety gear and wanting to get on with the grim task ahead, I started to move off. Doyle hadn’t finished.

“I have a little something for you. No biggie, just a trinket I thought you’d find amusing. If you tell me where you’re staying, I’ll just leave it at the desk.”

“Actually, I don’t know where I’m staying.” Mildly surprised that a journalist would offer a gift, I assumed the gesture was because of her friendship with Katy.

“I’m sorry?”

“The ME is finding that every room in the district is booked.”

“That’s totally unacceptable.”

Ya think?

Doyle’s mouth twisted to one side in fierce concentration. Then her face lit up.

“But this is so simple.” Spreading her impeccably manicured hands. “You must stay with me.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that.”

“Why not? I have a huge house and I’m hardly ever there.”

“Your offer is very generous. But I wouldn’t feel right imposing.”

Doyle produced a card and handed it to me, her smile a brimming red bucket of warmth.

“If you change your mind, just give me a jingle.”

“Okay,” I said.

Hell no , I thought. Colossal hell no.

We both knew I’d never make that call.

We were both wrong.