Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

As Jamar and Ace finished upstairs, each appeared and offered assistance belowdecks. I accepted, but my instincts told me I should handle this fifth victim personally.

Not that the techs hadn’t followed protocol with the other bodies. Contrary to Thacker’s tepid assessment, they’d performed superbly. But something told me to be extra careful with this lady.

I spent what remained of the day teasing the sack free and digging around and below it. Carefully labeling and packaging everything I found.

Jamar took endless photos and shot hours of video. Ace set up a temporary screen and sifted. Not much of interest turned up. Pebbles. Snail shells. Two rusty nails.

The exception was a small collection of glass shards. The three of us studied each as it appeared in the mesh. On one we could make out the letters Alk— . On another, the partial phrase Green Cou— . Ace made repeated trips ferrying Tupperware tubs of varying sizes up two sets of stairs to the main level.

By the time I resurfaced, my watch said seven-twenty p.m. I was weary and my back and knees ached from kneeling and bending to disentangle, trowel, and tease items free from the crusty sediment covering them.

I smelled of mold, mildew, and sweat, and desperately needed a shower. My fervent wish was that Thacker had found me a room.

The first person I laid eyes on topside was Ivy Doyle. Who was, as usual, immaculately and stylishly coiffed and attired.

My initial reaction was surprise that the cops had let Doyle into the house. Then irritation. Had the woman never splashed coffee onto her blouse? Missed a fragment of lettuce riding a lip? Smeared the perfect crimson lipstick onto a tooth?

I also felt unease. I’d sent the sealed tubs up ahead of my reemergence from the underground. Had Doyle grabbed an opportunity to sneak a peek at the contents? To snap a photo? Would she air the purloined info and pics? Breaking News! Anthropologist fails to maintain proper chain of custody of human remains!

Doyle was talking on a cell phone, holding a long, rolled paper in her free hand. She turned as I stepped from the top stair into the kitchen.

Ace and Jamar also tracked my odoriferous entrance.

“We should jet to the morgue with these?” Jamar gestured at the tubs.

“Yes, please. Text to let me know how you log the vic in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thanks for your help today.”

It took them two trips to haul everything out to the van. When we were finally alone, Doyle’s lips reshaped into a smile bright as a Kmart Christmas flier.

“Dr. Brennan. You must be wrecked.” Almost breathy. “How long were you down there?”

“Hours.”

“A fifth victim. How terribly sad.”

I was spared the need to respond when my mobile picked up signal and sang in my pocket.

I dug it out and glanced at the screen.

The phone icon indicated four voice mails.

I opened the app.

Ryan had called at three.

Thacker had called at two, four-thirty, and six.

“Excuse me a moment,” I said to Doyle.

She nodded and turned her back to give me privacy.

To listen and take notes?

You’re paranoid, Brennan .

I played the last of Thacker’s messages, hoping for info on accommodations.

“Jada Thacker here.” The woman sounded desperate, so I suspected her news wouldn’t be good. “I’ve tried and tried, but I’m still unable to find a single district hotel with any availability before Tuesday. At least not in an area I consider safe. An alternative would be to drive out into Virginia or Maryland?”

A pause. Then,

“I feel horribly guilty, but who knew? I’ve never encountered this situation before.”

Who knew ? WTF? This was Thacker’s turf.

Sounding uber apologetic, and decidedly unenthused, Thacker continued.

“You’re more than welcome to stay in the guest bedroom in my condo in Arlington. Just let me know what you’d like to do.”

“Sonofabitch!” I thumb-smashed the screen.

Startled by my outburst, Doyle swiveled back to face me, brows tucked into their on-air “sincerely concerned” pose.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Not at all! I’m just the hired help! I can sleep in a friggin’ park!” Doyle didn’t deserve the temper. But she was in range, so she was taking the blast.

“I don’t understand.” The ginger brows dipped lower.

I drew a deep, calming breath.

“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. Or your problem.”

“What is the problem?”

“The ME can’t find a hotel for me.”

“Has she called—”

“She claims to have tried everywhere.” Way too brusque.

“Well, this is so simple.” Without hesitation. “You are dear Katy’s mother. You must stay at my house.”

My face moved into an expression. Weary, I was unsure what it was trying to convey. Hoped it was gratitude. At least not repulsion.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Why not?” Doyle spread her hands, the empty one palm up. “I have an enormous home, and it’s only me rattling around in there. I’d love the company.”

“It’s just—”

“I’m serious. I have a boyfriend who stays over now and then, but that’s not a problem.”

I drew a reusable water bottle from my kit and took a long swig. Not thirsty but wanting time to consider my options.

There were only two.

I could drive into the boonies searching for some fleabag motel that might have me. I could crash with Thacker.

Or I could sleep in my car.

I guess that made three.

“Could you give me a moment?” I punched auto-dial as I moved toward the door.

Katy answered on the third ring.

“What’s the mood, dude?”

“Not real perky.” I explained my lack of a bed.

“How could the dimwit let that happen?”

I ignored that.

“Here’s my question. Ivy Doyle has offered to put me up. What do you think? For just one night?”

“I think, hell yeah.”

“She claims to have extra bedrooms.”

Katy nose-blew one of her irony snorts. “Do you know who Ivy is?”

“You said she’s a friend from your army days.”

“Let me rephrase. Do you know who Ivy’s family is? Think about it. Doyle? Virginia?”

“I didn’t know she was from Virginia.”

“You do now.”

“Katy, I’ve spent all afternoon peeling a dead lady off a flagstone floor.”

“Ew. Why?”

“Irrelevant. I’m filthy and exhausted and ill-disposed to guessing games.”

“The Doyles of Richmond, Virginia, pour millions into various philanthropic foundations established at their direction. The Jordan V. Doyle Foundation for Literacy. The Abigail Harmony Doyle Foundation for Coastal Conservation. The Ivy and Timothy Doyle Foundation for the Abatement of Childhood Hunger. Th—”

As she rattled off names, my memory cells grudgingly admitted to knowledge of the topic. To having heard of the charities on NPR, another of the Doyles’ favored beneficiaries.

My higher centers crafted a startling realization.

Ivy Doyle came from money. The very big, very old, very powerful kind.

Factoids clicked in.

Back in the day, J. V. Doyle—a great, great, great someone and founder of the lineage—earned his fortune growing tobacco. Acres of the stuff. J.V.’s descendants managed the plantations well, but also diversified and invested in other ventures. Today the Doyle family was involved in multiple enterprises, including companies that owned and operated radio and television stations around the globe.

“You’re saying Ivy really does have room for me?”

“Duh. Yeah.”

“She won’t insist on talking all the time?”

“Ivy reads an audience well.”

“Got it.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

I returned to the kitchen. Doyle’s attention was again focused on her mobile.

“So. Did I check out?” Question posed with a grin, but also with a hint of something else beneath.

“Busted.” I felt my cheeks redden under the grime. “Katy gives you a two-thumbs-up.”

Doyle waggled the paper cylinder.

“Guess what I have?”

Christ. Was everyone playing the twenty-questions game?

“Kerouac’s on-the-road scroll?”

Doyle ignored my sarcasm. “The architectural plans for this building.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“I’m impressed.” I was.

“They’re photocopies, but the detail is pretty good.”

“Where did you find the originals?”

“The Recorder of Deeds is located on Fourth Street Southwest. Are you hungry?”

“Does a dog have three eyelids?”

Eyes crimping slightly, Doyle said, “We can study the layout while we eat. Is there anything you don’t like?”

“That maggoty cheese from Sardinia.”

Brennan!

The quip earned me another questioning squint. And a stab of guilt for the attitude.

“Would you like to follow me to my place?”

“Thanks, but I can find it. And please excuse my prickliness. It’s the fatigue talking.”

“I totally understand.”

“I really do appreciate your generosity.”

“Not a problem.”

Doyle gave me her address and I entered it into my phone.

As I peeled off my coveralls, the evening air felt warm and moist on my skin. A gentle breeze lifted clumps of damp hair off my sweat-slicked forehead and neck.

The sky was velvety gray, the overhead leaves, branches, and wires black shapes lifting and falling against it. In the distance, through a confusion of buildings and utility poles, the sun was a fuzzy orange ball hovering low over the horizon.

Free of my PPE, I settled behind the wheel and dialed Ryan. Glad he could neither see nor smell me. He answered quickly.

“Bonsoir, ma chère.”

“Hey.”

“You sound tired.”

“Does a dog have three— Never mind.”

“Rough day?”

“It wasn’t my favorite.”

“Tell the tale.”

I described the house in Foggy Bottom, the four fire victims, the fifth body from the subcellar. Thacker. Burgos. Hickey. Doyle.

Ryan listened without interrupting, as was his style. It’s one of the things I like about him.

“What’s your take on the burlap body?”

“Nice alliteration.”

“Thanks. Your take?”

“No idea.”

“Sound thinking.”

“That way I can’t possibly be wrong.”

“Be of happy heart, my lovely. A hot sudsy shower and room service await.”

“Hah!”

I explained the hotel debacle, Ivy Doyle and her background, and the young woman’s gracious offer to host me.

“A sleepover. You can do each other’s nails.”

My eyes rolled of their own volition.

“I’m curious,” Ryan said when I failed to acknowledge his joke. “You say Doyle is Katy’s age and seriously ambitious. If her family is wealthy and connected, why isn’t she already the next Barbara Walters?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.”

Following a few tantalizingly unrepeatable suggestions from Ryan, we disconnected.

My navigation app sent me along K Street, eventually onto MacArthur Boulevard, from which I made a right turn onto Chain Bridge Road. Palisades Park stretched to my right, a vast expanse of forest and parkland growing shadowy in the last light of dusk. Well-hidden homes peeked from heavily wooded properties to my left.

Thirty minutes after leaving Foggy Bottom, I pulled onto a winding driveway leading to a very large house. Lots of wood, stone, and glass. In the twilight the roof appeared to glow like copper.

Pulling to a stop in a concrete oval bordered by surgically groomed hedges, I studied the scene.

Certain that the WAZE lady had steered me wrong.