Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Doyle’s residence was so enormous I wondered if the navigation app had mistakenly sent me to one of DC’s myriad obscure little museums. The Museum of Architectural Ostentation? The Museum of Outrageous Geometrics? The Museum of Creative Concrete?

That last was pushing the simile. But you get the picture.

The ultra-modern design involved the stacking of square and oblong cubes at startling angles. The massive concrete components were white highlighted by black trim around the windows and doors, and black handrails bordering the walkways and stairs. Horizontal surfaces formed patios and walled beds planted with shrubbery and brightly colored flowers. Hidden spotlights illuminated the structure at every architecturally appropriate point.

I was reaching for my mobile when the colossal front door swung inward. Doyle stepped out onto the porch. I guess you’d call it a porch.

Seeing my car, Doyle gestured “come on” with double arm loops.

Alighting, I dug my overnighter from the trunk, climbed the steps, and joined her under the portico.

“This is quite the place,” I said.

“Thanks. I designed it myself.”

Of course, you did. I didn’t say it.

“There was a sad little dump here when I bought the property. The neighbors were outraged when I had it knocked down to build this. But they got over it. Most of them, anyway.”

“Not all?”

“The old fart next door still thinks it’s a crime against humanity. Screw him. The lots are narrow, but you can barely see my house from his.”

“Must make for cordial over-the-fence chats.”

“Like that would ever happen.” She reached for my rollaboard. “Let me take that.”

“I’m good. Lead the way.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The smell of cooking enveloped me the moment we crossed the threshold into the chandeliered foyer. Curry? Mango? Coconut?

Ignoring the growls arising from my belly, I followed Doyle down a long hallway toward the back of the house. The plan was open, and I caught glimpses of many of the first-floor rooms.

Like its exterior, the home’s interior featured beaucoup black and white. Lots of gleaming stone and tile. Granite? Marble? Limestone? Porcelain?

The furnishings looked like imaginings straight out of the minds of Gehry or van der Rohe. Many of the sofas, chairs, and stools were oddly shaped, making me question the level of comfort they provided. The upholstered pieces were done in animal prints or fine-grained leather. The side and end tables were mostly chrome and acrylic.

The wall art was tastefully indecipherable, with each painting contributing just the right splash of color. The area rugs were precisely calibrated to coordinate with the highlighted pigments on each.

Intricate metal figures and delicate ceramic sculptures topped many of the pieces we passed. I kept a safe distance. Originals or not, I had no desire to send one of Doyle’s treasures crashing to its death.

My room was up a short flight of stairs. Opening the door, which was an incredibly beautiful ebony wood, Doyle turned and said, “This one’s yours.”

“Thanks.”

“The only thing that needs explaining is the security system. There’s a button in the small recess beside the bed. A panic button. Hit that and a patrol unit is on its way.”

I must have shown surprise.

“The buttons are all over the house. You may have noticed one beside the sink in the kitchen?”

I hadn’t.

“The police don’t call to verify before showing up?” I asked.

“Nope. I chose the option that law enforcement respond ASAP and enter the premises without asking permission. I know the system is a bit over-the-top. It was my contractor’s idea. He was a former cop and sexy as hell.”

“Got it.”

“I’ve ordered a light supper. Have a shower. Come down when you’re ready. No rush.”

“I don’t want you to go to any—”

“It’s absolutely no trouble.” Flapping a dismissive hand.

“How’d that turn out?” I asked as she was disappearing into the hall.

“What?”

“The contractor?”

“He married his boyfriend the second week into construction. Let me know if you need anything.”

The only thing I felt I might need was a map.

The room was the size of a Vegas casino and took up the entire rear portion of the home on that level. The back wall was glass, the area rugs faux zebra, the bedspread a pattern of intertwined twigs that created a dizzying 3D trompe l’oeil effect.

Open cubes sat to either side of a simple black headboard, their interiors emitting a soft electric glow. A complicated steel-and-bronze lamp occupied the top of each.

A long tripod desk paralleled the wall to the right of the door, black like the headboard. The leather and chrome seat snugged below it could have given Thacker’s ergonomic throne stiff competition.

The only touch of whimsy was a swoopy, high-backed armchair covered with curly white fur deep enough to house small mammals. Icelandic sheepskin? Tibetan lamb?

That was it for furnishings. Except for the long-haired pelt, everything simple and sleek. Not a ruffle or flounce in sight.

Disappearing closets formed the room’s eastern wall. Not wanting to waste time figuring out how to work them, I set my bag on the floor, dug clean undies and a tee and jeans from it, and beelined toward a door opposite.

The bath stayed true to the minimalist vibe. Subtly patterned gray stone floor, probably marble. Two double sinks. Polished nickel fixtures. Profoundly fluffy white towels and mats.

The freestanding glass shower was big enough to accommodate the bathing of thoroughbreds. Shedding my smelly clothes, I stepped in and twisted two of the motherboard’s multitude of levers toward what I hoped was a reasonably hot setting.

Lucky choice. Warm drops rained down on my head while a trio of spigots sprayed my neck, chest, and southern parts.

A small niche held enough products to open a beauty supply chain. I shampooed with a peach-pear combo, then lathered my skin with a pineapple-aloe body wash.

Were it not for my vociferously assertive hunger pangs, I might have stayed in that shower all night.

Doyle’s “light supper” consisted of green chicken curry over jasmine rice accompanied by a watermelon, mint, and feta salad. Dessert was blueberry cheesecake.

A woman named Lan served. She was round in the middle, with skinny arms and legs that didn’t match her torso. Tawny skin. Black hair coiled into a braid on the top of her head. I assumed it was Lan who had also prepared the meal.

We ate at a dining table whose top had started life in a quarry in Carrara. No idea the heritage of the shiny metal legs.

We kept the talk light. I didn’t query her plans for broadcast. Doyle didn’t ask about the subcellar corpse.

Before serving the cheesecake, Lan inquired about coffee. Doyle and I both requested decaf. Doyle asked that it be brought to the library.

We took the rolled pages that Doyle had showed me as I’d emerged from the Foggy Bottom basement to a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and another large table, this one made of polished burl wood. The coffee arrived shortly, looking out of place in an old-fashioned silver service.

I filled an alarmingly delicate porcelain cup—probably Qing Dynasty—and placed it on an equally alarming saucer. Added cream. Sipped.

Dear God. Could this really be decaf? I wondered about the appropriateness of asking the brand.

Setting our java aside, we unfurled and spread the four photocopies flat. Secured the corners of the pile with random volumes pulled from the shelves.

I felt a flutter of excitement. Why? I had no intention of returning to the Foggy Bottom house. My interest in the layout was pure curiosity. Though it was possible I might learn something about the subcellar lady.

Doyle and I both leaned in.

The topmost page showed the building’s exterior, prefire. A few minor elements differed from what I recalled, a handrail on the main staircase, a third-floor window box, but there was no doubt we were looking at the recently devastated Foggy Bottom Victorian.

It was also obvious that the original documents were old and weathered. The hand-sketched lines were fuzzy and indistinct on the photocopied version. Here and there, a tear or crease obliterated a detail.

A scrawled note along the page’s lower border provided a date and what appeared to be a name.

“Does that say Hiram L. Pepper?” I asked.

“That’s my read. Then July 1911.”

“Pepper was the architect?”

“Probably. I’ll research the name.” Doyle pointed to a series of digits. “That’s probably the lot number. I’ll research that, too.”

Allowing the top sheet to pop free and roll sideways, we viewed the second page in the stack.

“It’s the main level.” I moved my index finger over the layout. “There’s the kitchen with the steps leading down to the basement. The dining room, parlor, hallway, foyer, stairs going up to the second floor.”

“And down from it.”

“Yes.”

“No bathroom.”

“That must have been added later.”

“I see zero surprises.”

“None.”

We moved on to the second level. Saw the hallway and bedrooms as they’d been before being chopped up.

Ditto for the third.

No shockers on either.

The last page showed the basement.

A behemoth coal-burning furnace stood center stage in the open area at the foot of the stairs. Several small chambers circled the periphery, perhaps a pantry, a room for coal storage, another for tools.

“Odd,” I said.

“What?”

“There’s nothing to indicate the presence of a subcellar. The entrance should be there.” I pointed to the spot where Hickey had so ungracefully disappeared.

“Also added later?”

“Why?”

“Good question.”

“Did you find anything else pertaining to this address?”

“There’s nothing on file but the original plans.”

We were pondering that when Doyle’s mobile rang.

“I should take this,” she said after checking her screen.

“Of course.”

As she moved toward the hall, I returned my gaze to the plans. Pretended not to do the very thing I’d suspected Doyle of doing earlier. Strained to listen.

Fruitlessly.

What I could hear of Doyle’s side of the conversation consisted mostly of monosyllabic questions. When? Where? Often?

After thanking the caller, Doyle reappeared and crossed to the table.

She looked at me. I looked at her. The aquamarine eyes suggested conflict raging behind them. Share with me? Hold back? Order the snakeskin or the red leather pumps?

I waited.

Apparently, the battle resolved in my favor.

“I have a confidential informant who provides me with intel from time to time. That was him phoning.” Realizing her mistake: “I use the gender-based term as a generic, not to imply sex.”

“Of course,” I said, not caring a wit about the identity of Doyle’s CI.

“Ironically, this tip had to do with the Foggy Bottom property.” Waggling her phone. “Well, not so ironic. I had sent out a bazillion feelers.”

Again, I waited.

“It seems the house was used off and on as a meth lab.”

“By whom?”

“The caller didn’t have… that information.”

“Or wouldn’t share it.”

Doyle shrugged one shoulder, conceding agreement.

“How solid is this informant?”

“Rock solid.”

I flashed back to the kitchen. Mentally probed the charred and blackened debris.

I couldn’t recall seeing any Pyrex, glass, or Corning containers. No mason jars or other glassware fitted with hoses, clamps, or duct tape. None of the usual paraphernalia associated with cooking methamphetamine.

But who knew? The scene had been one of near total devastation. I made a note to question Burgos on what he’d discovered in the course of his arson investigation. An encounter I wasn’t eagerly anticipating.

“The fire could have been triggered by a meth lab explosion,” Doyle said.

“Happens all the time.” I’d watched every season of Breaking Bad .

“The four victims are asleep on the upper floors while some creep cooks drugs below them?” Tense. “That’s heartless.”

“Not to mention criminal.”

The image flamed anger in my chest, quick and hot.

“And what about your subcellar victim?” Doyle continued. “Was she involved in the drug operation? Did she die of an overdose? Was she innocent collateral? Did she find out about the meth and threaten to blow the whistle? Who—”

“Speculation is pointless,” I said.

“Agreed.”

But Doyle had raised some interesting points.

What about my belowdecks corpse?

The home had been built in 1911. When had the woman died? How?

Why the burlap sack?

How had her body ended up in the subcellar?

The subcellar that was mysteriously absent from the architectural plans.