Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

A man stood there, a huge one, right hand raised, fingers curled into a fist.

Prepared to knock?

To attack?

The man’s face was in shadow, only his lower legs pulled from the gloom by the discretely placed spots.

I saw boots. Cargo pants.

The man leaned toward me.

I may have screamed.

I may have threatened with my ridiculously small weapon.

The man dropped his arm and stepped back.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

Two palms rose, directed toward me. “Easy.”

Somewhere below, a door slammed.

“What do you want!?” My throat was parched, and fear wasn’t helping my diction.

I heard footsteps. Muffled, like an eraser tapping a chalkboard.

My eyes never left the man. Beyond his massive shoulders I saw a head appear on the stairs at the far end of the hall. A ginger head.

The head bounced up tread by tread and became Ivy Doyle.

“Ben!”

The man whipped around.

“Sorry, babe. You can’t work up here tonight. I have a guest bunking in this room.”

Doyle must have flicked a switch. Suddenly the hall was bathed in light.

Ben looked like every cell in his body was prickling. I’m sure I looked the same.

“My bad,” Doyle gushed, intent on defusing the awkward situation. “Wires crossed? SNAFU? What does one call a failure to give notice?”

I hadn’t an inkling of her meaning. Ben’s expression, now readable, suggested he hadn’t, either.

Doyle hurried toward us, manicured fingers clutching her robe at the throat, slippers softly kissing the hardwoods.

“Tempe…” sweeping a hand from me to Ben, “… this is my fiancé, Ben Zanetti. Ben…” reverse sweep, “… this is Tempe Brennan. Dr. Brennan is staying here while she consults to the medical examiner.”

Ben and I exchanged nods. His hair was black and curly and leading-man thick, his eyes an unusual amber flecked with bronze. I swear the guy stood six feet six. Almost as big as Captain Hickey. Seemed our nation’s capital preferred its men large.

“Tempe’s daughter, Katy, is one of my very best friends,” Doyle said to Zanetti.

I suspected that was an overstatement but didn’t let on.

“Nice to meet you,” I managed to get out.

“Ben’s the hottest realtor in DC.” Doyle smiled coyly at him. “He does paperwork up here when staying at the house.” Her grin switched to mildly rueful as she reached for Mr. Real Estate’s hand. “Which isn’t nearly often enough.”

“I’ll work on that, darlin’.” Ben pulled her in and draped her shoulders with a tree-trunk arm.

“I’m so sorry to inconvenience you,” I said, suddenly aware of my inelegant boxers and tank. “I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

“Absolutely not,” Doyle said. “You are welcome here for as long as you need.”

As things turned out, my stay was far longer than anticipated.

I awoke to another soggy dawn unfolding in shades of gray. Pewter sky. Slate trees. Ash walkways and drive.

I lay a moment, experiencing a twitchiness I couldn’t explain.

Out of habit, I reached for my phone.

Checked my voice mail.

Found nothing from Ryan.

Fine. Two could play that game.

What are you, Brennan? A high schooler scorned?

Still, I declined to dial his number again.

After dressing in jeans and a tee, I ran a quick brush through my hair and over my teeth. Different strokes, different brushes.

Given the hour, I figured I’d slip out unnoticed.

Not so.

Today, Lan offered oatmeal sprinkled with granola and raisins. No Quaker instant for this gal. The woman really knew her way around a stove.

I saw no sign of Doyle. Or Ben. Big Ben as I’d come to think of him overnight. I assumed both were still sleeping.

As I pushed from the table, my body-image neurons sent an un-welcome warning. Keep eating like this and you’ll need all new pants. Or serious alterations.

Grabbing purse and keys, I headed for my car.

The morning couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do. Carry on with the rain? Yield to the sun?

On one thing it was certain. The day would be hot.

It was a quick drive back to Southwest Washington. After finding a parking spot—trickier than I would have thought at 6:50 a.m.—I set out for the Consolidated Forensic Lab.

While walking, I passed the usual urban players. Early-bird office workers talking into their phones. Students in running gear sweating off hangovers. The homeless. The addicts. Most looked post-sunrise bleary, uncurious about what the next twenty-four hours would bring.

Outside the glass doors, two young dudes argued loudly in Polish. Maybe Czech. As I stepped around them, neither missed a beat in pressing his point.

Twenty minutes after my arrival, Jamar, Thacker, and I were attired in scrubs, ready for the analysis of #25-02102—presumably Skylar Reese Hill, the victim I’d recovered from the basement rubble in the Foggy Bottom house.

I was surprised to see a man in one corner of the autopsy room, mask covering his nose and mouth, paper gown carelessly thrown on over his suit. Long face, long neck, Adam’s apple the size of a kiwi, prickly gray hair in the act of retreating from his forehead. Not the homeliest guy I’d ever seen, but a contender.

Thacker looked grim. The man looked stoic. Jamar looked his usual chipper self.

Thacker introduced the visitor as Detective Merle Deery.

Deery dipped his chin but said nothing. The wide-footed stance and tense cant of the long neck screamed “cop.”

A male tenor crooned from a powerful purse-sized speaker on one of the stainless-steel counters. Verdi. Maybe La Traviata . Opera was a requirement for Thacker when cutting Ys.

Without further ado, we got down to business.

Except for postmortem trauma caused by impact and crushing, the remains on the table resembled those found on the upper floors. The features were gone and only a mask of blackened flesh covered the underlying facial bones. The limbs were truncated. The viscera had exploded through the abdominal wall.

Thacker had requested an antemortem photo of Hill. Deery had brought one. Thacker and I leaned our heads together to view it.

The picture showed a young woman with long blond braids sitting on a bench on a sunny day. Wind teased her bangs and lifted the collar of her mint green shirt. Her smile, wide as the Mississippi, spoke of confidence in a future rolling on forever.

A future denied her.

I felt my usual melancholy on seeing a frozen moment in a life cruelly ended.

And resignation.

The shot was useless. There wasn’t a chance of a visual ID.

As with the other corpses, I knew the bones would tell most of the story.

I was right.

The pelvis and skull verified that the victim was female.

Surviving cranial and facial details hinted that she’d been of European ancestry.

Long bone measurements said she’d stood sixty-three to sixty-five inches tall.

The incomplete union of several growth plates suggested she’d died between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five years.

A bio-profile that fit that of Skylar Reese Hill.

The victim’s right humerus threw in one bonus nugget. On X-ray I spotted a slight deformity just above the elbow, an indication of a healed fracture.

A check of Hill’s medical records, also supplied by Deery, confirmed that she’d broken that arm the previous year.

Throughout the procedure, Deery never uttered a word. He left as Thacker was dictating her final observations and I was scribbling my last few notes. I’d just finished when my mobile sounded.

The digits on the screen identified a line at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg crime lab.

Snapping off one of my gloves, I thumbed the icon.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“—stein. Have more inf—your sam—”

“Artie?”

“—es. I got the res—”

“I’m sorry. You’re breaking up. Give me a moment.”

“—leave for a meeting short—ought you’d—to know.”

Phone pressed to my ear, I hurried out into the corridor. Still, the reception was lousy.

As I passed through the sliding doors, three beeps told me the call had been dropped.

Damn.

Once in the office temporarily assigned to me, I hit redial, hoping Bluestein was still available.

“Was that Pavarotti?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you like opera.”

“Who doesn’t.” Rhetorical.

“I have season tickets to Opera Carolina. We should catch a performance sometime. My wife hates it.”

“Mm. You have more info on the Mirek sample?”

“Asian female.”

That took me off guard.

“What?”

“The hair in the fecal matter came from an Asian female.”

“You’re sure?”

Bluestein didn’t bother to respond.

“Thanks, Artie.”

“You’re welcome. Shall I email the report?”

“Please.”

I stood a moment, totally baffled. Was repocketing the phone when it sounded another incoming call.

Ivy Doyle.

“Can’t talk.” Sounding rushed. “I’ll be home for a bit before my eleven o’clock. Wondered if I should bring takeout. Wednesday is Lan’s night off.”

Thank God. The woman did get time to herself.

“Please don’t bother—”

“It’s no bother. I’ve been AWOL and it will be nice to catch up. Do you like Greek?”

“Love it.”

“See ya!”

I expected gyros on pita with fries.

As usual, Doyle had gone all out.

Feta-brined roasted chicken. Braised lamb shanks. Lemon broth poached asparagus. Goat cheese smashed potatoes. And, of course, baklava.

We exchanged updates as we ate.

Doyle had zip. Was still researching W-C Commerce. I suspected Big Ben was the distraction causing her lack of progress.

The night was warm and Potomac-basin sultry, so we took our pastries to a deck at the back of the house. Using her mobile, Doyle put Sinatra on the audio system. It was pleasant watching day yield to night as Frank crooned and June bugs body-slammed the screening around us. For a while we said nothing.

Old Blue Eyes was singing about strangers in the night when we began discussing the arson examiner, Lubu Burgos. Neither of us had much confidence in the guy. Burgos was convinced the Foggy Bottom fire had been deliberately set. Had it? We both sensed his investigation had been cursory. Were we right? Or was our judgment clouded by our impression that the man was a jerk.

The Foggy Bottom building was more than a hundred years old, a tinderbox of dry timbers, untreated plywood, ancient appliances, and outdated wiring. Might the fire have been accidental?

We considered multiple possibilities.

Was the blaze triggered by a spark from a socket? A gas leak? A faulty circuit? An overloaded breaker? An ash from a carelessly discarded cigarette or joint?

Burgos consistently refused to explain how he’d ruled each of these out. Had shared only that the place was definitely being used as an illegal Airbnb.

Though loath to reveal her source, Doyle viewed the meth tip as valid. That led to a new pathway of speculation.

Might the building have been torched by a rival drug dealer? Might the lab have exploded due to sloppy cooking protocol? Faulty equipment?

I shared the fact that the four upstairs vics had been IDed, pending verification by DNA. Jawaad el-Aman. Johnnie Lamar Star. Danny Green. Skylar Reese Hill.

Then the conversation ambled off into other twisty hypotheses.

Was el-Aman targeted because he was Syrian? Because of his accent? His hat? His Middle Eastern appearance? Because of his father’s state department connections?

According to background intel provided by Billie Norris, Star and Green were gay. Had the couple been in someone’s crosshairs because of their lifestyle? Had some homophobic nutjob been incensed by DC’s hosting of WorldPride 2025 and chosen two random victims to vent his rage? Had the fire been a solo act of terrorism? Had it been set by a group?

Did some aggrieved psycho want Skylar Reese Hill dead? Had she offended someone? Seemed unlikely, the kid was Canadian. And only nineteen. Still.

And for each speculative theory the same unanswered questions.

Who?

Why?

We’d been at it far too long when Zanetti’s large form framed up in the doorway.

We both turned toward him.

Crossing the deck, Zanetti proffered an object to Doyle, another to me.

“Sweets for two sweet ladies.”

The word “cornball” popped into my forebrain. I shoved it back down, and, smiling, accepted the cornball offering. A chocolate lollipop in the shape of a rose.

Doyle and I thanked him for the candy.

“Did you close the deal?” she asked.

“Tomorrow is another day,” he said.

I assumed that meant no.

As did Doyle. “Sorry, babe.”

Zanetti shrugged, bright Hollywood smile never faltering.

Doyle was pushing to her feet when her mobile sounded.

Raising an apologetic “just a moment finger” she answered.

“Ivy Doyle.”

As the caller spoke, a shadow slipped across the perfectly maquillaged face.

“No way. You’re solid on this?”

Zanetti and I exchanged puzzled glances.

“Hold on,” Doyle said to the person on the other end of the line. “Dr. Brennan needs to hear this. I’m putting you on speaker.”

I listened.

Felt the expression on Doyle’s face take over mine.