Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Doyle’s informant was calling with a tip about another fire.

In Foggy Bottom.

“Is it still burning?”

“Oh yeah. But not quite as hot as before.”

“Where?” Doyle gestured that I should take down the info.

The caller, clearly a smoker, probably male, reeled off an address. I entered it into the Notes app on my phone.

“How close is that to the previous fire?”

“I could maybe spit.’cept I’d—”

“Is it another illegal Airbnb?”

“Negatory. Single-family rental, outa my range by a zillion—”

“Is anyone inside?”

“Word is the happy couple is doing the season in Vienna.”

“Do you have their names?”

“Phil and Devira Aaronson. The assholes left their parakeet behind.” Before Doyle could query how her CI knew that, he added, “The whole goddam brigade had barely landed when a kid showed up claiming to be the house sitter.”

“Who is he?” Jiggling a finger at me.

“Chippy Bennett. With two n ’s, two t ’s. Who the hell goes by—”

“Did Bennett call it in?”

“Yeah. The little capitalist lives two doors down. Spotted smoke.”

“Engine Company 23 responded?”

“Yeah. Guy running the scene’s the size of a SpaceX.”

“Hickey?”

“Rocket Man wasn’t in the mood to chat.”

“So they’ve got the flames contained?”

“Yup. Show’s pretty much over. I’m about to haul ass. You want I should send pics?”

“Yes.”

“I snapped a few, but they’ll cost extra.”

“No problem.”

“Coming atcha. And whoever’s listening there in the wings, you never hearda me.”

I assumed that comment was for my benefit.

“You picked up the alert on your scanner?” Doyle asked.

“Affirmative. By the by, he made it.”

“Sorry?” Doyle tilted a questioning palm. Pointless. The caller couldn’t see her.

“The bird. They got him out.”

Two minutes after disconnecting, a trio of photos landed on Doyle’s phone.

The three of us drew close to view them. Zanetti smelled of something probably costing a thousand bucks an ounce and produced in only one village in France.

The first image was time stamped 19:40:03 EDT. Centered in it was a two-story white townhome with a bay window on the left and a red door on the right. An extension ladder leaned high up against the front-facing wall. Brick steps led from the sidewalk to a walkway bisecting a tiny front yard. Hoses crisscrossed the trampled grass like eels on a riverbank.

The structure’s lower level looked largely intact. Not so the upper. Orange flames licked from shattered windows. Dense smoke billowed out around them.

The second shot, a view up the block, showed contiguous row houses, some frame, some brick, each painted a kitschy rainbow shade. Window boxes, shutters, doors, and trim were done in harmonizing HOA-approved tones.

The third pic was taken with the lens pointed a full one-eighty away from the fire. It captured a narrow, cobbled street hectic with equipment and personnel. Gawkers. Patrol units. Yellow police tape.

“This address isn’t far from 26th and K,” Doyle said.

“Geographically speaking.” I referred to the vibe I was getting from the photos, one of Persian rugs, Waterford goblets, and Italian espresso makers. Not seedy lodgings leased out at rock-bottom rates.

Doyle caught my meaning and nodded.

“Thank God no fried foreigners this go-around,” Zanetti said.

I cocked a brow at Doyle. She hitched one shoulder, acknowledging that she had, indeed, shared details of last week’s blaze with her boyfriend.

“So what?” Her tone was mildly defensive. “It was breaking news anyway.”

I said nothing.

“The proximity of the two fires is probably coincidence,” Zanetti said. “Much of Foggy Bottom is old. I’m sure houses go up all the time.”

“Your CI said this is a rental.” I indicated Doyle’s screen. “Did he say who owns the property?”

“He didn’t know. But I intend to find out.”

“And she definitely will.” Using one finger, Zanetti looped an errant curl behind Doyle’s left ear. “This gal’s a tiger.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“Can you forward those pics on to me?” I asked, not sure my reason for wanting them.

“Sure.”

“I’ll probably hit the road tomorrow,” I said.

“Aw.” Sad faces. “Ben and I will be sorry to see you go.”

Seriously? Zanetti and I had hardly met.

On that note, we headed to our respective rooms.

Sleep came easily.

Understanding the drama it brought along did not.

I’m standing on a beach watching the ocean swell and recede. A low-hanging moon spreads a narrow cone of light across the roiling water.

A sound distracts me and I turn, straining to understand the source.

My eyes take in nothing but darkness.

My ears hear only the angry sea.

The sound crystallizes into footsteps, heavy and gritty.

A figure appears in the far distance, a black cutout denser than the night from which it emerges. He or she walks toward me. Unhurried, steady. Darkness obscures his or her features.

I hold my breath.

Then Ryan is there, his expression saying he’s piqued.

What’s happened to you? he asks.

I don’t understand.

You aren’t with me.

I’m working a case.

Ryan’s feet spread and brace. Behind him, the sand crumbles.

There. Go there. He points at something over my shoulder, his finger unnaturally long.

I swivel. See a house silhouetted in eerie moonlight.

I’ve no wish to approach it, but feel compelled to follow Ryan’s directive.

Drawing near, I note that the structure is old and weathered, its wooden exterior the color of dirt from a grave. Its carved front door is painted bright red.

I turn the knob and push the door inward.

Air rushes out, damp and rotten. Angry at being contained against its will?

Then I’m inside, wandering from one gloom-shrouded room to another.

The place is unique, I think. Like a brothel, only less tasteful. Red velvet. Tarnished brass. An overload of tassels and fringe.

As I cross a wide threshold into a large empty chamber, a figure crawls the triple panes of a big bay window.

I open my mouth to scream.

Realize I am seeing my own reflection.

Without warning, I’m descending steep stairs, a tiny woman beside me. Her feet get tangled in her long skirt.

Help me, she pleads.

I don’t know how.

It’s in the bag, she says.

Then I’m on a two-lane blacktop.

Rain is falling hard.

A storm drain runs alongside the road, clogged and overflowing. I watch puddles merge to form a shallow lake on the pavement, its surface pockmarked by the deluge of drops.

When I glance up the whole street is submerged.

A shaft of light appears on the horizon, then separates into two beams.

A car. Approaching fast.

Spray plumes up from the vehicle’s wheels, sending an object drifting out of the culvert.

A woman, floating, eyes wide open, the ripples around her tinted blood red.

I backpedal to get away from the corpse.

My feet are caught.

I pinwheel.

Throw my arms out, desperate to regain my balance. To grasp whatever I can.

My eyes flew open.

My pulse was racing. My tee and hairline were soaked with sweat.

I lay still a moment, fingers death-gripping the quilt.

Mind struggling for clarity.

Only a dream , one sleep-drugged cluster of neurons reassured.

You’re fine , their snappy-happy colleagues added.

My language center was far less subtle.

WTF?

No sector of my brain was enthused about a return to dreamland.

The last time I checked my phone said 4:21 a.m.

Again, I awoke to a gloomy sky and the soft patter of rain.

Did the sun ever show itself in DC?

I realized I’d been roused by my latest grating ringtone.

My phone’s screen now reported an astonishing 9:42 a.m. And that the caller was Katy.

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Hi, Mom. Uh… brace yourself. You won’t like what I have to say.”

“Hit me.” Heart knotting in my chest.

“When I checked the Annex as you’d asked, I found that your icemaker had malfunctioned and flooded your kitchen and parlor.”

“Sonofabitch! I can be there—”

“Do not come home. I’ve called a plumber, a floor guy, and the insurance company. The water’s off and there are big-ass fans going full boogey in there. They plan to refinish the hardwoods as soon as the moisture level drops enough.”

“Thank you so much. But shouldn’t I—”

“Stay where you are. The place won’t be livable for at least a week. Maybe longer.”

“Birdie?”

“Your neighbor is happy to keep him. Should that change, I’ll pick him up.”

“Oh my God. I owe you big-time.”

“And I will collect. Count on it.”

I debated. Decided, what the hell. Following my conversation with Ivy over Lan’s Thai dinner, I’d been curious about something. And an online check had yielded an odd discrepancy. Katy could probably explain it.

“While I have you on the phone, may I ask you something?” I said.

“Sure.”

“It’s about Ivy Doyle.”

“What about her?”

“You made a comment the night you asked me to talk to her about the Foggy Bottom fire. You said that Ivy really needed the interview.”

“So?”

“What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.”

Careful, Brennan.

“Ivy has an extraordinarily charismatic on-air presence,” I said. “She’s ambitious. Her family must have serious grease in the telecommunication business. I’m curious why her career seems—”

“Seems what?” Familiar with my daughter’s every nuance, I detected an unexpected defensiveness in her tone.

“Why she hasn’t achieved the national prominence she desires.”

“What is it you’re not saying, Mom?”

Tread gently.

“Ivy told me she’d been lured from Sioux City by an offer from a station in Columbia. But her résumé shows a two-year gap between her departure from Iowa and her arrival in South Carolina.”

“You looked her up?” Not quite, but close to indignant.

“I wanted to find fodder for conversation. You know I’m lousy at small talk.” Partially true. What I’d really sought was info on the lifesaving incident in Afghanistan that Katy had referenced. No way I’d admit to that.

A pause as Katy worked around my explanation. Then,

“Fine. But this stays between us.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Ivy didn’t leave Sioux City under good terms. She was fired.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say she embellished a few details on a story. The station agreed to keep it quiet, but you know how those things go. It took her two years to land another job. But that was a long time ago. She’d never cheat the facts again.”

“Thanks for sharing. Ivy’s secret is safe with me.”

Despite the late hour and the bad news about my town house, I didn’t fire out of bed.

Now what?

I’d completed every task Thacker had requested. Owed her nothing further except for reports.

I lay back against the pillows, reassembling shards of the previous night’s kaleidoscope.

My dreams don’t require a careful parsing of id, ego, and superego. No need for a Freudian consult. Typically, my subconscious takes recent experiences from my waking hours and weaves them into reimagined presentations, some straightforward, others more cryptic.

The source of Ryan’s unhappiness was obvious.

The creepy house was based on the Foggy Bottom property that had burned.

The brothel décor was inspired by Unique Swallow, the place’s one-time owner.

The tiny lady wearing the entangling skirt was undoubtedly the nameless subcellar vic.

The corpse in the culvert was anyone’s guess.

But why that theme? Why that cast of characters?

Had my id recognized something that I hadn’t? Was it suggesting the tiny lady could be Unique Swallow? I’d wondered about that. Swallow had sold the property to W-C in 1942. I had no idea what had happened to her after that.

If I’d known the answers then, things might have been different.