Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

What do you see?” My voice was calm but backed by a fizz of adrenaline.

“The ugliest Camry ever. So what?”

“I parked behind that car when I visited the first Foggy Bottom fire.” Jabbing an excited finger. “There it is at the Aaronson scene.”

“How can you be certain it’s the same Camry?”

“Piss-yellow paint job. Window sticker saying I Brake for Aliens . What are the chances?”

“Might it belong to a reporter?” she asked.

I hadn’t thought of that.

Doyle’s brows dipped as she studied the image.

“The rear bumper is in shadow. I can’t read the plate.”

“Zoom in.”

Doyle expanded the image as I had done.

“There’s some sort of decal on the left rear window. Maybe a parking sticker?”

“That’s exactly what it is. A Montgomery County DOT residential perking permit.”

“It’s badly faded.” More zooming. “I think the date is 2019.”

“Still, it might be of use in tracking the vehicle’s owner.”

“Fuckin’ A.” Doyle leaned forward and raised a hand.

I smacked her upraised palm with mine.

I awoke to sun—Hallelujah!—and temperatures already in the eighties. Humidity looking to score a personal best.

Walking from my car to 4th and E, I breathed the usual summer-in-the-city smells—wet cement, rotting garbage, diesel, coffee. Now and then a whiff of pizza or fresh bakery.

Odors reminiscent of Montreal.

Still no word from Ryan.

I refused to think about that.

My shirt was clammy by the time I entered the Consolidated Forensic Lab lobby. The blast of arctic air sent goosebumps prickling my arms.

It was Saturday, so I had to work unassisted. I’d already collected samples from the subcellar vic. It took little time to prepare them for shipment to Lizzie Griesser.

Only half my mind was on the task at hand. Assuming neither Burgos nor Deery would take the parking permit lead seriously, I was anxious to do some cyber sleuthing on my own. Starting with the Montgomery County DOT website.

Thoughts focused on my plan of attack, I took no heed of my surroundings. Hurrying down the corridor, I flew through the doorway into my office.

And slammed into a figure exiting from it. Equally startled, we both backpedaled quickly.

“My fault,” I said, squatting to retrieve the packet that had flown from my grasp. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The figure said nothing.

Stretching to reach my papers, I caught a glimpse of feet.

Badly scuffed Oxfords suggested the wearer was male. Shoe size suggested considerable height.

Packet in hand, I straightened.

Faded blue eyes gazed down at me, dour and unsmiling. A fat dark crescent underhung each.

“Detective Deery,” I said. Why the hell are you in my office? I thought.

Deery nodded.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Doc Thacker asked that I keep you looped in on the Foggy Bottom fire investigation.”

“That would be good,” I said, curious about Thacker’s motive. The woman seemed to run hot and cold on me, sometimes holding back, sometimes going the extra mile to include me.

“Didn’t really expect to find you here on a Saturday.”

I said nothing.

“I observed you during the Hill post.”

I expected a positive comment. Good job. Well done. Very professional. None came.

“Shall we sit?” I invited, less than warmly.

Not awaiting a response, I circled my desk, placed the packet on the blotter, and sat.

Deery dropped into a chair facing me, knees splayed, ankles crossed. He wore neon yellow socks, brown pants, a melon shirt, and a green-and-gold tie badly in need of cleaning.

I noted that Deery wasn’t as tall as his footwear had suggested, maybe five-ten. Like the famed dodo bird, he had feet disproportionately large for his height.

I waited for him to begin.

“I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got an arson resulting in four deaths. Four homicides. Thinking one of the dead might have been targeted, I researched each.”

“Skylar Reese Hill, Danny Green, Johnnie Lamar Star, Jawaad el-Aman.”

I listed the names to let Deery know I was already solidly inside Thacker’s loop. He ignored me.

“Star and Green are out.”

“They were drug dealers.”

“Which made them easy to track.”

“I take it you have reliable sources on the street?”

“If someone ordered a hit on Green or Star, word would have spread like wildfire.”

Given that Deery seemed devoid of humor, I assumed the pun was unintended.

“I brought in the feds for el-Aman,” he continued.

“The State Department?”

“Among other resources. El-Aman’s father is wealthy and political and has pull with powerful people in Syria. I ran him and every KA through the system.” Deery used the acronym for known associate . “Floated queries with the Syrian police and Interpol. The man has some unsavory friends and scores of enemies.”

“You interviewed him?”

Deery looked at me like I’d asked if fish need water.

“El-Aman stated that he was devastated by his son’s death, that he believed the fire was accidental, that he’d pursue prosecution of those responsible for unsafe conditions leading to an accidental fire. Otherwise, on advice of counsel, he said zip.”

“Why was he in DC?”

“He said he’d come here to attend a meeting with financial advisors at Bank of America. The bank says no such meeting was scheduled.”

“Was el-Aman cooperative?”

“Of course not.”

“Might he—”

“I’m working it.” Clipped. “Then there’s Hill’s husband.”

“Alvon Finrock.”

“Finrock claims he was in Canada when his wife died.”

“Mississauga.”

“Border patrol says otherwise. Finrock entered the US by car, crossing at Niagara Falls two days before the fire. His MasterCard was used at gas stations in New York, Pennsylvania, and Maryland. The last fill-up was at a Sunoco on Virginia Avenue in Northwest DC. On the morning of the fire.”

Holy jumping Jesus .

“Finrock has a jacket,” I said. “DUI, drunk and disorderly, a juvie B and E.”

If Deery was impressed by my knowledge, he didn’t let on. Or maybe he did. Hard to tell with his face.

“Emails and texts sent to Hill indicate Finrock was controlling and abusive. One thread contains threats of violence should Hill not return and commit to their marriage.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“Still in the States, but in the wind. I’ve issued a BOLO.” Deery used the police acronym for Be on the Lookout . “We’ll get him.”

I told Deery about the Camry at both fire sites.

“Did you get a plate?”

“No.” I explained the parking decal.

No reaction.

Sudden thought.

“The house was being used as an illegal Airbnb,” I said. “What about the man who handed out the keys? Billie Norris?”

“He’s clear.”

“Burgos thought Norris was sketchy.”

“This is not my first murder investigation, Ms. Brennan.”

A tense silence crammed the small office. Choosing my words carefully, I said,

“Are you aware that both properties that burned belong to the same holding company?”

“I am.”

That surprised me. I doubted Ivy had found an opportunity to share the intel so quickly. Way to go, Deery.

“Does that seem like coincidence to you?” I asked.

Deery said nothing.

“Do you know the story behind W-C Commerce? That it’s a holding company founded back in the forties? Perhaps by Emmitt Warring and Bill Cady, members of the Foggy Bottom Gang?”

The faded denim eyes gave away nothing.

“Have you learned the names of W-C’s current owners?”

“The suits are blocking my attempts to obtain warrants.”

“Whose suits?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

We looked at each other across the blotter and the packet.

“Is it possible one of W-C’s current partners is being targeted?”

“My colleagues and I feel that’s highly unlikely.”

“Based on what?”

Deery ignored my question. “The doer was someone associated with Hill or el-Aman.”

“Motive?”

“To send a warning, to frighten, to intimidate.” Deery pressed down on both knees to push to his overly large feet. “Either way, the bastard killed four people and I intend to net him. Pardon my French.”

With that he was gone.