Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

My purse strap was going over my shoulder when the desk phone shrilled, startling me.

I figured the system had been rolled to auto for the weekend. And that the caller was probably Deery, having forgotten some detail and hoping I was still here.

“Brennan,” I answered.

“Is this the bone doctor?” The voice was female, and so low I thought the conversation might need subtitles.

“Who’s calling?”

“I saw you on TV with Ivy Doyle.”

Dear God. How often would that interview come back to bite me in the ass?

“I trust Ivy Doyle. She’s an honorable person. I sense you are, too.”

“Your name please?”

“No. Not this way.”

“You phoned me, ma’am.”

“Yes. I did. Wait.” The connection muffled, as though the caller were pressing the handset or mobile to her chest. Then,

“You’re the expert examining the people who burned to death in Foggy Bottom?” Even more whispery, lips close to the mouthpiece.

“How can I help you?”

The woman’s next words sent electricity sizzling through me.

“I know who set those fires.”

“What?”

“The two buildings. I know who destroyed them.”

“Who?” Too strident. Stupid.

I heard a sharp intake of breath followed by the thud of complete silence.

“I’m sorry,” I said, more gently. “I can tell this is hard for you.”

The woman uttered a spindly little sound that might have meant yes.

“Would you prefer we meet in person?”

“That would be better.”

“Tell me when and where.”

“Three this afternoon.” Slight hitch in her breathing. “The Einstein Memorial.”

“I’ll be there.” I’d never heard of it and hadn’t a clue to its location.

“You cannot tell anyone.”

“What about Ivy?”

“Absolutely no one. Promise?”

“You have my word.”

“If I suspect you’ve broken that promise, I won’t come.”

Dead air.

I sat, immobile, pulse humming.

Asking myself repeatedly.

Was I insane?

Quick stops at a FedEx outlet, then a bagel shop, and I was back at Doyle’s house by eleven.

In a rare moment of objectivity, I considered the range of emotions I was experiencing. I was irritated by what struck me as Deery’s tunnel vision, agitated by thoughts of my upcoming encounter with the mysterious caller, and curious about the spot allocated to the legendary genius.

After spreading a generous layer of cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin, I booted my laptop and googled “Einstein Memorial.”

I learned that Albert’s is a private monument located on the grounds of the National Academy of Sciences, about a block north of the extravaganza erected for Honest Abe. That it was dedicated in 1979 to honor Einstein’s one-hundredth birthday. That twenty-seven hundred metal floor studs represent the planets, sun, moon, stars, and other celestial objects as positioned by Naval Observatory astronomers on dedication day. That if you stand in the center and talk directly to Einstein, your words will bounce back as if spoken in an echo chamber.

Next, I googled the key words “Montgomery County DOT” and “parking permit.” Followed the same link I’d used in my wee hours search.

Temporarily leaving a vehicle in Maryland was as complicated as it was in Montreal. I acquired the following useless information.

Permits had been issued for forty years.

The program was intended for residents of neighborhoods impacted by certain public facilities, land uses, and adjacent commercial districts.

Outside of central business areas, only single-family homes were eligible to participate.

Great. The permit had been issued to someone living beside a uranium mine, a paper plant, or a boutique shopping strip lacking a lot.

Or to the occupant of a single-unit dwelling.

That last could be moderately useful.

Though language made it clear that online interaction was preferred, I managed to find a single discretely placed phone number.

Call a government agency on a Saturday morning?

Right.

It had worked with Waylon Colt on Memorial Day.

Harboring little hope of success, I dialed.

A recording told me that the office was closed and would reopen at seven a.m. Monday.

“Argh!” I actually said it out loud.

Frustrated, I skimmed the site’s home page. Found a number for the director’s office in a blue band at the bottom of the screen.

What the hell.

In for a penny.

“Archie Baxter.”

“Mr. Baxter.” Caught off guard, I babbled. “You’re the director.”

“The office is closed for the weekend.” The voice sounded as if it came from a country where people sheared a lot of sheep. “Please try again on Monday,” said the Maybe-from-Down-Under man.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Baxter. I’m sure you’re terribly busy. Probably using the weekend to catch up on paperwork. I do that myself.”

Baxter said nothing. I heard familiar music in the background.

“Oh, my God. Are you a fan of The Oak Ridge Boys?”

“I am.” A minuscule thaw in Baxter’s tone?

“The ‘Y’all Come Back Saloon’ is my absolute favorite.” Faux gushy.

“?‘American Made.’?”

It took me a second. “Yes! Great acoustic.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan. I’m visiting DC from North Carolina.”

“That explains it.”

I had no idea what that meant. “Might I ask you a few questions about parking stickers?”

“That’s an odd request.”

“I’m wondering if it’s possible to trace the holder of an old decal.”

“How old?”

“Twenty nineteen.”

“It’s undoubtedly expired.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Why?”

Not expecting my call to be answered, I hadn’t prepared a spiel.

I was hesitant to share information on the fire victims. And I feared Baxter might claim confidentiality issues if I mentioned the police or ME.

My mind went into hyperdrive.

“It’s a silly story, really.” Silly-me chuckle. “Not to bore you with details, I’ll just say that a lady helped me out of a jam involving my car and my cat. I want—”

“You have a cat?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Birdie. Anyway, I want to give the lady a thank-you gift. I failed to get her name or license plate, but I have a picture that shows a parking decal on her back window.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in looking up an old, elapsed sticker. Email me what you’ve got.”

Baxter provided an address at the Montgomery County DOT and I sent him the image.

“Hold on.”

A handset clattered.

The Boys sang about Elvira. Bobbie Sue.

I checked my mailbox. Replied to a few messages.

Thumb-nailed a dark intruder from between my upper left molars. Hunk of raisin?

Considered rehab plans for my nails.

An eternity, then Baxter was back.

“Took some creativity but I got it. The sticker was for residential parking in a neighborhood in Silver Spring, Maryland. Issued in 2019 to one Willie T. Pope.”

He read off an address. I wrote it down.

“Did you happen to note the vehicle type?”

“Why do you need that?”

“I want to be certain it’s my good Samaritan’s car.”

Uber patient, Baxter complied.

Totally pumped, I thanked him, disconnected, and punched an autodial number.