Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

Doyle picked up right away.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“In my room.”

“What’s happening?”

I considered telling her about my upcoming rendezvous with the female caller. Decided against it. Meeting someone of my gender in the late afternoon on the grounds of the National Academy of Sciences seemed perfectly safe. And the woman had been adamant. And I had promised. Besides. The whole thing was starting to feel a bit too Spy vs. Spy to me.

“I have a name and address for the owner of the piss-yellow Camry,” I said.

“No shit. Have you contacted Deery?”

“I just met with him. You’re right. The guy’s a barrel of laughs.”

“You should tell him.”

“I will.”

“Burgos, too. Give Sergeant Sunshine my love.”

With that, Doyle was gone.

I dialed the mobile number the arson investigator had reluctantly shared. He answered on the second ring.

“Sergeant Burgos.”

“It’s Tempe Brennan. Sorry to bother you on a weekend.” I was saying that a lot.

Burgos said nothing.

“I have information relevant to the two Foggy Bottom fires.”

More nothing.

Once more avoiding mention of my upcoming meeting, I explained the yellow Camry, the decal, Archie Baxter’s records search.

“I suggest you brief Deery.”

“I’ll phone him next.”

For what seemed like a full ten seconds, I listened to the fuzzy hum of cell phone silence. Finally,

“Do you not have a job, Ms. Brennan?”

“I do.”

“Then why are you trying to do ours?”

“Do you have any leads?” I snapped.

“Many.”

“Leads that actually lead somewhere? Deery seems to be suffering from a severe case of tunnel vision.” I knew that was imprudent as soon as I said it.

Burgos disconnected.

I dialed Deery.

Got voice mail.

Fingers tense with irritation, I texted Doyle.

You up for a road trip?

Like a flag on a pole.

An hour later Doyle and I were parked on a quiet elbow of a street not far from the central business district of Silver Spring. Yards were small but well-tended. Here and there, a bicycle lay abandoned on a sidewalk or lawn.

Trash cans dotted both curbs. Utility wires drooped overhead.

Tiny red-brick bungalows lined both sides of the block, all looking like the spawn of one lackluster developer. Shutters and trim were either white or green, probably painted within the last decade. Except for the occasional potted plant or lawn ornament, that was it for whimsy.

The home that Doyle and I were eyeballing had construction debris piled along its right side. Weeds growing amid the rubble suggested aged repairs or renovations. Perhaps a project abandoned midstream.

An ancient car sat in the driveway. Gray, with tires smoother than the skin on a grape.

“That clunker looks like it rolled off the line before I was born,” I said.

“Ford Mustang,” Doyle said. “Probably a’92. Cool set of wheels.”

“But not a piss-yellow Camry.”

“Definitely not.”

“Shall we see if Mr. Pope is receiving visitors?”

“Lead on.”

As with every other home on the block, three steps led up to a small concrete stoop. As with every other home on the block, an outer screen door shielded an inner one made of metal.

We climbed. Doyle thumbed the bell.

The chimes could have announced Mass at St. Peters.

Nothing happened when they’d finished ding-donging.

Doyle was reaching out for another go when we heard the snap of a deadbolt. A second. A third.

The metal door swung inward.

Willie T. Pope might have stood five feet tall in her prime. Though the dowager’s hump added a few inches, the most she could claim now was four and a half.

Pope wore a pink floral kimono that pooled on the floor at her feet. Black lace gloves on hands gripping a walker wrapped in green and white satin ribbon. A curly red wig that didn’t sit right on her head.

“Ms. Pope?” Hiding my surprise.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Tempe.” Indicating Doyle. “This is Ivy.”

“You two sisters?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You missioning for the Mormons?” Pope’s eyes never stopped shifting between Ivy and me, birdlike, inquisitive. The clearest blue I’ve ever seen.

“No, ma’am.”

“What do you want?”

“We’re curious about a car once registered to this address.”

“I’m eighty-nine. You think I still drive?”

I hoped not.

“How long have you lived here?” Friendly as a Walmart greeter.

“Forty-two years. By myself since Mite passed. Come to think of it, she’d burn my ass for telling you that.”

“Your secrets are safe with us.” I resisted the urge to wink.

“Weren’t no secret. Mite was queen bitch when it came to security.”

“Did Mite drive a yellow Camry?” Doyle asked.

“Mite drove a big-ass Ducati. Damn bike scared the crap out of me.”

“Who owns the car in your drive?” Doyle was not one for small talk.

“My nephew’s kid. Says he’s going to restore the thing, but his parents don’t want an old beater spoiling their view of the pansies. What the hell? No skin off my nose if he tinkers with it here.”

“Do you know anyone who owns or used to own a yellow Camry?”

“My, my, Miss Ivy. You’ve really got your tits bouncing over that car.”

“Do you?” Doyle’s patience was fast evaporating.

“Question asked and answered.”

Sliding me a side-eye, Doyle tipped her head toward my Mazda.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “Have a lovely weekend.”

We were halfway down the walk when Pope called out to our backs.

“Those wheels were mine, you know what I’d dub’em?”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The Camry Canary.”

Shuffling backward without turning, Pope slammed the door.

“Tough old bat,” Doyle said as we were buckling our seat belts.

“I liked her.”

“Not a chance she’s our Foggy Bottom arsonist.”

“No. But Deery should still check her out. See what evil lurks in the Pope family tree.”

Grinning, Doyle pushed damp curls from her face. “Well, this was a total waste of time.”

Was it?

What had my subconscious been trying to tell me?

The National Academy of Sciences is centrally located, at 2101 Constitution Avenue NW. I arrived at two-forty-five and hung back by the row of cars into which I’d embedded my Mazda. Before making my presence known, I wanted to assess the woman I’d agreed to meet. Should she appear sketchy, or armed, I’d split.

Einstein’s wasn’t the biggest memorial in the district. Nor had it been the easiest to find. I’d finally spotted it in an elm and holly grove in the southwest corner of the Academy grounds.

A bronze statue, maybe twelve feet tall and undoubtedly weighing mega tons, depicted the great man casually seated on a three-step stone bench. His left hand grasped a sheet inscribed with what I guessed were mathematical equations.

I couldn’t be certain from so far off, but what else would they be? It was Einstein.

The sculpture was burly and craggy and wonderful. Dappled with shadows cast by overhead branches, the effect was truly beautiful. I felt Albert would be pleased.

At the moment only squirrels were present, rooting and rummaging for whatever appealed to their rodent minds. Not sure how Albert would have felt about that.

Three o’clock came and went. No one appeared.

Every few minutes I checked the time.

Three-ten.

Three-fifteen.

Might the woman be doing exactly as I was? Hanging back to see if I was crazy or packing?

Sighting down the barrel of a Mauser M18?

By three-twenty, I felt like I’d downed two triple espressos. Nerves jangling, I threw caution to the wind and strode to the monument.

No gunshot shattered the afternoon quiet.

No figure materialized in the warm summer sunlight.

Only the squirrels reacted, scattering quickly, at least one screeching its irritation.

Time passed.

My eyes roved my surroundings. My pulse did overtime.

I glanced at the star map spread across the monument’s base. At the paper clutched in the statue’s hand. I could read the inscription now. It summarized three of Einstein’s most important scientific contributions: the photoelectric effect, the theory of general relativity, and the equivalence of energy and matter.

Right. I knew that.

A man crossed the grounds, tall and gangly, with wiry hair the color of dead grass in winter. I watched him move from the street to the building, unlock and enter through a side door.

No woman appeared.

I read the three quotations on the bench under Einstein’s bum. One struck me as germane to the question both Thacker and Doyle had posed.

The right to search for truth implies also a duty; one must not conceal any part of what one has recognized to be true.

That was the answer. The reason for my commitment to the subcellar lady.

I saw it as my duty to find her truth.

That’s not your whole truth, my subconscious interjected with brutal honesty.

Suppressed for years, the memory roared into my forebrain. I was lying bound, gagged, and blindfolded in a sack on a bank of the Tuckasegee River, the captive of a demented group calling itself The Hellfire Club. For a moment, the long-ago feelings engulfed me anew. The rage, the helplessness, the terror of dying in that bag.

I’d survived my ordeal. I was uncertain what had happened to the tiny subcellar woman. But I knew that she hadn’t survived hers.

At four o’clock, I positioned myself at the monument’s center, looked directly at Einstein, and said, “Screw this.”

My words echoed back as promised.

I headed for my car.