Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

Doyle suggested we share an early meal together. I was starving again. And had no viable plan for feeding myself.

We decided on Mexican. I offered to drive.

We were halfway to Ma?z64 at Logan Circle when Doyle’s mobile rang.

“Doyle.”

A voice buzzed for a long time on the other end of the line. Probably male. Definitely excited.

Doyle listened, a zillion expressions colliding on her face.

“You got names?”

More buzzing.

“Good work. Get me more.”

After disconnecting she pressed the phone to her chest.

Inhaled deeply.

“Freakingfuckonafreakingduckfuck!?”

“Bad news?”

Doyle regarded me with flapjack eyes.

“What?” I prompted.

“My CI caught a call on his scanner about a drive-by this morning. A fifty-six-year-old Caucasian male gunned down outside a home on a residential street.”

“Dead?”

“As a bug on a windscreen.”

“Where?”

“Chevy Chase.”

“That’s in Maryland?”

“Yes and no. Chevy Chase is also the name of a neighborhood in Northwest DC, just below the Maryland state line. That’s where the shooting happened.”

“Did your informant get a name?”

“He’s working on it. But he did have info on the location.” Teasing the suspense.

Not in the mood for drama, I circled a wrist, urging her to spit it out.

“The property is owned by one Lloyd Warring.”

That took a moment to compute.

“You’re thinking the vic could be related to the Foggy Bottom Gang Warrings? The probable founders of W-C Commerce?”

Doyle’s brows, shoulders, and palms rose as one.

“And that this hit could be linked to the Foggy Bottom fires?”

“Seems an odd coincidence.”

“We’re seeing a lot of those lately.”

“Indeed.”

“Warring is a fairly common surname,” I said.

“Not that common.”

“What else did your informant say?”

“That Warring has pull and his ‘people’?”—hooking air quotes—“are pressing to keep the attack out of the news.”

“Who’ll handle the investigation?”

“MPD. Maybe the Cathedral Heights station on Idaho Avenue. Which would be awesome.”

“I’m thick. Explain the importance of that.”

“I have an inside source there.”

Of course, you do , I thought. I wondered, was this murder really linked to the fires? Or was the journalist in Doyle looking for a story where none existed?

For a long moment, Doyle sat staring up the street. Maybe at the dead insects splattered across the passenger-side glass.

“What’s the last thing to go through a bug’s mind when hitting a windshield?” she asked, the corners of her lips crimped into a mischievous smile.

“No idea.”

“Its asshole.”

My eyes rolled with zero input from me.

“Dinner’s off?” I guessed.

“Do you mind? I really want to dive into this story.”

“Not at all.”

I shifted into gear and gunned the accelerator.

After dropping Doyle at home, I looped back to a Walgreens we’d passed along the way.

Ten minutes later my little cart held products I hadn’t anticipated needing on a brief trip north. My preferred brands of toothpaste, deodorant, and moisturizer. A pack of ankle socks. A cordless mini flat iron. A pink-and-purple emery board. A few random impulse items, most involving creativity with hair.

Jesus, Brennan. Are you hoping for an invite to the prom?

The self-checkouts were on the fritz and only one register was open. Six customers were queued up to pay, two looking peeved, the others with eyes fixed on their mobiles.

Frustrated on multiple levels, hating weekends and icemaker-caused floods and house fires and drive-bys, I took my place at the back of the line.

While awaiting my turn, I phoned Katy, hoping, illogically, that the Annex was inhabitable.

Nope.

Inwardly cursing, I inched forward, one cart length at a time.

The cashier was a bosomy blonde with dark roots and makeup too garish for the unkind drugstore lighting. Her name tag said Charlaine.

Charlaine greeted each customer with an expression of delighted surprise and a barrage of folksy banter. Which did nothing to speed the process.

Stars were born and died. The earth rotated.

Finally, I was second in line. Bored, I grabbed a half dozen Snickers and Kit-Kat bars from a rack positioned to lure shoppers into doing just that. Within earshot now, I half registered the conversion between Charlaine and an old coot in leather suspenders and baggy tweed pants.

The pair were discussing the inconvenience of home renovation projects. The nuisance of having workers underfoot. The bother of having to register for this permit and that.

One complaint snapped me to attention.

Suddenly, I was on fire to get to my laptop.

Back in my room, eating a Whopper and fries, I booted my Mac and returned to the Montgomery County DOT site.

Quickly verified what I’d overheard.

I was about to phone Doyle when she appeared at my open door, looking like her heart was pumping pure adrenaline.

“Lloyd Emmitt Warring.”

“Back up,” I said.

“Went by Lew.”

“Who did?”

“The man gunned down this morning.” Doyle paused to collect all the patience she could take in. “His name is Lloyd Emmitt Warring. Was.”

When the significance of her statement penetrated my brain space, “Warring may be a common surname, but Emmitt is not a common first name.”

“Damn straight,” Doyle said.

“Which gives legs to the theory that one of the Warrings is being targeted.”

“Big muscular ones.”

“Two W-C properties are torched. Then a family member is shot.” Recapping for myself, not Doyle.

“Assuming Lew Warring is related to the Foggy Bottom brothers.”

“Assuming that.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Why else? Someone holds a grudge against Emmitt. Maybe against the family.”

“We both agreed that would be one long-standing grudge.”

“The Hatfields and McCoys plugged holes in each other for almost three decades.” Even as I said it, I knew the comparison was a stretch. “Of course, that happened in West Virginia and Kentucky in the eighteen hundreds.”

“Fine,” Doyle said. “Maybe the perp is someone’s kid. Grandkid.”

“Whose?”

“The Warring brothers ran with a rough crowd. They must have made enemies.”

“Everything I’ve read says that’s true.”

“You plowed through those articles I photocopied. Float some candidates.”

I reached for my notes.

“Okay. Here’s a possibility. In 1934, Allen Wilson was shot dead by gunmen hired to kill some Warring-associated gangster whose name I forget. Wilson was an innocent newspaper carrier caught in the crossfire. He left behind three young kids.”

“Their names?”

“I didn’t write that down.”

“That’s good. Another?”

“Doris Gardner was the girlfriend of a Warring accomplice named Amon ‘Alarm’ Clock. Gardner was killed when Clock got into a fight with some rival bootlegger. She was the mother of two young girls.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t like to speculate.”

“Do it anyway.”

I dug deep.

“For years, Rags Warring—”

“Charles.”

“Yes. For years he was in a relationship with Mary Healy, a woman who worked at the National Archives. Because of Warring’s unsavory reputation, Healy was given an ultimatum: find another boyfriend or find another job. She dropped Warring cold.”

“So, what’s the grudge?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Rags retaliated in some way? This is senseless. I hate conjecture.”

“Fine. But you do grasp my point? At least tell me you grasp my point.”

“The cops should be looking into the Warrings.”

“Thank you,” she said, appeased.

“Deery says he did that and found nothing linking the name Warring to the fires.”

“Uh-huh.” Doyle’s tone was beyond dubious.

I segued to my news.

“I may have another angle on the parking decal.”

“Willie T. Pope was a bust.”

“Maybe not. Did you notice the rubble piled beside Pope’s house?”

Doyle nodded.

“Residents of Montgomery County need temporary permits for contractors doing long-term construction or repairs at their homes.”

“You’re thinking Pope obtained the decal for a worker’s vehicle?”

“A worker’s piss-yellow Camry.”

Doyle’s mouth reshaped into a balance between optimism and doubt.

“It’s an interesting possibility,” she said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“How about you chase down the decal while I contact my guy at the Cathedral Heights station.”

I checked the time. Seven-twenty.

“Did we get a phone number for Pope?”

“If she has a landline, that shouldn’t be hard. And someone should brief Deery and Burgos.”

Before I could suggest she make those calls, Doyle had disappeared.

“Pope residence.”

“It’s Tempe Brennan, Ms. Pope. My friend Ivy and I visited you earlier today?”

“How did you get my number?”

“It’s listed.”

“Well don’t that beat all.”

“It’s standard unless you specifically ask to opt out.”

“Phone hardly rings except for my nephew. He’s the one insists I need the thing. Thinks I’m going to fall on my keester and crack my skull.”

“I’m sure—”

“Tell me this. How would I dial if I’m lying flat on my ass?”

“Ms. Pope, I’m wondering if you’ve had repairs or renovations done on your property in the recent past.”

“You do ask the damndest questions.”

“I noticed construction debris in your yard. And, well, your home looks so lovely, I was curious who did the work.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

“I do.”

“Was a pain in the patooty but it needed doing. Had water seeping down my bedroom wall.”

“Do you recall the name of the company?”

“What am I, a walking encyclopedia? Hold on.”

I heard the clunk of a handset hitting a hard surface. The receding double tap of Pope’s feet and walker. I pictured the old woman. The terrible wig. The kimono. The black gloves.

My hindbrain cleared its throat. Ahem!

What?

Try as I might, I hadn’t a clue what my subconscious was telling me.

An eternity later Pope was back.

“You must live under a lucky star, buttercup. The contractor, or whatever he was, left a business card. I kept it in case there were problems. I’m careful like that.”

“A good quality.”

There was a pause during which I heard a tsunami of wheezing. I could picture Pope squinting to make out the lettering on the card.

“?‘ Safe and Sound Home Repairs and Renovations .’ The print is so small it may as well be on an aspirin bottle.”

There followed another lengthy round of wheezing.

I pondered buttercups. Patooties. My favorite brand of aspirin.

“I think it says ‘ licensed general contractor, insured and bonded .’ Yeah. That’s it. I vaguely remember the guy. Did a nice job but never smelled too good.”

“Do you recall his name?”

“Not sure I ever knew it.”

“Do you see contact information?”

“There’s a phone number.” She read off the digits. “No address, but the area code is out in Maryland, I think.”

“Did you have to pay for a parking permit for your contractor’s car?”

“Don’t recall that. But I don’t recall much these days. Mostly it’s a blessing.”

“Thank you so much, Ms. Pope.”

“My advice, never pay a penny up front. Wait until all the banging and sawing and hammering’s done.”

After disconnecting, I tapped on a number listed among my recent outgoing calls.

Archie Baxter was still manning his desk. Made me wonder about the man’s home situation.

Baxter listened to my update without interrupting.

“What is it you want now?”

“Might the parking permit have been issued to Willie Pope but for a vehicle belonging to her contractor?”

“That’s possible.”

“Would the contractor’s name be in your records?”

“You’re thinking he or one of his employees could be the owner of the yellow Camry.”

“Or was.”

“Hold on,” he said, sighing. I’m sure he thought I was a bit around the bend for so doggedly trying to thank a stranger.

Seconds later he was back.

“I have it,” he said, a plaintive note in his voice suggesting hope that this would be my last request.

Jotting the name, I thanked Baxter, disconnected, and thumbed another number.

Deery didn’t pick up.

Did the man ever answer his phone?

Burgos was equally unavailable.

It’s Saturday night, Brennan. Other people have lives .

Peeved, I left a voice mail for each.