Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

I was on a church pew beside an elderly woman wearing enough bracelets to stock a Macy’s jewelry counter. Rhinestone-studded glasses. A red wig.

The woman leaned close to whisper to me. Her breath felt hot and moist on my ear.

I didn’t like it and shushed her.

When the woman drew back, a tiny stained-glass window shimmered off each of her bejeweled lenses. The wig hitched sideways revealing a hairless pink scalp.

The woman raised a blue-veined hand. In apology? Disapproval? Supplication?

The bangles clinked loudly.

The minister, an Asian woman, whipped around and pointed at me.

“She is not what she seems.”

I tried to ask what that meant. My mouth wouldn’t work.

In a gallery above, an organ began a litany composed of a single repetitive note.

Shrill. Too shrill .

My lids flew up.

As I reached for my mobile, the screen shifted from a message announcing an incoming call to one indicating that I’d missed it.

Ryan?

Crap!

I checked my voice mail.

Nothing.

I checked my list of recent callers.

Unknown number.

Disappointment shot through me, tinged with hurt. It hadn’t been Ryan.

Maybe the no-show lady, as I’d dubbed her? Had she phoned to explain her absence? To try to talk me into another meet-up?

The indifferent screen offered nothing except the date and time, 8:47 a.m.

Early-morning gray oozed through the window behind my bed. The sky appeared to be considering options.

I’d had another dream. This was getting ridiculous.

But I remembered this one. At least the final fragment.

And I understood the subliminal message.

The meaning of the psst at Willie Pope’s house.

While I’d been asleep, my id had cracked the enigma of the Asian woman in the poop with Norbert Mirek.

From far off, I heard the muted bonging of church bells beckoning the faithful.

It was Sunday. My second in DC.

I wanted justice for the subcellar vic. But I also wanted to get back to Birdie. To Charlotte.

To Montreal?

My emails yielded nothing of interest.

Not so my text list. Comprised of two words and an emoji, the most recent had arrived just past midnight.

Let it go!

The three-word missive was accompanied by a cartoon-styled human skull with large black eye sockets.

I didn’t recognize the number from which the text had been sent. Was it meant for someone else? Was it a joke? A mistake?

A threat?

I tried entering the digits. Got a message that the line was no longer functioning.

I knew that anonymous texting could be done using a third-party service—an app, a website, or a VoIP, a voice over internet protocol. I understood that such services could strip out an originating number and substitute another random one.

But who would do that? And why?

Feeling uneasy, I vowed to mention the text to Deery.

Antsy knowing that nothing would happen until Monday, I dressed, did a quick toilette , and clumped downstairs.

The kitchen was empty. Perhaps Lan was turning the pages of a hymnal somewhere?

Someone had made coffee. Mentally thanking them, I helped myself and added cream. Was carrying the mug to my room when my iPhone again exploded with the opening guitar riff from AC/DC’s “Back in Black.”

Jarring, I know. But I’d grown tired of Jelly Roll and the link had popped up when I’d searched with the keywords “DC” and “ring-tone.”

I double-stepped the last two treads, and grabbed the device so quickly I slopped coffee onto my tee.

The screen now happily provided a name. One that surprised me. And proved me wrong.

“Lizzie. I’m impressed you’re working on the Lord’s Day,” I said, plucking tissues to blot the stain splattered across my belly.

“Until the big guy sends me a sugar daddy, that’s how I roll.”

“Seriously?”

“No.” Throaty chuckle. “It’s a dreary morning so I figured I’d do some paperwork catch-up. The office is blissfully quiet. Why do you always sound out of breath?”

“Did you send me a text last night?” I asked, ignoring her question.

“No. Why?”

“You received the samples?”

“The package was waiting when I arrived. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Did you look at them?”

“A quick glance.”

“Will you be able to extract usable DNA?”

“The bone quality is shit.”

That didn’t sound promising.

“But it’s doable?”

“We’ll see.” Not exactly a promise.

“I really appreciate your bumping my case to the front of the queue.” A request I’d not made explicitly but had implied in the accompanying note. “I’ve been stuck in DC far longer than I’d planned.”

“People pay big bucks to visit our nation’s capital.”

“No kidding. Half the country was here last weekend.”

“Get your ass out and take in an exhibit. I like the bonsai museum.”

“That’s a real thing?”

“Hell, yeah. One of their bitsy little trees dates to 1625 and survived the Hiroshima bombing.”

“Your lab has a genetic genealogist on staff, right?”

“It does.”

“Is she fast?”

“He’s lightning itself,” she answered, correcting me on the gender.

We disconnected.

I changed my top, then, inspired by the knowledge that some people did work on weekends, I phoned the ME’s office in Charlotte.

Dr. Nguyen was not one of those people. I left a voice mail.

Breakthrough on the Mirek case. Call me.

Next, I tried Deery.

To my amazement, he answered.

“Deery.”

“It’s Temperance Brennan.”

“I know.”

Stupid. Of course, he had caller ID.

“Sorry to bother you on a weekend, but—”

“It’s what you do.”

“I have a name for the owner of the yellow Camry.”

“The vehicle you claim was present at both fire sites.”

“It was present.”

“Uh-huh.”

I managed to unclamp my jaw.

“Should I be speaking with Burgos instead?”

Deery sighed heavily through his nose.

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Perhaps you could verify the car’s ownership.”

“How did you get this name?”

I told him about the construction work done at Pope’s home. About the Montgomery County parking decal requirements.

“Give it to me,” he said quietly.

“Ronan Stoll. He owns or works for an outfit called Safe and Sound Home Repairs and Renovations.”

Deery grunted and disconnected.

To my shock, Deery rang back twenty minutes later.

“Not sure why I’m sharing this with you.”

“Because I found the lead.”

I waited out a round of background sounds different from those on our earlier call. Sharp footfalls suggested Deery was striding along concrete. The shoosh of hydraulic brakes suggested a bus.

“Ronan Stoll is co-owner of Safe and Sound, along with a brother, Roy, same last name. Same DOB: 12/12/83. The outfit is small time, mostly just the two, and has an address on T Street Northeast. As of last March, Ronan still owned the Camry.”

“Does either have a sheet?”

“Parking tickets for both, some moving violations, a DWI for Roy back in 2008. Otherwise, the pair are clean as choirboys.”

“Anything else?”

“Roy was married briefly to a woman named Georgia Daughtler. That went south in 2012. No kids. Currently, the brothers share a rental on Willard Street in Northwest DC.”

“Worth a follow-up,” I said.

Deery didn’t agree or disagree.

I debated telling him about my experience at the Einstein Memorial. What the hell? The woman had blown me off.

Deery listened and drew air through his nose. Then,

“What the devil goes on in your brain?”

Figuring the question was rhetorical, I didn’t respond.

“You do understand that you’re not a cop?”

More nothing.

“Do you have any sense of how reckless your behavior was?”

“Meeting a woman in broad daylight in a public place?” Way too defensive.

“Let me recap. Some dodgy female drops a dime and asks for a face-to-face, so you gallivant off.”

“I do not gallivant,” I snapped.

“I’ll rethink the verb.”

“And the woman did not sound dodgy.” She did. And failed to show up.

Another pause, longer, Deery’s nasal inhalations filling the gap.

“I’ll speak to the brothers Stoll later today.”

“Dropping in unannounced on a Sunday. That’s smart. Catch them off guard. What time?”

“You’re not seriously suggesting I take you along?”

“I most seriously am.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because I discovered their link to the fires.”

“Possible link.”

A very, very long pause. Then,

“I talked to a colleague in Charlotte about you.”

“And who would that be?”

“A detective named Erskine Slidell.”

“Retired detective.” Largely true. Though Skinny still did the occasional case for the CMPD. Note to self: Update Skinny regarding Norbert Mirek.

“Detective Slidell has an interesting take on you.”

“Does he.” Glacial.

“Where are you staying?”

I gave him Doyle’s address.

“Be ready at four.”

“I’ll—”

Beep. Beep. Beep .

Dead air.

I realized I hadn’t mentioned the anonymous text.

Admit it, Brennan. You avoided the topic knowing Deery’s reaction .

The light through the window was filling out and growing cheerier. It seemed the sun had decided to take charge.

I watched the room brighten while considering the two cops with whom I was forced to interact. Slidell frequently. Deery currently.

I reached two conclusions.

While Skinny had the edge in terms of overall loutishness, Deery had marginally better manners and a superior command of language.

Neither would top my list of candidates for sharing hugs and warm cookies.

Nguyen returned my call at eleven.

“Are you still in DC?” she asked.

“I am. Has something come up that you need me in Charlotte?”

“No, no. I played your voice mail about Norbert Mirek. I must admit, I’m intrigued.”

“Bluestein’s report threw me for a while.”

“Finding such hair in the fecal matter was definitely odd.”

“Finding human hair at all. Every photo submitted showed that Mirek was bald as a cue ball. It finally dawned on me”—I didn’t mention that my epiphany came from visiting Willie Pope and the subsequent dream—“maybe the old man wore a toupee.”

“Many of which are made of Asian female hair.”

“Exactly. The nephew—”

“Halsey Banks.”

“Yes.” Impressed Nguyen remembered the name. “Banks confirmed that his uncle had purchased and begun wearing a hairpiece six months before his disappearance. He opined that the thing was donkey-ass ugly. His descriptor.”

“Well done, Tempe.”

“Thanks.”

I downed the last of my coffee, now unappealingly tepid.

Checked the time. Noon. Four hours until Deery’s arrival.

I got my ass out to go see Griesser’s bitsy little trees.