Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

It was going on six when Deery pulled up and blasted his horn. I hurried out the big front door and slid into the passenger seat of his black Dodge Durango.

And nearly gagged.

The SUV’s interior smelled of perspiration, drugstore aftershave, and cheap hair gel. A Febreze odor fighter was trying its best, but the syrupy overlay only made matters worse.

I switched to drawing air through my mouth. Wondered fleetingly if the noxious mix could be the source of Deery’s nasal issues.

Deery mumbled a halfhearted apology but offered no explanation for being two hours late. I merely nodded.

Deery waited until I’d secured my belt, then carefully repositioned the gear selector, double-checking visually to be certain he’d shifted into drive. Satisfied that all was well, he gently pressed one giant shoe down on the gas. The Durango crept forward, slow and steady as a barge being dragged through a lock.

Though the view was unobstructed at the end of the drive and showed not a single vehicle on Chain Bridge Road, Deery made a full stop. Looking left then right then left again, he cautiously made the turn.

My grandmother was in good standing with the DMV until her ninety-first birthday. Even when her eyesight began to fail and she gave up her license, the old gal never drove this timidly.

Totally focused on the road, Deery made no attempt at conversation. Suited me. I concentrated on keeping the contents of my stomach where they belonged.

The sun was preparing for its daily adieu, promising, but not yet delivering those golden tones so passionately sought by Monet. As we blistered along at thirty miles an hour, I watched a feebly bronzed capital roll by outside my window.

Nebraska Avenue. Ward Circle. Massachusetts Avenue. We were turning from Florida onto U Street when I stole my first sideways glance.

Deery’s tie hung loose, and a sweat crescent darkened the pit I could see. Today the neckwear was carrot, the shirt periwinkle blue. No jacket. Black framed Ray-Bans rested low on his nose.

I noted that, in keeping with his feet, the man’s hands were extraordinarily large for his frame. And tense. His knuckles bulged yellow-white in their death grip on the wheel. His chest rose and fell in steady waves as he inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose.

A calming yogic exercise? Postnasal drip?

Whatever the reason for the judiciously paced breathing, it was clear that the man was stressed. Not wishing to elevate his level of anxiety, I kept silent.

Sunday traffic was light. Twenty minutes after leaving Doyle’s house we were turning from 17th Street onto Willard.

A long twenty minutes. My brain had responded to the cloying atmosphere by setting up a metronome pounding in my frontal lobe.

Deery pulled to the curb at the far end of the block. Cut the engine. Checked the side and rearview mirrors. Leaned back, hands still clutching the wheel.

Apparently, we’d be doing some surveillance before approaching the Stoll brothers. An activity as exciting as watching dust settle.

I surveyed my surroundings.

Willard was as polychromatic as the street that had hosted the second Foggy Bottom fire. Multihued two- and three-story brick town houses ran along each side. Desert tan. Butter yellow. Royal blue. Lots of gray and white.

A two-part staircase connected each building with a glaringly bright red brick sidewalk. One set of treads rose to a painted front door, another wound down and sideways into a concrete well. Curtained windows at ground level suggested basement units.

There were no real yards, just a few reasonably happy-looking flower beds. Trees and shrubs rose from rectangular dirt patches spaced at intervals along the walks.

My impression: the street was a tad shabby—rust-stained paint here, a broken railing there—but had the vibe of a place whose residents liked it that way.

We’d been there a good ten minutes when I took a stab at conversation.

“The Stolls live in the yellow building three up from the alley, right?”

Deery’s absorption must have been total. Or he’d forgotten I was there. The sound of my voice seemed to startle him.

“What?” Ray-Bans whipping toward me. Fingers momentarily tightening, then relaxing their grip.

“Their building is the yellow one at midblock?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if they’re home?”

“I do not.” With a brusqueness suggesting that I should zip it?

Five more minutes dragged by.

“Are we in Dupont Circle or Adams Morgan?” I asked, my limited knowledge of DC geography based on a quick perusal of one of Doyle’s maps.

“AdMo.”

An elderly man walked an elderly poodle past the Durango. The man was stooped, the poodle obese.

A woman exited a building near the 18th Street end of the block, crossed to a red Mini Cooper, and drove off.

A kid on a bike wove lazy figure eights up the center of the pavement, blue-and-yellow jersey proclaiming his loyalty to Golden State and his appreciation of number thirty.

Bored, I googled for a player ID. Stephen Curry.

Beside me, Deery breathed with painstaking precision.

I checked the time. Seven-ten.

A moment later I was the one startled by an unsolicited comment.

“AdMo was once the place to go.”

When Deery didn’t elaborate, I asked, “Not anymore?”

“Same venues there. Just less lively these days.”

Two complete sentences. Stunned by Deery’s loquaciousness, I ventured another question. Not really caring, but trying to avoid death by boredom.

“Where’s the action now?”

“The Wharf, the Navy Yard.”

I was surprised Deery knew that, but not by his answer. I’d dined there with Doyle and Zanetti, ergo the area had to be hip.

Did anyone say “hip” anymore?

Another long pause, then I tried again.

“Is property expensive in this part of the district?”

“Yes.”

“That odd combination of downmarket feeling and upmarket price.”

Deery didn’t acknowledge my witticism. I soldiered on.

“The Stoll brothers must do well enou—”

“They live in a cellar.”

“Yes, but—”

A silencing hand lifted.

I glanced at Deery. His eyes were narrowed, his attention focused on the rearview mirror.

I quelled the urge to swivel my head.

A beat.

Two.

A car passed close to the Durango.

Electricity slammed through me.

The car was a piss-yellow Toyota Camry.

I could tell little about the silhouette at the wheel. Tall, probably male. Wearing a brimmed cap. The passenger seat was empty.

Barely breathing, I followed the Camry’s progress.

The car crawled the block, its taillights flashing fitfully. Suddenly the driver shot forward and braked. A six-point maneuver got him into the space vacated by the Mini Cooper.

A man climbed out.

Sunglasses covered his eyes—standard drugstore issue. A Washington Nationals cap covered his head.

After locking the Camry, the man walked in our direction, a grease-stained brown bag cradled in his left arm.

“That’s one of the Stolls?” I asked.

Either Deery didn’t know, or he didn’t bother to answer.

I put Possibly Stoll’s height at six feet, his weight at slightly less than Birdie’s. His tee—perhaps the ugliest I’d ever seen—was plum with two chartreuse parrots wing-draping each other. Below the tee, neatly pressed khaki shorts, sandals, and white socks pulled up to mid-calf.

As expected, Possibly Stoll headed for the yellow building. A series of muted metallic thuds came through my window as he clumped down the stairs.

A door opened. Slammed.

I waited for a signal from Deery. A directive. An admonition to remain silent. Got the usual nothing.

Somewhere out of sight, a dog yapped, high and whiny. A car engine turned over.

Another five minutes passed.

Just as I feared my eyes might bleed from the tedium, Deery spoke.

“You say nothing.”

“Got it.”

“We do this by—”

“The book.”

One lifted eyebrow. Then Deery hit the door handle with his left elbow, swung his legs sideways, and levered himself out of the Durango.

Wordlessly, I did the same.

The sun was sinking below the horizon now, banding the pavement and the lawns along Willard with skeletal versions of trees and utility poles. A soft breeze had kicked up, causing the elongated shadows to shift and heave.

The yapping dog? The undulating gloom? The potentially threatening text? No idea what sent a chill running down my spine.

Refusing to grant credence to the strange sense of foreboding, I fell into step behind Deery. Who gave no indication he knew I was following.

Up the red-brick sidewalk. Down the rusted metal staircase.

There was a small window to our left. A trio of utility meters jutted from the brick beside its frame. An algae-green door lay straight ahead. On it, rusty digits identified the unit as 4B .

Flexing his right elbow to bring that hand to gun level, Deery reached out with his left thumb and pressed the bell.

Inside the unit, a buzzer sounded.

No one appeared or called out.

We waited, both of us spring-loaded and logging details.

The air in the well was moldy and dank, the window at my shoulder almost opaque with years of accreted gunk. Maybe decades.

Through the grimy glass I could see two potted cacti. What looked like a rubber snake. A figurine in a cowboy hat, sex indeterminate.

I was eyeballing the statue when, beyond the succulents, I caught a flicker of pink. There, then gone.

“Someone’s home,” I whispered, excited. Knew instantly the response my comment would elicit.

“I know.”

“These apartments usually have back entrances.” Defensive. Why was I constantly self-justifying with this jerk?

Sighing, Deery went another round with his thumb, this one longer and more insistent.

The buzzing was followed by a clamorous silence.

Head wagging, Deery curled his fingers and banged hard with the meaty side of his fist. “Police! I know you’re in there.”

Up the block, the invisible pooch began yapping again. Another dog joined in, this one more a baritone.

The duet was going well when a voice came through the door, high and reedy.

“You’re at the wrong address. We’re good, here.”

“Roy Stoll?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Detective Merle Deery, Metropolitan PD.”

“What do you want?”

“A moment of your time.”

“Your car isn’t official. How do I know you’re really police?”

“Open up and I’ll present credentials.”

“I do that, you’re not legit, I could be in trouble.”

Possibly Stoll had a point.

“Detective Deery can hold his badge up to the window so you can view it,” I said.

A brief silence suggested Possibly Stoll was thinking about that.

Seconds later, knuckles rapped the inside of the glass.

Deery scowled at me.

I scowled back.

Deery raised his shield.

Possibly Stoll took his time, either studying the info or deciding on a course of action.

“Think he’s phoning the station?” I asked, voice low.

Deery lifted one shoulder.

“Maybe talking to his brother?”

“Maybe flossing his teeth?”

Though snarky, at least it was a response.

We waited, the tense hunch of Deery’s shoulders radiating his displeasure. I wasn’t sure whether it was Stoll or me who was darkening his mood.

And I didn’t care. It was past eight. I was hungry and tired and wanted to get on with the interview.

“Phone off?” Deery asked without looking at me.

I pulled the thing out and flipped the mute button.

As I did so, a lock snicked, and a deadbolt slid sideways.

The green door swung inward.

Possibly Stoll was no longer wearing the ugly parrot tee.