Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

Explain.”

“Let me rephrase. I think the brothers know more than they’re saying.”

“Concerning the fires.”

“There you have it.”

Deery cocked a questioning brow.

“Roy referred to buildings burning down. How did he know there was more than one? Your use of the singular was brilliant.”

Deery neither confirmed nor denied it had been intentional. “Why would they lie?”

“I have no idea.” I considered mentioning the peculiar text. Decided it wasn’t a good time. “Now what?”

“Most would have missed that,” Deery mumbled.

Omygod. Was that a compliment?

“GrammaSue is their alibi,” I said, buoyed by what I chose to interpret as positive feedback. “It’s time to visit Granny.”

“The woman is eighty-eight and most likely asleep.”

“Good point. So where do we go from here?”

“You go home.”

“What?”

Deery placed a large foot on the brake pedal, pushed the ignition button, then carefully shifted into gear. Judiciously applying pressure to the gas, he eased the Durango out onto Willard.

Knowing argument would be futile, I leaned back in my seat, formulating a plan.

The house was lit like a discount mall at Christmas.

I smelled nothing to indicate action at the stove. Remembered that Lan had Sundays off.

“Ivy?” I called out.

No response.

Dropping my purse on the sideboard, I headed for the kitchen, hoping to find the makings for a sandwich.

A pink paper had been folded in half and taped to the fridge. My name was written on the front flap.

The wording was disjointed, suggesting a message typed in great haste.

Tempe:

Sorry. Rushed. Tried to call, no answer.

Urgent assignment. Flying to West Virginia STAT. Kid in a mine shaft. Whole country losing its shit.

Hate to ask. Can you look after the chinch?

Food and instructions by cage in my bathroom. Zanetti OOT with client until Wednesday. (Plus, freaking allergies!)

Forever in your debt.

Will call if I have signal out in Deliverance Land. (If I never return, take the Blahnik pumps.)

Ivy

I retrieved my phone and checked for missed calls.

Yep. Two from Ivy.

Crap. A chinchilla?

Every time I thought I might be able to boogie for Charlotte something else came up.

Seriously, Brennan? Leave and abandon your commitment to four murder victims? Miss the opportunity to work with Chuckle Berry Deery?

Ivy had maintained her sense of humor. I vowed to do the same.

Chastised by yet another suck-it-up-girl pep talk, I dug deli meat and cheese from the SubZero and slapped some of each between two slices of bread. After adding mustard and pickles, I parked my creation on a plate and climbed to my room.

Hating to dine alone, I grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV, and scrolled to my old reliable, CNN. The regulars were there, “going straight to the source for the best reporting on the day’s biggest stories.”

The most current of which involved coverage of Ivy’s mine-shaft kid. As I tuned in, the on-scene journalist was speaking directly into the camera, backdropped by dark forest and large equipment lit by powerful floods. Behind him, rescue personnel milled and called to each other under the unnatural illumination.

The man was reporting, probably for the umpteenth time, that a fourteen-year-old boy had fallen into an abandoned coal mine in Marshall County, West Virginia, at approximately four o’clock the previous afternoon. Looking grim, he stated that the shaft was more than five thousand feet deep, that the mine had been closed since 1956, and that the entrance had never been capped. Authorities were uncertain how far down the boy was or the extent of his injuries.

Concluding with the update that there was no update, he handed over to the anchor, a young Black woman looking equally grim. The woman was introducing a representative from the West Virginia Office of Abandoned Mine Lands & Reclamation when my mobile buzz-vibrated.

The name displayed was a shocker.

“Detective Deery,” I answered.

“They are being untruthful.”

“The Stolls?”

“Ronan claimed that he and Roy were in Roanoke, Virginia, from twenty-one through twenty-three May.”

“Dates bracketing the first Foggy Bottom fire.”

“Earlier in that conversation, Roy reminded his brother that they’d been at home when the Zamzow condo was robbed. I pulled the file. The Zamzow B and E took place on May twenty-two.”

“So where were they? DC or Roanoke?”

“They claimed Granny could verify their story.”

“We need to talk to Susan Lipsey.”

I waited out a ration of nasal breathing. I couldn’t tell if Deery was irritated or undecided.

“I caught Roy’s slip about multiple fires,” I reminded him.

“Seven sharp,” he said.

“I’ll be ready.”

After disconnecting, I went in search of Chuck, thoughts of sharp teeth and zoonotic diseases damping my enthusiasm.

Ivy’s room was at the back of the house. Like mine, directly above, its square footage equaled that of a high school gym.

Unlike mine, the décor leaned toward girly romantic. The palette was pink, dusty rose, and lilac. Lots of candles. Lots of ruffle-edged pillows. A flouncy bed skirt.

An enormous painting hung above the white-lacquered headboard, an impressionist angel with wings spread, violin tucked under her chin. I wondered if the work was by Anne Neilson.

The bath was off to the left. Not wishing to intrude on Ivy’s privacy, I beelined to it.

Chuck’s cage was a split-level affair, with each elevation having platforms of mesh, wood, or plastic. The upper portion, apparently meant for sleeping, had corrugated tubing, a hollowed-out tree trunk, and hammocks hanging from the bars. The lower portion, designed for exercise and dining, had a workout wheel, more tubing, and a boatload of toys. A food dispenser and water bottle hung from one side.

Blue plastic ramps provided access from top to bottom.

Chuck was one pampered rodent.

But where the hell was he?

Drawing close, I spotted the creature burrowed into a mound of torn newspaper on the uppermost level. He remained where he was, observing my every move with large, dark eyes.

I had to admit that, with his velvety gray fur and big rounded ears, Chuck was one cute little mammal. I guessed his weight at maybe two pounds, his length at a little over a foot—ten inches of animal and four inches of tail.

Other than the fact that they came from the Andes, I knew zip about chinchillas. Should I speak to him? In English? Spanish? Quechuan? Out of luck on that last one, buddy.

I noted that the food and water dispensers were empty.

Chuck watched as I filled them, motionless amid his shredded Post .

“You good now?” I asked, turning to leave.

Chuck gave what could only be described as a bark.

Surprised, I pivoted back.

“You want company?”

Chuck flicked his tail, eyes never leaving my face.

I dragged a chair over to his cage and we discussed recent events. The Foggy Bottom fires. The tiny subcellar lady. The four upstairs DOAs. Deery. The Stoll brothers. The upcoming interview with Susan Lipsey. The broken icemaker that had rendered my home uninhabitable.

“I think the twins lied,” I said, testing how it sounded with the rodent.

Chuck’s whiskers twitched.

“Exactly. Why would they do that?”

I described my quarrel with Ryan and the ensuing period of noncommunication. Calculated. Seven days, now.

“Am I being childish? Is he?”

Chuck rendered no opinion.

“Should I be angry? Worried?”

If Chuck had a view, he kept it to himself. The chinch wasn’t much of a talker.

But he was a helluva listener.

It was past ten by the time I got back to my room. Knowing the next day would start early, I brushed my teeth, did a few other basics, and climbed into bed.

A green dot on the icon indicated a newly arrived text. Clicking on the app, I was surprised to see another unfamiliar number.

With some trepidation, I opened the message.

Dead serious. Drop it!

Below that decidedly unfriendly directive was the same ominous skull emoji.

As before, I tried entering the digits. As before, the number came up as a nonfunctioning line.

WTF?

Was someone threatening me? Ordering me to back off from my investigation? My investigation of what? The Foggy Bottom property? The four fire victims? The subcellar lady in the burlap bag?

This time I vowed to let Deery know.

Somewhat unnerved, my brain would have nothing to do with sleep.

Twenty minutes of sheet-twisting and pillow-punching, then I sat up and turned on the light.

As always, the house was absolutely still.

My book lay on the bedside table. Opening to the page I’d dog-eared—yeah, shoot me—I tried to focus on the story.

My brain would have nothing to do with fiction, either.

My eyes roved the room.

Ivy’s triaged photocopies still lined one wall.

Why not? Reading about gangsters beat agitated staring into the dark.

Throwing off the covers, I crossed and sat down on the zebra carpet. As with the novel, I began where I’d left off.

Further perusal of the articles gave me a better sense of how the Warrings shifted from illegal booze to illegal numbers, which they called the commission brokerage business. And of the scale of their success. According to many reports, the brothers were earning millions annually and, as early as 1936, were employing more than fifty people.

Gun battles were a favorite topic of several publications. One colorful series described how six members of the Warring operation, including Rags, were convicted of assault with intent to kill in the shooting of a rival bootlegger.

Most coverage made it clear that, as it was for Al Capone, the IRS was the Warrings’ biggest problem. In 1938, the brothers were indicted for conspiring to hide a big chunk of change on their tax returns. Based on the sample of coverage that Ivy had printed, it seemed their trial filled the front pages of every DC paper for almost a year. The proceedings ended in a hung jury.

In 1939, five days into a second trial, Emmitt was accused of bribing both a juror and a US marshal and ended up serving twenty-six months for criminal contempt. Finally, well into a third trial, all three brothers pled guilty.

Did the Warrings’ legal woes negatively impact business? Not a chance. By the late forties the boys were raking in at least seven mil annually.

Though of moderate historic interest, accounts of the Warrings’ battles with the IRS hardly set my heart racing. One more story , I told myself. Then I’d have another go at sleep.

Hoping for variety, I shifted to a different stack.

The item I pulled had appeared in the society section of a paper whose name was deleted in the photocopy process. A wedding announcement comprising seven column inches and a small photo, it was headlined LIPSEY-STOLL .

Coincidence?

Maybe one. But both names?

I read the piece with growing excitement.

The marriage had taken place on August 15, 1982, in Silver Spring, Maryland. Listed were the bride and groom, along with the parents and grandparents on both sides.

Pulse high-stepping, I dialed Lizzie Griesser.

Despite the late hour she was happy to provide a quick tutorial.

I reached for my laptop.