Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

In looking back, I’m never certain of the exact sequence of events that morning.

But I’ll never forget that old woman’s voice.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t get my fair share in life,” she began. “I didn’t get crapola.”

Deery said nothing.

“After Ma died, we were on our own.”

“You and Sally.”

“No. Me and Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“I understand relatives took you in,” Deery said, ignoring Lipsey’s sarcasm.

“You talkin’ Aunt Laura and Uncle Clarence? Nice job pokin’ down that rat hole. If you’ve done proper detecting, detective, you know they weren’t no kin at all.”

“Seems an act of kindness to assume responsibility for two young girls.”

“Kindness. Yeah. We can go with that.”

The rheumy eyes clouded with something unreadable. Then it was gone.

Sadness?

Resentment?

Hatred?

“I been on my own since Jesus did his little Lazarus act.”

“What happened to your guardians?”

I was certain Deery had researched the couple. Assumed he was trying to push Lipsey toward some edge.

“Dead when I was sixteen.”

“Your sister, Sally?”

“Dead.”

“Your daughter, Marilyn?”

“Bad heart. Never made it to forty.”

“Your husband?”

“Roger?” Lipsey laughed, a wet, braying sound. Until the laugh turned into a coughing fit. Digging a tissue from her pocket, she blew her nose loudly.

“That peckerhead reached his high-water mark when he learned not to shit his diapers.”

“Where’s Roger now?”

“No freakin’ clue.”

“You have your grandsons.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my grandsons.” Suddenly cold and tire-iron hard. “And, for the record, Ma didn’t just up and die. She was murdered .”

“Doris ran with a rough crowd.”

“The world’s a rough place.”

“Not everyone chooses to hang with gangsters.”

The withered lips compressed so tightly their edges blanched. A flush spread over the pale cheeks.

“My mother didn’t deserve to die.” Lipsey’s glare—aimed at Deery—had gone fierce enough to break bones.

Deery responded with his favorite. Silence.

Unlike most interviewees, Lipsey didn’t fall for the ploy.

Tic.

Tic.

Tic.

Other than the slow cascade of drops, the only sound was Lipsey’s breathing, wheezy through nostrils thick with white hairs.

Tic

Tic.

Tic.

I risked an oblique glance toward Deery.

His eyes never let go of Lipsey.

Tic.

Tic.

Tic .

I swallowed. Inhaled. Swallowed again.

The silence grew long.

Deery finally broke it.

“Your mother was with Amon Clock the day she was killed. Clock was an associate of the Warring brothers.”

“Pond scum. All of them.”

“When you and your sister were orphaned, Clock never reached out to help,” Deery guessed.

“The spineless toady always did the Warrings’ bidding.”

“A member of the Warring family ordered Clock not to help with your upbringing?”

“You got it.”

“Do you know that for a fact?” Deery asked.

“I know for a fact that those people are egotistical, vindictive bastards, always thinking they’re better than me and my kin and never missing a chance to stick it to us.”

“So you’re out for revenge,” Deery deduced further. “It’s been eighty years. Why now?”

“You’re damn right it’s been eighty years. Eighty years of torment and humiliation.”

Deery opened his mouth to follow up, but Lipsey was on a roll.

“When my daughter got sick, she couldn’t get the right medical care because the Warrings took away our insurance. When my husband’s business was going under, we found out it was because the Warrings had cut a sweeter deal with the main supplier and left the business high and dry. When my grandsons went to the new school in town, the Warring boys were there to make sure they were taunted.”

I shot a quick look at Deery, wondering what he was thinking. Lipsey’s litany of Warring offenses seemed almost cartoonishly cruel. My mind spun with a half dozen questions related to why Lipsey hadn’t long before packed up her family and herself and moved a thousand miles away. Inwardly, I sighed. No matter how bad it is, sometimes people just prefer to dig in and seethe.

“So you set fire to the Foggy Bottom properties and had Lew Warring shot.”

“You’ve got nothing points to me.”

“You didn’t do it yourself,” Deery said. “You used your grandsons.”

Tic.

Tic .

Tic.

A sucking noise overrode the dripping as Lipsey took another long drag. I noticed that the hand holding the cigarette was trembling.

The tension in the room was thick enough to roast in a pan.

Lipsey’s gaze crawled to me.

I looked deep into the hazel eyes. Saw nothing behind them. No anger. No joy. No buzz that comes with the thrill of engagement. They were empty, like those of a lizard sunning on a mudbank.

Tic.

Tic.

Tic.

Lipsey lifted one hand to rub at her forehead. A distraction, as she slid the other sideways across her lap.

Too late, I realized what was happening.

Before I could warn Deery, the old woman drew an object from the five-and-dime collection in her dress pocket.

My heart kicked into high gear.

Clutched in the gnarled fingers was a .38 Special snub-nosed revolver. A pink lady. Identical to the one my sister, Harry, owned.

The muzzle was pointed at the center of my chest.

Cold fear slithered into my gut.

Head motionless, I slid my eyes sideways.

Deery’s gaze remained fixed on Lipsey, his expression neutral.

“You don’t want to do that,” he said, voice low and steady.

“Says who?”

“You know the consequences.”

“I’m eighty-eight.”

“Who would look out for Roy and Ronan?”

“Didn’t I say never mention my grandsons?” Harsh as a buzz saw.

“You did.”

“Yet I hear their names comin’ off your cop tongue!” A vein throbbed in her forehead.

It was as if a spigot had suddenly been turned. The spike from rational to manic was shocking. And terrifying.

And very familiar.

All her adult life my mother suffered from a condition that held her captive to seismic and unpredictable mood swings. The name of the disorder changed over the years, but the mercurial pattern never loosened its grip. Recognizing that Lipsey was exhibiting similar symptoms, fueled by an additional underbelly of paranoia, I knew argument was pointless.

Not fully appreciating the level of Lipsey’s mental instability, Deery continued to press.

“I don’t—”

Eyes filled with murderous rage, Lipsey swung the gun toward the detective and pulled the trigger. The sound ricocheting off glass and tile was deafening.

The bullet entered Deery’s chest, sending a spray of blood into the air. Letting loose a low groan, he slumped sideways onto the sofa.

Before I could reach out, his body slid from the threadbare cushion. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack.

Adrenaline shot through me so fast my mind short-circuited. Still, some lucid faction of neurons did the math.

It would take me six steps to reach Lipsey. I’d have to grab her hand, maybe break it, and wrestle the gun free. Plenty of time for the old hag to empty a round into my sternum.

I remained frozen in place.

It was a good call. In a nanosecond the pink lady was again leveled on me.

Placing her free hand on one knee, Lipsey pushed to her sportyingly shod feet.

I held motionless, now looking up at the pink-cloaked two-inch barrel. Beside my right ankle, spittle dribbled from a corner of Deery’s mouth. A crimson stream oozed from below his torso.

“Now what?” I asked quietly.

“Now I blow your bony ass to kingdom come.” Waving the pistol back and forth in front of my face.

“Before you do that, may I tell you a curious thing to come out of the Foggy Bottom fire?”

I knew that six inches from my right foot, Deery had a spare strapped to his ankle. I wanted to distract Lipsey so I could make a grab for his piece.

“Four people got killed,” she said. “That sucks, but it was never my intent. Life is timing.”

“We recovered five bodies,” I said.

“Yeah?” Curious, despite herself.

I told her about the tiny subcellar lady. She listened, arthritic grip tightening and loosening on the handle of the .38.

“So who the hell is she?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How’d she end up in a burlap bag in a basement?”

“Her skull was fractured, and her jaw was broken.” Lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She was murdered.” I didn’t really know that, but hoped the melodrama would draw Lipsey in.

“Why the bloody hell are you telling me this?”

“I think the killer was a member of the Foggy Bottom Gang.” Another lie for survival.

“One of the Warrings?”

I nodded, grim.

Tic.

Tic.

Shush.

Tic.

Movement behind me?

My expression held, giving no indication that I was totally focused on listening.

My ears picked up nothing but dripping, erratic now.

Had I imagined the sound?

Lipsey took a step left, then right, gun steady on my chest, reptile eyes glued to mine. Then she centered herself in front of me.

“You’re making this up,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“Why’s this old-timey murder your concern?”

“I’m a scientist. I’m looking for the truth.”

Shush.

“You’re full of crap.” One bony finger slid from the pistol’s handle to curl around the trigger.

“I’m not,” I said. “You despise the Foggy Bottom Gang for what they did to your mother. I despise them for what they did to that small, defenseless woman.”

Shush .

Lipsey caught it this time. Her gaze went over my shoulder.

A good moment to make a grab for the gun?

No, the neurons screamed. She’s nuts but alert. Ready to fire.

I heard a short high squeak behind me. A rubber sole scraping?

Lipsey’s chin jerked up. “Roy?”

“It’s Ronan.”

“What the hell are you doing here, boy?” Clearly, Lipsey was not a welcome-them-with-open-arms-any-time kind of granny. “I didn’t invite you today.”

“Why are you pointing a gun at that lady?” Ronan’s voice was quivery.

From where he stood, Ronan couldn’t see my face. Or the detective bleeding out at my feet.

“That’s none of your business,” Lipsey snapped.

“Are you having one of your spells, GrammaSue? Did you forget to take your meds?”

“Snake oil. I don’t need that crap.”

“Why are you agitated?”

“You know why. Those bloodsuckers struck again.”

“It’s all right. We’ll find another place to rent space.”

“You and Roy have put your hearts and souls into your business. You’ve worked out of that place for decades. That bastard bought the building just so he could evict you. So he could drive more nails into our coffins.”

“We don’t know that’s the case.”

I heard Ronan’s cautious footfalls as he circled the couch. His sharp gulp of air upon seeing Deery.

“Jesus Christ! GrammaSue. Did you shoot this guy?”

“No. The man from UNCLE showed up and capped him for me.”

Ronan stared at his grandmother, mind working through a labyrinth of twisted possibilities. A very long moment of shocked horror, then he stepped toward the old woman, one hand extended.

“Give me the gun, GrammaSue.”

“Why?”

“I’ll finish this for you.”

My gut went cold—cold, terrified, and empty.

“Not a chance. You don’t have the bubbies for it.”

“Hand it over, GrammaSue.”

“Back off.”

Ronan lunged, grabbed her elbow, and shot that arm upward into the tendrils of a hanging plant. Making a noise somewhere between a snarl and a hiss, the old woman threw her shoulders forward and down. Ronan curled over her bent torso, attempting to wrench the gun from her grasp.

Before I could react, a second explosion shattered the stillness.

Lipsey collapsed, pistol still clutched in her hand.

Squatting, Ronan gently pried the weapon from his grandmother’s lifeless fingers.

He held almost a full minute, back and shoulders softly convulsing in tremors. Then he rose on shaky legs.

Tears running down his cheeks, he swiveled to face me, the .38 clutched in his right hand.

My diaphragm clenched in panic.