Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

I stared, making sure I wasn’t wrong.

I wasn’t.

Was I?

Ben Zanetti—maybe Ben Zanetti?—was striding down the walk skirting the west side of the Petco, a Wizards cap on his head, a hefty package cradled in his left arm. Clinging to his right arm was a woman who couldn’t possibly have closed out her twenties. A woman whose sense of style leaned toward “look at me.”

The woman’s hair was bleached platinum, shag cut, and dyed flamingo pink at the tips. Her arms were inked from the wrist to the point where each disappeared into the sleeve of a tee declaring, Let me pour you a tall glass of get over it. The ear I could see was loaded with enough metal to open a hardware store. A touch of whimsy that blended nicely with the eyebrow ring.

A bee blundered against my windshield. Danced across the glass, either stunned or confused. Gathered itself and flew off.

My recovery wasn’t happening that fast.

Realizing that I’d been holding my breath, I let the air out slowly.

I watched Maybe Zanetti and Pink Tips cross to an ancient Ford Focus with a sombrero-wearing mouse dangling from the rearview mirror. Using his remote key to open the trunk, Zanetti leaned forward to toss in the parcel.

Pink Tips caressed his bent back and spoke words I couldn’t make out.

Shrugging off her gesture, Maybe Zanetti straightened. Though the cap’s bill kept his upper face in shadow, a taut twist of one corner of his mouth suggested a scowl.

Pink Tips reached up to stroke his cheek.

Maybe Zanetti batted away her wrist.

I needed no audio to know she barked “ fuck you .”

Flipping a two-finger bird, Pink Tips stomped to the passenger-side door, yanked it open, and threw herself into the seat. Slamming the trunk, Maybe Zanetti pivoted, body tense as a coiled spring. His shadowed gaze swept the asphalt and the vehicles surrounding the Focus. Hesitated a moment on mine.

A wave of queasiness rose up into my throat.

Had he recognized my Mazda? Seen me?

Wordlessly, Maybe Zanetti folded his very long legs behind the wheel and cranked the car’s engine.

I watched the battered Ford gun from its spot, leaves and pebbles spitting from its badly worn tires.

Shock jockeyed with confusion.

Was the man in the cap really Ivy’s fiancé? Ben Zanetti drove a Range Rover, not a Ford. And he’d told Ivy he’d be away from DC all week.

The curly black hair. The six-foot-six frame. It had to be Zanetti.

And the body language was unmistakable. Zanetti and Pink Tips were quarreling, but her gesture made it clear they were more than just friends.

Anger surged up from my chest and pounded in my temples.

The bastard was two-timing Ivy with a pierced and bleached bimbo half his age.

Closing my eyes, I did a full minute of yogic breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Images of Ivy and Zanetti together did slow somersaults across my mind: snuggling in a single lounger while watching late-night TV, frying eggs and bacon at the stove, laughing at peas spilled on the kitchen floor.

All the way home I debated what to do.

Tell Ivy that the love of her life was a deceitful son of a bitch? Keep quiet and hope she discovered his cheating on her own?

I liked neither option.

The house was still as a church on a Tuesday morning.

No Lan.

No Zanetti.

Chuck was busy doing whatever it was he did with his shredded newspaper. He abandoned the project when I appeared and set his chow on the floor by his cage.

“Do I tell her?” I asked.

His whiskers did something probably meaningful to him.

“You’re right. But what if the guy wasn’t Zanetti?”

One furry ear flicked. The rodent equivalent of lifting an “I’d be careful” brow?

To take my mind off thoughts of kicking Zanetti’s nads into his brainpan, I climbed to my room, got online, selected the Tripadvisor icon in my bookmarks, and entered the keywords “inns,” “lodges,” and “Washington DC.” Found nothing that appealed to me.

My heart just wasn’t in it. I’d planned to ask Ivy for suggestions about romantic getaways in the area, but now that didn’t feel right.

I fidgeted, antsy. Swiveled in my chair, wondering what to do with my empty afternoon.

My gaze fell on the sorted and stacked photocopies provided by Ivy. Some read, others not.

I’d heard nothing from Lizzie Griesser. Hesitated to call her again. Might one of the articles shed light on the name or fate of the tiny subcellar lady?

In for a penny.

Before turning to the old news stories, I fired off a text to Katy. Queried the state of the floors at my town house. Birdie’s disposition. Her knowledge of romantic spots near DC.

She replied within minutes.

Cat sulky.

Floors delayed. Occupancy still a no-go.

Salamander Resort, Middleburg, Virginia.

I googled the hotel, then linked over to the website. The place looked perfect. A two-night stay might require me to sell a major organ, but what the hell. Ryan and I badly needed some romance. He’d arrive in two days and stay with me at Ivy’s. Once I knew the date that Chuck and I would part ways, I’d book us in.

I spent the rest of the day and well into the evening reading about the Warring brothers and the colorful exploits of the Foggy Bottom Gang. Juicy stuff, but uninformative regarding the subcellar remains.

At six, I spoke with Ryan for almost an hour. Considered telling him what I’d seen at the Petco. Decided that might qualify as gossip and didn’t. Besides, he knew neither Ivy nor Zanetti.

At ten, I zapped a frozen pizza for dinner.

While eating, I watched a West Wing rerun—I was in DC—then Colbert.

I fell asleep just past one.

It was getting to be routine.

Startled awake by a buzzing on the bedside table, I reached out and scrabbled for my mobile.

The screen told me it was 4:24 a.m. And that the caller was Jada Thacker.

“Are you a fan of Groundhog Day ?” she asked cryptically.

“What?” Brain still too sleep-fogged to pick up on the reference.

“Bill Murray? Reliving the same day over and over?”

“It’s four in the morning and you’re asking for a movie review?”

“Another fire’s going gangbusters in Foggy Bottom.”

That snapped my mind into focus.

“Any fatalities?” I asked.

“One DOA is rolling toward the morgue as we speak.”

“Holy sweet Jesus,” I said, and thought of the four corpses that had lain on my table.

“Yeah.”

“Arson?”

“Looks that way.”

Ice solidified in my chest.

“Susan Lipsey is still hospitalized and not allowed any form of communication,” I said, puzzled.

“She is.”

“Where are the Stoll twins?”

“Still in the wind.”

“Would they…?”

I let the question hang unanswered. Thacker didn’t try.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Go back to sleep. I’m calling to make sure you’re still in DC.”

“I am,” I said.

Shitballs , I thought.

Morning dawned with a fine drizzle spattering the leaves outside my window. The sky, a melancholy gray, was threatening to ratchet things up into full-on rain.

First off, I checked my phone. Was shocked to see that I’d slept until nine-thirty.

Understandable. I hadn’t fallen asleep again until after five. And—except for the muted drops beyond the glass—as usual there wasn’t a sound in the house.

Propping myself up in bed, I scrolled through my latest emails and texts. Ads. Credit card offers. Facebook notices. Found nothing from Thacker.

Pulling on sweats, I brushed my hair and teeth, then dialed the ME’s office. Thacker was busy doing an autopsy. The receptionist assured me my call would be returned as quickly as possible.

Four hours later it was. I was at Ivy’s mile-wide kitchen island, making a salami sandwich and looking out over the soggy grounds.

“Thanks for making yourself available,” Thacker said. “But we won’t be needing your help on this one.”

“You’ve IDed the vic?”

“No. But we will. The DOA is female, probably white, probably in her twenties. She was badly burned, but we managed to lift prints and observe a carnival of body details.”

“Death was due to smoke inhalation?” I asked.

“I’m still working on that.” Did Thacker sound uneasy? Or merely tired?

A brief hum of empty air. Then she asked, “Do you remember Sergeant Burgos?”

“Fireman Frolicsome.”

“That’s the guy. Laugh a minute. Anyway, Burgos is also heading the team handling this investigation and, with some urging from yours truly, he shared a few very early observations. As you know, the two other buildings that were torched belonged to the same holding company.”

“W-C Commerce,” I said.

“So does this third one.”

“Are you serious?”

“Not something I’d kid about. Which explains why this fire was discovered so quickly. You know Merle Deery, right? The homicide detective that Susan Lipsey shot?”

“I do.”

“While investigating the first fire deaths, Deery discovered that a few other Foggy Bottom properties also belong to W-C. And that one building was standing empty. Crafty cop that he is, he ordered eyes on those places. Nothing steady, just a unit cruising by now and then.”

Way to go, Merle , I thought.

“Why was the building vacant?” I asked.

“It had just gone on the market.”

Deep down, yet another soft ping in my subconscious.

“Here’s another curious twist,” Thacker continued. “Burgos says this was arson, but the MO was totally different from the previous two. And quite creative. The doer doused a pan of kitty litter with gasoline. Then he went outside to disconnect a line supplying propane to a clothes dryer. Returning inside, he disconnected the appliance end of that line. After tossing a match into the litter, he went back outside, reconnected the gas line, and opened the valve. Ka-boom! Sound familiar?”

“The same MO as in one of the files you asked me to review.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Do you think this fire is connected to your earlier case?”

“ Anything’s possible,” she answered. “But it’s unlikely. That homicide involved a kid killing his granny.”

“Doesn’t sound like a copycat,” I agreed.

“At least not a very wily one.”

“What was the DOA doing in an empty house?” I asked.

“Who the hell knows. By the way, this latest hasn’t hit the news yet. Not that there’s been much interest. Those who’ve contacted my office agreed to hold off until the vic’s next of kin have been notified.”

We disconnected.

I sat a long time, listening to the brush of wind in the branches outside. To the rhythmic tapping of raindrops on glass.

Troubled, but oblivious as to the cause.

Until the front door opened, and heavy boots clomped my way.