Bones on Ice Page 6

  “I have the box. But it will take some time to have it brought out of storage.”

  “I’d like to examine those items.”

  “With the exception of a necklace, I’ve removed nothing.” In a quieter voice. “Funny, but we always hope, don’t we?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hope what? It was all a mistake and Brighton would come home someday? Evidence existed that would spur a large legal settlement?

  “One last thing.” I always hate making this request. It sounds so final. “Would you be willing—”

  “You’d like a DNA sample.” Hallis was way ahead of me.

  “Yes, ma’am. The queue for analysis can sometimes be long.”

  “Would you prefer a cheek swab from me or a sample of Brighton’s hair?”

  “If you have a brush that was used solely by your daughter, that would be perfect.”

  “Can you use a cutting from when she was young?”

  “The hair has to retain the root bulb, I’m afraid.” Has to have been forcibly removed.

  “I will have her brush ready for you tonight.”

  “I’m in my car now. Is there any way I could swing by in fifteen minutes?”

  A beat of hesitation. “Yes.”

  With that she was gone and Raleigh was back. We arranged for me to pick up the hairbrush immediately and return for the box from Everest after six. The diversion added no more than fifteen minutes to my drive.

  Entering the lab, I tossed a quick greeting to Mrs. Flowers, the receptionist, and hurried to autopsy room five, eager to collect samples from ME215-15 for DNA sequencing. After suiting up, I cut specimens from the untouched digits, placed them in a vial, and marked the cover with the case number, the date, and my initials. Then, as a precautionary backup, I plucked several strands of hair, with root, and packaged them in the same manner.

  That done, I added the Ziploc containing Brighton Hallis’s brush and phoned Slidell. Detective Delightful didn’t answer, so I left a message asking that he collect the samples and deliver them to the CMPD forensics lab. Results wouldn’t come with TV crime drama dazzling speed, but turnaround times in Charlotte are far faster than average. This case wasn’t high priority, so I expected a report in a matter of weeks.

  Next, I checked an erasable board hanging in the hall. My lucky day. Joe Hawkins was on duty. The best death investigator on staff.

  A quick call, and Hawkins came up from the morgue. I explained and demonstrated what I wanted him to do.

  “You want me to make a cast of the stab wound located in the back of the neck near cervical vertebrae three and four.” He pointed it out. “And take those two vertebrae out and clean them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you want me to reflect the scalp and face so you can examine cranial trauma, especially near the nasal-maxillary areas in front and the parieto-occipital areas in back. That about it?”

  “Ink and roll her.” I considered. “While you’re at it, dissect out and clean the right ulna and left calcaneus. And go ahead and take X–rays of them. Could be useful if ID becomes complicated.” As in, you can’t get readable prints. “Can you manage all that today?”

  Hawkins checked his watch. “Maybe.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What do you want me to do with the scalp and face?”

  “Would removing them intact be too difficult?”

  Hawkins gave me the long Hawkins stare.

  “Place them in a formalin solution. If the tissue has to come off in sections, I can deal with that.”

  Hawkins tipped his chin in the direction of the sink. “The fingers are rehydrated?”

  “Ready and waiting.” I’d tested. The mummified flesh had puffed up nicely.

  “Priority?”

  “Skull, postcranial bones, cast, X-rays, then prints.”

  Ever taciturn, Hawkins just nodded.

  “See you later!” Big smile. Wasted. Hawkins was already on the move. I left him to his grisly tasks.

  Changing to street clothes in the staff lounge, I was pumped. Progress! I balled my apron and shot a J into a biohazard bin, my shoulders doing a jazzy little dance. But at my office door, my exuberance fizzled a bit.

  Bones would be boiling. Prints would be taken. Samples would be submitted for DNA sequencing. What to do? My momentum stubbed its toe.

  As I stepped through the door, my eye fell on a magazine I’d been looking at for research lying open on my desk. On an ad for Millet Everest Summit GTX mountaineering boots that I’d been checking out. My gaze drifted to a local insert on the facing page.

  Try it! a tiny voice urged from some corner of my mind.

  No way.

  Fieldwork.

  Yeah. Right.

  Might help your analysis.

  Valid point.

  Scared?

  What the hell. I’m the Queen of Ice and Snow. I had time to kill and yoga pants in my trunk. I tore out the flyer and headed for my car.

  Minutes later, at my destination, I wasn’t so sure. Was even less sure as I powered through double glass doors into an overly bright lobby with way too many posters.

  “Hello!” a perky broomstick with a bouncy bob and sun-leathered skin greeted me from behind a reception desk. The patchouli tsunamied strong as I crossed to her. “Welcome to Inner Peaks Climbing Center!”

  More and more, I was regretting my rash impulse.

  “Are you here to climb?” Overly cheery.

  No. I’m here to learn neurosurgery. I nodded.

  “First-timer?” Wide, sincere eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Great! Over eighteen?”

  “Yes.” Last time I was eighteen “Stayin’ Alive” was a new release. I didn’t add that.

  “Our first-timers package includes a day pass, harness, shoes, and gri-gri lesson.”

  “Gri-gri?”

  “An assisted braking belay device.”

  “I’ll take the package.”

  “Great! You’ll need a qualified belayer—that’s the person handling the ropes—to help you climb. Got a friend?”

  “Not today.”

  Earnest frown. “I’m not sure….”

  “I’ve got this, Amy.” The voice came from behind me. Familiar. I turned.

  Damon James, chest stretching a tee to its tensile limits, the Inner Peaks logo centered on front. Sleeves razored off at the shoulders.

  “Dr. Brennan, I presume.” Boyish laugh. Like he’d practiced in the mirror.

  “Moonlighting?” I stepped back. For some reason, the guy made me want to run for the showers.

  A shrug. “My former business pipeline’s a little frozen right now.”

  My breath caught. Was the asshole referring to Brighton Hallis?

  James drew an arm across his waist and tipped his head. “So you get Prince Charming.”

  “Great!” Chirped from Amy. “Please sign the waiver, we’ll swipe a credit card, and away you go!”

  “Great.” James raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Great.” I raised my eyebrows at James.

  After signing and paying, I trailed my belayer, whatever the hell that was, into the inner sanctum. In the gear room, James sorted through brightly colored straps and ropes, selecting and handing me some that, to my eye, were indistinguishable from others.

  “How’s it hanging with Brighton?” he asked, casual as hell, crouching by a bin overflowing with metal clasps.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing case.”

  “Fair enough.” He stood, holding the climbing equivalent of bowling shoes. “I watch TV. I’m hip to how cops roll.”

  I frowned. James couldn’t know Hallis had been murdered. Why mention cops?

  “All set.” Quick jerk of the head. “This way.”

  The main climbing gym looked like the love child of Mars and Tim Burton. Fake rock escarpments curved upward, their ochre walls speckled with modular grips resembling brightly colored wads of leviathan chewing gum. All around, people in ropes and
helmets dangled in various stages of ascent and descent.

  James led the way to a fairly straightforward “cliff.” “We’ll start simple.”

  Have I mentioned that I dislike unprotected heights? My heart was already inching up my throat.

  I slipped into the climbing shoes, then James flopped me about like a rag doll, affixing harness, ropes, carabiners, gri-gri, and helmet. When finished, he assessed his handiwork, again shot the practiced grin. The contrived boyish-charm thing was wearing thin fast.

  “How’s your upper-body strength?” Still grinning.

  “Decent.”

  “Let’s find out.” James began issuing instructions, his style methodical and concise. “Climbing’s as much about your hands as your feet.”

  I listened. Whatever his personality, the guy knew his stuff.

  A final check of my gear, then he pointed out the route.

  I wiped sweaty palms on my pants then stepped to the wall. Curtain time.

  “On belay?” I called, following the script James had provided.

  “Belay on,” James replied.

  “Climbing,” I said.

  “Climb on.”

  A moment passed. Another. I hadn’t moved.

  “Climb on,” James repeated, tone not mocking, but close. Deep breath, then I reached to find purchase and hauled myself up.

  My form wasn’t pretty, but slowly I worked my way up the rock face, pits damp, heart hammering, totally oblivious to the passage of time. To anything outside the rhythm of grasp, pull, step.

  I was close to the top when a high shriek echoed somewhere below me. A cacophony of sound followed. My adrenaline-stoked fingers flinched, my grip faltered. I fell.

  I felt air whoosh past my ears. Was bracing for impact when the rope tautened, snapping me around wildly. My body slammed the wall. I scrabbled for a handhold, a toehold. Clung, gasping, not looking down.

  “Dr. Brennan.” Pause. “Dr. Brennan.” Calm. “Please look at me.”

  I opened my eyes. Saw serpentine green ones. Level. I risked a glance toward the ground. Saw that I was two feet above it. Trembling, I released my grip, and eased onto terra firma.

  “I’m sorry.” James raised his hands, apologetic. “I got distracted by the kids.” He indicated a mushrooming gaggle of children flowing in from outside. “You okay?”

  I nodded, not trusting my ability to speak. The same thing had distracted me. But still.

  “I haven’t lost a climber yet.” Lame attempt to lighten the mood.

  “I’m fine.” My voice was squeaky, my knees rubber.

  “Ready for another try?”

  “I’m good.” Wiping a shaky hand over my face.

  “You know what they say about getting back on the horse.”

  “I’ve got to go.” Glance at my watch. Five-thirty. I’d never make it to Blythe Hallis by six.

  “You definitely got the hang of it fast. Must have a primo instructor.” James was back to cocky and smiling. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Crazy, but somehow the invite felt threatening. Funny how raging adrenaline distorts one’s perception. “Thanks for the primer.”

  “I’m really sorry,” James apologized again.

  “It’s no big deal,” I assured him.

  “Duty calls?” The reptilian green eyes, measuring. Prying?

  “More like a hungry cat. I’m edging into tuna-or-pay time.”

  James stepped close, morphing from stillness to motion so quickly I had to steel myself not to recoil. Another practiced grin as he unclipped my harness and helped me free. Then we moved toward the lobby.

  “It’s good to push yourself,” James said as we went through the door, his body so close to mine I could smell his sweat and the onions he’d had with his lunch. “It’s not good to push others.”

  What the hell?

  “Bright’s death hurt a lot of people.” Pausing in the narrow hallway, one hand on the lobby door. “So did her life. Dredging up all that baggage will just cause trouble.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He thought a moment. Or appeared to. When he answered his voice sounded different, deeper. “It may have been better if she’d stayed where she was. Nothing good will come of bringing Brighton down off that mountain.”

  With an aggressive shove James pushed through the door. In the lobby he was all sunshine again. “Y’all come back and see us now, hear?”

  “Don’t keep the light on for me.”

  Hurrying out, I felt the small hairs rise on my neck. Cooling sweat? Or the pressure of steady eyes watching my back?

  Chapter 8

  In my dream, I was belly-sliding down a sheer precipice, fingers clawing but catching nothing but air. Below, a hollow-eyed Brighton Hallis was positioning herself to catch me, arms frozen to her sides. Above, two pairs of eyes were peering over the cliff’s edge, one green and one gray, both cold as a grave. A song floated from somewhere far off, blurry and indistinct.

  As I edged into consciousness, the lyrics crystalized into Neil Young singing “Harvest Moon.” From my nightstand. A squint at my iPhone yielded two bits of information. It was damn early. Slidell didn’t care.

  “What’s up, Doc?”

  “Apparently I am.”

  “The freeloader’s back from Russia. I’m meeting him for a chat. Any interest?”

  “Give me fifteen.” I disconnected and rolled out of bed, shoulders suggesting that the previous night’s hot bath had been insufficient to placate overworked muscle groups. I popped two Advil and hurried to get ready.

  Twenty minutes later, I climbed into what normally constituted a rolling biohazard zone. To my shock, Slidell’s Taurus was cleaner than I’d ever seen it. No trash. No fast food reinventing itself as mold. No reeking footwear.

  “Wow. Spiffy floor mats. Someone die in here?”

  “I also got a new eject button, if you have issues.”

  I bit back a retort. Watched a pine tree air freshener do a trapeze act on the crossbar of the rearview mirror. The cloying spruce odor made my nose itch. But it beat the usual stench packing Slidell’s car.

  “Did you reach out to Steele and Reynolds?” I asked.

  “Boris and Natasha? Annoying as boils but harmless, especially him. Don’t see either as the doer.”

  “James says Steele is a nasty piece of work. Timid on the outside, hard as nails at the core.”

  “Motive?”

  “She wanted Reynolds. And she wanted her shot at stardom.”

  Slidell waggled his head, weighing the notion. “I could buy that the little mope could be a sleeper. But it don’t matter. They’re alibied up the wazoo.” Slidell made a left, an impatient gesture toward a pedestrian in the crosswalk. “All three claim they were together. Say they left the summit way before Hallis arrived.”

  I described my encounter with Damon James and the wall. Left out the embarrassing tumble. My hallucinations of menace. “Maybe check James’s finances.”

  “Gee, I never would have thought of that.”

  Nope.

  “I’m seeing him later. And I can assure you, the guy ain’t thrilled. Want to come?” Slidell’s idea of a peace offering?

  I thought of the malignant green eyes. “Thanks. I’ll pass. Did you get the DNA samples?”

  “Already delivered.” Slidell made another turn. We were now in a burgeoning hipster area called Third Ward. “And, while some of us were logging beauty sleep, I also called Catawhatsis.”

  “To the literate, it’s Kathmandu. Capital of Nepal.”

  “Right. I think they use tin cans and string for communication over there. Forty-eleven numbers and hours bouncing around, I finally connected to a constable in Lukla.”

  “You actually phoned?”

  “I like to hear a guy’s voice.”

  Slidell’s skill set does not include the use of computers. He typically leans on subordinates to run prints or enter info into databases. I let it pass. “Lukla is the nearest real town to base cam
p. It’s big enough to have an airport.”

  “It also has a clown named Raj with jurisdiction over Everest. Must be lonely. I thought I’d have a birthday before he’d let me off the phone.”

  “Comparing notes on modern crime?” I could imagine the conversation, felt sympathy for Raj.

  “Aside from what they charge climbers?” Sarcastic snort. “But, yeah. The guy wouldn’t shut up. Sounded mostly like Wild West stuff–prostitution, drugs, petty theft, drunken brawls. Oh, and news flash: A lot of oxygen tanks walk off on their own.”

  “But no murder?”

  “If you don’t count abandoning the lame and disabled to freeze to death.”

  I counted it. Though I’d never been there, I couldn’t imagine walking past a dying human being.

  “So what did you learn?” Other than the deficiencies of Himalayan telecom.

  “I wanted the story straight from the Sherpas who were with Hallis at the end. Not gonna happen. One died of HACE the following year. The other bought it in the avalanche of 2014.”

  “Tough life up there.”

  “And, it would seem, short.”

  “So that leaves only the climbers.”

  “And they’re sticking with their stories.” Slidell turned into a lot fronting a silver dining car that looked like it had chugged straight out of the 1950s. A neon sign proclaimed Mattie’s Diner. “Let’s see what Eee-lon has to say.”

  The restaurant’s retro interior matched its vintage exterior. Stools lined a long counter on one side; red vinyl booths with miniature jukeboxes filled the wall opposite.

  The sole patron was a man sitting alone in a booth. He was small, with scruffy dark curls and black-framed glasses that looked about the same era as the place he’d chosen for breakfast. On seeing us, he raised a hand. We crossed to him.

  “Thanks for coming to ‘my office.’ ” Gass stood to greet us. Up close I could see that his face was dark with stubble. Not the “groomed to look ungroomed” style so fashionable of late. The “I haven’t bothered with a razor in some time” style.

  Slidell and I shook hands with Gass. I slid into the booth and scanned a menu that offered, among other temptations, the Hunka Hunka Burning Toast and the Ya Might Be a Redneck Breakfast Plate. Just what I needed. More artery-clogging Southern fare.