Bones of the Lost Page 9

  Next I responded to an invitation to the upcoming meeting of FASE, the Forensic Anthropology Society of Europe. Sounded great, but who had the time?

  Enough paperwork.

  Bunching my PowerBar wrapper, I shifted to the small autopsy room to undertake a more detailed examination of the mummy-bundle X-rays. I was on pooch three when the phone rang.

  “Your special agent is back.” Mrs. Flowers was speaking with lips close, hand cupping the receiver. “Shall I send him to you?”

  What the hell? Dew had been gone little more than two hours.

  “Yes, please.”

  Dew and I reached my office door at the same time. Again I noticed that, despite his size, the man’s every move was executed with grace and efficiency.

  I dropped behind my desk and gestured to the chair opposite. With Dew again in it, the thing looked as if it had been designed for toddlers.

  “Long see, no time.”

  Dew either missed or chose not to acknowledge my joke.

  “I have information that might be of interest to you.”

  “About my Jane Doe?”

  “About Dominick Rockett.”

  “The somewhat less than legal importer.”

  Still not the slightest hint of a smile.

  “Dr. Brennan, you are an accomplished professional. In our very brief encounters I have sensed that you care deeply about your work. More importantly, I believe you are a moral and honorable person. Opening the mummy bundles would have made your job infinitely simpler. Yet you chose not to. I respect you for that. And I trust you.”

  Straight Capote, effeminate and proper.

  “I feel duty-bound to share certain knowledge that I withheld during our previous conversations.”

  Dew shifted as if to lean back. Changed his mind, accurately distrusting the carrying capacity of the chair.

  “In the course of our investigation we have discovered that Mr. Rockett has holdings in a company called S&S Enterprises. Since S&S is a privately held entity, little information is publicly available about its structure, activities, or shareholders.”

  “What does S&S do?”

  “The interesting thing is not what the company does. What has caught our attention is the size of Mr. Rockett’s holdings. Based on what we’ve ascertained thus far, it seems his interest totals upwards of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Pretty big bucks.”

  “As we discussed earlier, Mr. Rockett’s officially reported earnings are modest.”

  “Money from his military pension and his import business.”

  Dew nodded. “Thus, we must question the source of income allowing such a substantial position.”

  “ICE thinks the guy’s dirty.”

  Dew continued as though I hadn’t spoken.

  “There is another fact my colleagues and I find intriguing. Another reason I feel I should take you more fully into our confidence.”

  Dew looked down at his hands, which lay motionless in his lap. Back up at me.

  “Until recently, one of the owners of S&S Enterprises was a local entrepreneur named John-Henry Story. I believe this is a person with whom you are familiar?”

  “The John-Henry Story who died in a fire last April?”

  “I am told you identified Mr. Story’s remains?”

  I nodded, too shocked to answer.

  Shocked but pleased. It was the link that could bring ICE on board.

  “I also have something to share,” I said. “You recall the girl you viewed in the cooler?”

  Dew’s oddly lavender eyes narrowed.

  “The kid run down and left to die?”

  Dew started to speak. I raised a silencing palm.

  “When found, that kid had John-Henry Story’s airline club card in her purse.”

  Dew straightened a cuff but said nothing.

  “Are you hearing me, Agent Dew? Dominick Rockett, your suspected smuggler, was involved in S&S Enterprises. S&S Enterprises was owned, at least in part, by John-Henry Story. My Jane Doe was carrying Story’s plastic when she died.”

  Dew’s face remained unreadable.

  “Surely it would be useful to your investigation to know who this girl is.”

  “Does your detective—” Dew rotated one enormous pink hand.

  “Slidell.”

  “Is Detective Slidell not convinced this youngster was a prostitute?”

  “I fail to see the relevance of that.”

  “There could be many explanations for this coincidence you describe, none having to do with Dominick Rockett.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence.” Cool.

  Dew waited a very long time before answering.

  “As I’ve explained, my mandate is to investigate the illicit importation and distribution of cultural property.” Ever so patient. “At present our focus is on Dominick Rockett’s financial status as it relates to his potential culpability in such activities. Should it turn out that your victim was somehow connected, I will, of course, reconsider. But an airport lounge card in the purse of a suspected prostitute?”

  Dew tipped his head and raised his brows. Seriously?

  I fought the urge to kick his prissy but substantial derriere out of my office. Instead I smiled.

  “Is there someone else who might—”

  “At the moment we are woefully understaffed.” Dew rose. “For now, regretfully, your girl’s case must remain with local authorities.”

  My roommate was in the kitchen when I came through the door.

  “Hey, Bird.”

  The cat sat, curled his tail around his legs, and regarded me with round yellow eyes.

  I dropped my briefcase, squatted, and stroked his head.

  He stood and arched his back. Looking hopeful? Expectant? Maybe just hungry.

  More guilt. I’d yet to buy cat food.

  Why hadn’t I stopped at a supermarket? At least a convenience store?

  Now I would pay the price for obsessing with work and ignoring household.

  The cat, not so much.

  Knowing the refrigerator was a dead zone, I went to the pantry. Birdie nosed through the crack as the door swung open. Placing his forepaws on the bottom shelf, he stretched to his full bipedal height and sniffed.

  Right. Instant grits it is. With the remaining tuna.

  Watching the cat devour his second supper of porridge à la mer, I had to smile. After two frustrating days, it was nice to please someone.

  Quick check of my house phone. No messages.

  Quick check of the produce bins. One three-pack of romaine lettuce going brown. Four shriveled carrots. A cucumber the consistency of Play-Doh.

  The shelves held orange juice, Diet Cokes, plum preserves, olives, condiments, and a carton of milk ten days past its sell-by date.

  The freezer offered one frost-covered burrito and a chicken potpie.

  While the potpie heated, I logged in to Gmail.

  Nothing from Katy.

  Relax. She’s fine. No news is good news.

  Nothing from Ryan.

  Why hadn’t Katy contacted me? E-mail? Text? She knew I’d be crazy with worry. Daily communication wasn’t possible, but she’d been so good. And she’d never failed to Skype at a prearranged time.

  Gran’s clock bonged eight. Though tired and anxious, I forced myself to stay busy.

  The rest of the e-mails were either ads or matters of no urgency.

  I ate the pie, which was heavy on legumes and light on poultry. Washed the cat dish. Paid a few bills. Watched an episode of Boardwalk Empire with Birdie purring in my lap.

  Fought the urge to check Gmail every ten minutes.

  At ten I showered and hit the sack.

  Sleep? Who was I kidding?

  No toe testing or tentative wading. My brain dove straight into a whirlpool of anxiety.

  Who was the dead girl? Why was she out with no identification or keys in the middle of the night? Had someone removed the contents of her purse?

  Why lift
her ID but leave John-Henry Story’s club card?

  That one I could answer. The card was in the purse’s lining. But why? Was the girl hiding it? Did someone take her ID but miss Story’s card? Her killer?

  What value could an airport lounge card have? It was not a credit card.

  Story had been dead six months. Slidell said the card hadn’t been used in that time. Couldn’t be used without Story.

  Another possibility broke through.

  Could John-Henry Story still be alive? If so, had he faked his own death? To gain what?

  And. More disturbing. If Story hadn’t died in that warehouse, whose bones had I examined?

  I turned on the light and checked my phone for an e-mail or text from Katy.

  Shit.

  Lights out.

  Neurons in gear.

  John-Henry Story was fifty-one when he died. My Jane Doe was maybe fifteen. Had Story asked the girl to travel with him? For him? Where? For what reason?

  The gray cells offered no hypotheses.

  Somehow Story’s card went from his possession to the girl’s purse.

  The pink purse lying in the dirt by her body.

  I pictured a deserted road, a sloping shoulder, headlights slashing the post-midnight darkness.

  And had another thought.

  Was John-Henry Story connected to the hit and run?

  Had he been the driver?

  Whoa. Now that was a stretch.

  A stretch based on zilch. Pure dream sequence. Nothing scientific about it. Even if Story had staged his own death, the fire was in April, long before the girl’s murder.

  Giving up on sleep, I threw back the covers and descended to the kitchen. Birdie padded along, confused but willing.

  I heated a cup of water, dipped a peppermint tea bag, then poured the last of the milk into a saucer. Birdie lapped, unconcerned that his snack was a bit past its prime.

  As I sipped tea, my thoughts took another route.

  Dominick Rockett, the former soldier with the mutilated face. The importer caught with illegal antiquities. The investor in a company owned by John-Henry Story.

  Where did Rockett get the funds to buy in to S&S Enterprises? Why that company? When? Before Story’s death? Supposed death? Was Story a factor in Rockett’s decision to invest?

  Another coincidence?

  Right.

  Did Dominick Rockett know John-Henry Story? Work for him? With him? Doing what?

  Was Rockett involved in the hit-and-run killing?

  Suddenly the room felt chilly.

  October. Winter really was coming. Soon it would be time to turn on the heat.

  Placing my mug in the sink, I returned to the bedroom, my feline companion right at my heels.

  I tucked under the covers, killed the light, and closed my eyes. Tried to clear my thoughts.

  No Dominick Rockett. No John-Henry Story. No Jane Doe.

  My higher centers began another loop.

  The afternoon’s call.

  Who was the woman on the phone?

  Assuming the call was legit, what had frightened the dead girl?

  Was the caller also afraid of this person?

  Birdie leapt up, circled, and nestled into the crook of my knee. I ran my hand down his back, grateful for his unquestioning loyalty.

  Flashbulb image. Charred fragments. So fragile I’d had to spray them with polyurethane before attempting to tease them from the ashy matrix in which they were embedded.

  John-Henry Story?

  If so, what was Story doing in that barn so late at night? Was he that hands-on involved in the business? Was he having financial difficulties? If so, might he have torched the place? Accelerants flame fast. Did he miscalculate and find himself trapped? But the arson investigators wouldn’t have missed that. There would have been evidence of accelerants, containers.

  I pictured a figure backlit by fire and smoke. Panicky movements. Flames catching his clothes, his hair, his skin.

  If Story didn’t die in that blaze, who did? A worker? A vagrant, asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Round and round.

  Questions leading to more questions.

  No answers.

  And where the hell was Katy!

  I AWOKE TO rain bucketing down outside my window. And a feeling I’d slept too late.

  Yep. My clock radio said 8:42.

  Eyes half open, I snagged my iPhone and scanned overnight e-mails.

  No update from Katy.

  Quick calculation. Midafternoon in Bagram. She’d be busy.

  Knowing I should wait, I sent a message.

  “Please check in. Mom.”

  Nothing from Ryan.

  My sister Harry had fired off a foursome, the first landing at 2:42 A.M. The others had followed at five-minute intervals.

  I speed-read to get a sense of the new crisis.

  For a chuckle, I sometimes visit the website First World Problems. The contents are Harry’s life in microcosm. The Angsts of Harriet Brennan Howard Dawood Crone. Though I think she dropped Crone when she divorced husband number three. Or was he two?

  New acquaintances are often shocked to learn that Harry and I are siblings. But despite our differences, which are epic, my sister and I share one fundamental trait. She is wired with the same bulldog drive that got me through college, grad school, and decades in a demanding and often heartrending profession.

  What differs between us is the focus of our passion. For me it’s the search for truth, recognition, and justice for the dead.

  For Harry it’s shopping. Shoes. Shades. Houses. Husbands. Deep down, I think the acquisition itself is irrelevant to my sister. What matters is the hunt.

  Over the years I’ve pondered why Harry is the way she is. Why I’m the way I am. Clichéd as it seems, I’ve come to believe that our mother owns a big piece of the blame.

  Looking back, I realize Mama swung on a pendulum beyond her control, one that moved her between wild elation and soul-bleeding depression. With each upswing, she’d take joy in wearing the latest fashion, knowing the right people, seeing and being seen at all the best parties, concerts, and restaurants. With the plunge would come tears, withdrawal, the closed bedroom door. Having achieved all she’d sought, Mama wouldn’t give a damn.

  My mother’s moods bewildered me as a child. As an adult, I still don’t fully understand.

  And I worry there are hints of Mama’s demons in my sister.

  I’ve never discussed my personal issues with Harry. A battle with the bottle. A failed marriage. A daughter who’d volunteered for combat without asking my advice. A long-distance relationship with a man I couldn’t get on the phone. Given my record, I was hardly in a position to counsel others.

  I did listen, however. But this morning Harry would have to wait.

  Wrong. The phone rang as I was heading for the back door.

  “How’re those styling stilettos we scored?”

  “I wore them to court.” Then threw them out.

  “Bet you wowed the lovin’ shorts off that jury.”

  “Mm. Listen, Harry. I’ve got to get to work—”

  Undeterred, baby sister launched into a tale of woe involving a broken pool pump, algae, and back-ordered parts. Barely pausing to draw breath, she segued into a rant about a guy named Thorny.

  “I thought you were dating an astronaut.” Orange Curtain. First time I saw the name I assumed it was a typo. “Or a guy named Bruce.”

  “Orange had the brains of a budgie. Wait. That’s being unfair to birds.”

  Shoulder-cradling the phone, I slipped outside and turned to lock the door. Bad move. The thing popped free and dropped to the stoop.

  “—merchandise right there in my living room. What makes men so bloody proud of their genitals?”

  “So Orange is out.”

  “Seven carats wouldn’t get that bonehead back through my door.”

  “Have you made plans to visit Tory?”

  Silence greeted my question. />
  The previous summer, Harry had learned that her son, Kit, had a now-teenage daughter, conceived when he was just sixteen. And I’d learned that I had a grandniece. Father and daughter now lived together in Charleston, South Carolina. Harry hadn’t taken the news of grand-parenthood well.

  “Harry?”

  “Remember what an assclown Kit was in high school? How the hell’s he going to parent a fourteen-year-old girl?”

  “I’m sure he’s matured. And Tory’s a bright kid.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “You’re her grandmother.”

  “You’ve said that, too.”

  At the MCME, my phone was flashing like a strobe on speed.

  I punched the code for my mailbox, thinking Slidell.

  I got Capote.

  Dr. Brennan. Could we please speak at your earliest convenience?

  I’d felt upbeat following my conversation with Harry. Calm.

  That tranquillity popped like a bubble in sunlight.

  Why this negative reaction to Dew? Federal agents are renowned for their disdain of local law enforcement. But he’d exhibited no condescension toward me.

  Yes, Dew had withheld information. Yes, he’d refused to help with my Jane Doe. But I believed he truly felt he was doing his job.

  So why did I distrust the guy?

  Did I suspect he was playing me?

  Because I’d tried to play him?

  I dialed the ICE office, asked for Dew, was placed on hold by a weary-sounding receptionist.

  A full minute later, Dew answered.

  “I’m very sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor Brennan.”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  “S&S Enterprises.”

  “The privately held company.”

  “I hate a closed door.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “This one wasn’t locked as tightly as the partners might have wished.”

  I waited.

  “The entity is a holding company for a number of properties and other holding companies. Fast-food restaurants. Convenience stores. A bar called John-Henry’s Tavern.”

  I heard paper rustle, then Dew continued in his prissy, high voice.

  “S&S is owned in large part by John-Henry Story and his younger brother, Archer Story. Lesser partners include Harold Millkin, Grover Pharr, and Dominick Rockett.”

  “So Rockett was one of a handful of players holding pretty big cards.”