Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(32)

She demanded a full update. I gave a vague overview of developments on my end.

She asked about Ryan. I outdid myself at vague.

When I broached the subject of chemo, my questions were rebuffed. When I asked about Goose, Mama rolled her eyes and flapped a dismissive hand.

Ryan had stayed in Charlotte and reviewed the files he hadn’t tackled on Saturday. Slidell had hit pawnshops in search of Leal’s ring.

I arrived home around nine. Over Ben & Jerry’s chocolate nougat crunch, Ryan filled me in on his day.

He’d focused on the investigation chronologies, the time-ordered outlines of actions taken by detectives and calls and inquiries received from the public. He looked and sounded discouraged. “With Donovan and Koseluk, there was little to review. Within weeks of each disappearance, nothing was happening and no one was calling. I gave up on those.”

Other bodies hit the morgue. The cops moved on. I didn’t say it.

“With Estrada, the investigation was more thorough. Interviews were conducted in Salisbury and Anson County—registered sex offenders, friends and family, teachers, the campground owners, residents along the highway.”

He could have been talking about Nance or Gower. About the investigation of any murdered child. I didn’t say that, either.

“A few interviews triggered follow-ups. None yielded a serious suspect.”

“Everyone had an alibi?”

Ryan nodded. “There was the usual flurry of phone tips following the discovery of Estrada’s body. A sporting goods store owner was accused, a kid who drove his Harley too loud and too fast, a farmer who shot his collie.”

“Bike hater, dog lover.”

“You’ve got it. The calls thinned, stopped within a month.”

“There was the scandal, then the lead detective retired. Hull ultimately inherited the file,” I said.

“The final call came from a reporter at the Salisbury Post. She phoned six months after Estrada disappeared.”

“And that was it.”

Ryan set down his bowl and spoon. Patted his chest. Remembered where he was and dropped his hands.

“It’s okay to smoke.” It wasn’t. I hate the smell of cigarettes in my house.

“Uh-huh.” A corner of his mouth twisted up ever so slightly. A few moments passed before Ryan spoke again. “It wasn’t that the cops didn’t want to solve these cases. They had nothing to go with. There was no ex-con working at a kid’s home, no psycho teacher, no parent with a history of violence. The vics were too young to have angry boyfriends. Donovan was high-risk, but not the others.”

“And Donovan and Estrada weren’t the type the media bothers to cover.” I couldn’t help but sound bitter.

“When the bodies turned up, there were no witnesses or forensics.”

“Nothing to suggest a suspect.”

“Until Rodas got a DNA hit.”

I flashed on a dark figure darting through flames with a five-gallon can in her hands. The memory brought with it the smell of kerosene and my own burning hair. The terror of waking in a house that was burning down around me. Anger grabbed me like a muscle cramp. “Pomerleau despises me,” I said.

“She hates us both.”

“It’s because of me that she’s here.” I knew it was melodramatic, said it anyway. “I let her escape. She wants to remind me, to taunt me.”

“We all let her escape.”

“It’s because we failed that children are dead. That another may die soon.”

Two stormy blue eyes locked on to mine. “This time the moth has flown too close to the flame.”

“She. Will. Burn.”

Silly, but we smacked a high five.

The next morning our confidence was blown to hell.





CHAPTER 14


MY BEDROOM WINDOW overlooks the patio. When I opened the shutters the next morning, I saw Ryan below on one of the wrought-iron benches. He was sitting forward, elbows on knees. I figured he was smoking. As I watched, Ryan’s head dropped, and his shoulders began rising and falling in jagged little hops.

I felt my insides sucked out. I also felt like a voyeur, and quickly withdrew.

After a hasty morning toilette, I dressed and hurried down to the kitchen.

Coffee was perking. Birdie was eating. The TV was running with the sound on mute.

I glanced at the screen. An anchor with flawless hair and unnaturally white teeth was talking beside footage of a jackknifed truck, projecting a well-rehearsed mix of shock and concern.

I was eating yogurt and granola when the back door opened. I looked up from the morning’s Observer. Ryan seemed composed, though a red puffiness in the eyes gave him away.

“Good brew.” I raised my mug.

Ryan joined me at the table.

“You saw?” I displayed the headline. Below the fold, but still front-page. No Arrest in Shelly Leal Murder.

“Slidell will be livid,” Ryan said.

“The article makes it sound like Tinker and the SBI are driving the train.”

“Do you know this”—Ryan squinted to read the byline—“Leighton Siler?”

“No. He must be new on the crime beat.” I cocked my chin toward Miss Hair and Dentition. “Any TV coverage?”

“Daisy would disapprove of the vulgarity.”