Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(44)

“May we talk inside?” Ryan asked.

“Of course. Please,” Bernadette said.

Jake stepped back, his expression unchanged. As we passed, he lingered to close the door.

Bernadette led us down a wide hall and turned right through an archway into a small living room with a bay window in front and a fireplace at the far end. The decor was not what I’d visualized.

Every wall was white, and off-white plush carpeting covered the floor. The sofa and armchairs were upholstered in ivory cotton trimmed with pale piping. The room’s only color came from throw pillows and paintings. Both featured bright geometric designs.

Bronze sculptures of indeterminate form covered the mantel. A reindeer skin lay in front of the hearth.

The end and coffee tables were made of glass and antique brass. A sole photo sat on one. Its frame was mother-of-pearl edged with silver, the quality much higher than that of the image it housed. The picture was grainy, maybe taken with a cellphone or inexpensive camera, then blown up beyond what the pixels could handle.

The subject was a tall young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, on a boat with a harbor or bay behind her. She was wearing a turtleneck and jacket, a bead necklace with some sort of pendant. The wind was lifting the jacket’s collar and blowing her long dark hair across her face. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t look sad. She was pretty in a disturbingly detached sort of way.

Her face was more fleshy, her breasts fuller, than when I’d last seen her. But I knew I was looking at Tawny McGee.

Ryan and I did our usual and sat on opposite ends of the couch. Bernadette took an armchair, fingers clasped like red-tipped claws in her lap. Jake remained standing, arms folded across his chest.

“May I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” Bernadette’s offer sounded rote, insincere.

“No, thank you,” Ryan and I answered in unison.

A cat appeared in the doorway, gray with black stripes and yellow-green eyes. A notch in one ear. A scar on one shoulder. A scrapper.

Bernadette noticed. “Oh, no, no, Murray. Shoo.”

The cat held.

Bernadette started to push to her feet.

“Please let him stay,” I said.

“Get him out of here,” Jake said.

“I own a cat.” I smiled. “His name is Birdie.”

Bernadette looked at Jake. He shrugged but said nothing.

Murray regarded us a moment, then sat, shot a leg, and began cleaning his toes. Something was off with his upper left canine. I liked this cat.

Bernadette settled back, spine stiff, neck muscles standing out sinewy-hard. She glanced from Ryan to me, back to Ryan. Hopeful we had news. Frightened we had news.

I understood that yesterday’s call was undoubtedly a shock after so many years. But the woman’s anxiety seemed out of proportion. The shaking hands. The terrified eyes. I didn’t like what I was sensing.

“Your home is beautiful,” I said, wanting to reassure.

“Tawny likes things bright.”

“Is this Tawny?” Gesturing at the woman framed in mother-of-pearl.

The parakeet eyes looked at me oddly. Then, “Yes.”

“She’s grown into a beautiful young woman.”

“You’re sure about the cat?”

“I’m sure. Do you have other pictures?”

“Tawny hated being photographed.”

As with the Violettes, Ryan allowed silence, hoping one or the other Kezerian might feel compelled to fill it. Neither did.

Murray switched legs. Behind him, through a matching archway across the hall, I noted a dining room of identical footage with an identical bay window. The table was glass. The chairs were molded white acrylic and made me think of the Jetsons.

When Bernadette spoke, her words were not what I expected. So far, nothing was. “Is she dead?”

“We have no reason to think that.” Ryan indicated no surprise at the question.

Bernadette’s shoulders rounded slightly as her expression melted. Into what? Relief? Disappointment? I really couldn’t read her.

Jake spread his feet. Frowned his frown.

“But we have new information,” Ryan said.

“You’ve found her?”

“We haven’t determined her exact location. Yet.”

Bernadette’s knuckles blanched as her fingers tightened again.

Ryan leaned toward her. “I promise you, Mrs. Kezerian. We are closing in.”

“Closing in?” Jake snorted. “You make it sound like the play-offs.”

“I apologize for my poor choice of words.”

It struck me. Unlike the Violettes, the Kezerians were asking no questions about the nature of the “new information.” Or about Pomerleau’s movements over the last decade.

Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. Again crossed his arms. “If you have nothing to tell us, why are you here?”

“We were hoping Tawny might agree to an interview.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath. Looked at Bernadette. Her face had gone as white as the walls around us.

In my peripheral vision, Jake’s arms dropped to his sides. I ignored him and focused on his wife. Bernadette was trying to speak but managing only to swallow and clear her throat.

I reached out and took her hands in mine. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I thought you’d come to tell me you’d located Tawny.” More swallowing. “One way or the other.”