Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(48)

“Ryan and I took it to mean she believes Anique is in the cimetière Saint-Jean-Baptiste, where Marie-Jo?lle Bastien is buried.”

“Another of Pomerleau’s victims.”

“Yes. But thinking back, it’s possible she also said Jean, in English. That we misunderstood her completely.”

Rodas got it immediately. “Saint John. Buried. St. Johnsbury. The home in St. Johnsbury, Vermont.”

“It’s a long shot, I know. But if there’s other family property there registered in the name Corneau—”

“I never would have made that connection.”

“Anique might have learned of the property from Menard. Perhaps they discussed it as a safe house. Or a meeting-up point.”

“Vermont is a bump down the road from Quebec.”

A ping dragged me up from a miles-deep sleep. Another followed. Groggy, I thought my house alarm was announcing a burglar or fire.

Then recognition. I reached for my iPhone.

The text was maddeningly short: You were right. En route now. Will call with updates. UR

I sat up, fully awake. What the hell? Had Rodas found a place deeded to the proper Corneaus? Was he on his way there? Where?

The room was dim. The bedside clock said 8:42. Christ. Had I really slept that late?

Jamming a pillow behind my back, I punched a speed-dial entry.

My call was answered quickly. “Ryan.”

I started to tell him about my theory. About Rodas.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“He phoned.”

“When?”

“An hour ago. Not bad, Brennan.”

I felt a rush of irritation. Said nothing.

“Where is he?”

“Driving to the location.”

“What location?”

“You nailed it. The Corneaus own ten acres with a house and outbuildings a bit south of St. Johnsbury. It’s about twenty miles from the farm where Menard holed up before moving to Montreal.”

“Rodas couldn’t have waited?”

“He thought it wise to have a look.”

“He has backup?”

“He’s been a cop for a very long time.” A note of condescension?

“Did he take a CSS team?” I knew that was stupid. Asked anyway.

“It’s a bit premature for that.”

“What’s his plan?”

“Observe. See if anyone’s living there.”

“He couldn’t determine that before heading out?” Sharp.

“Rodas has someone running a search. Tax records. Phone and utility bills. You know the drill.”

I did. “How long is the drive to St. Johnsbury for him?”

“He estimated forty minutes.”

I looked at the clock. It was now 8:57. “If it’s been an hour since you spoke, why hasn’t he called?”

“Probably nothing to report.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Wait.”

“Fine. I’ll wait. While you and Rodas bust your asses protecting and serving.”

With that clever retort, I clicked off and tossed the phone.

I knew my peevishness was juvenile. I needed to vent, and Ryan had taken the hit. But Rodas had left me out of the loop. So had Ryan. Not even a text from him. I was furious.

Throwing back the covers, I shoved to my feet. Yanked on sweats. Stomped to the bathroom and brushed my teeth.

9:08.

Into the kitchen for a bagel and coffee. Dining room table. Back to the bed for my mobile. Back to the table.

Out the French doors, the sky was the color of old nickels. The shrubs in the courtyard looked dark and droopy, as though dispirited by the prospect of sleet or snow.

At 9:29 the phone rang. I knocked over my coffee snatching it up. Grabbed a towel from the kitchen as I answered.

Slidell was talking before I could say my name. “Pastori’s getting some of Leal’s browser history.” He took my nonresponse as puzzlement over the name. “Pastori’s the computer geek.”

“I know who he is.”

“Whoa. We got a bug up our ass today?”

“What is Pastori finding?” Diverting a brown tentacle coursing toward the edge of the table.

“I’ll spare you the bullshit about URLs and partial URLs and embedded sites, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line, it don’t seem like much.”

I heard a wet sound as Slidell thumbed his tongue, flipped a page, went on. “No shopping trips to eBay, Amazon, that kind of thing.”

“Not surprising. Shelly Leal was thirteen years old.”

“She visited some game sites let kids play dress-up with cartoon characters. You know. Put Barbie in a tube top and braid her hair.”

I held the phone with my shoulder as I lifted and blotted.

“There was a site lets kids create aviators for moving around virtual worlds.”

Knowing Slidell hadn’t a clue about avatars, I didn’t bother to correct him.

“What the hell’s a virtual world? That some kinda make-believe where everyone’s good?”

“That would be virtuous. What about chat rooms?”

“The kid didn’t hit porn sites, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You know it isn’t.” Wiping off the chair seat.