Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(56)

“Crap furnishings and appliances. Canned food in the pantry, cereal and pasta that delighted generations of rodents.”

“With readable expiration dates?”

“A few. The most recent was sometime in 2010.”

“What about the refrigerator?”

“Variations on rot. Bugs, mouse droppings, mold. Looks like the place was occupied for a while, then abandoned.”

“Abandoned when?”

“Old newspapers got tossed into a basket. Burlington Free Press. The most current was from Sunday, March 15, 2009. That and the food dates suggest no one’s been living there for over five years.”

“Did you check light switches? Lamps?”

Ryan slid me a look. “All were turned off except a ceiling fixture in the kitchen and a lamp in one bedroom. Those bulbs were burned out.”

“Were the beds made?”

“One yes, the other one no.”

“Whoever was there last made no effort to close up. You know, clean out the refrigerator, strip the beds, turn off the lights. They just left. Probably at night.”

“Very good.”

“How’d the papers arrive?”

“Not by mail. The post office stopped service because the resident at the address provided no mailbox.”

“When was that?”

“1997. According to Umpie, there’s no home delivery.”

I thought a moment. “Pomerleau did her shopping in or near Burlington.”

“Or at a local store that sold Burlington papers.”

“Any vehicle?”

“An ’86 Ford F-150 was parked in one of the sheds.”

“That’s a truck, right?”

“Yes, Brennan. A half-ton pickup.” Ryan jumped my next question. “Quarter tank of gas in the truck. No plates. Obviously no GPS to check.”

“Obviously. Anything else in that shed?”

“An old tractor and cart.”

“I assume the house had no alarm system.”

“Unless they had a dog.”

“Was there evidence of that?”

Ryan only shook his head. Meaning no? Meaning the question annoyed him?

“There were no close neighbors,” I said to the windshield, the armrest, maybe the air vent. “No one to notice if lights failed to go on and off.”

Ryan cut left to overtake a Budweiser truck. Fast. Too fast.

“Did the house have a phone?” I couldn’t recall seeing wires.

“No.”

“I’m guessing no cable or Wi-Fi.”

No response.

“What about utilities? Gas? Water? Electric?”

“They’re on it.”

“The Corneaus died in 1988. Who paid the taxes after that?”

“They’re on that, too.”

“Do you really think Pomerleau was living there, tapping trees, and keeping a low profile?”

“One bedroom had a collection of books on maple sugar production. All the equipment needed was already on-site.”

“What do the neighbors say?”

“They’re—”

“On it. Why are you being such an ass?”

Ryan’s hands tightened on the wheel. He inhaled deeply. Exhaled through his nose. “We found something else in there.”

“Must have been flesh-eating zombies, the way you’re acting.”

It was worse.





CHAPTER 24


“ME?”

“Yes, Brennan. You.”

“What magazine?” My gut felt like I’d just drunk acid. It wasn’t the McMuffin.

“Health Science.”

“I don’t remember being interviewed—”

“Well, you were.”

“When did the story appear?”

“2008.”

“What was the subj—”

“Only one page was saved. A picture of you measuring a skull in your lab at UNCC.”

A vague recollection. A phone call. A piece profiling changes in physical anthropology over the past five decades. Would I comment on my subspecialty of forensics? Could I share a graphic?

I’d thought the article might dispel Hollywood myths about crime scene glamour and hundred-percent solve rates. Had it been six years?

The heartburn was spreading from my stomach to my chest. I swallowed.

Pomerleau had clipped a photo of me. Had known I lived in Charlotte. Had known since 2008.

Lizzie Nance had died in 2009. Others had followed. Estrada. Leal. Maybe Koseluk and Donovan. ME107-10.

Before I could comment, Ryan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen, clicked on, listened. “Pomerleau.”

The expletive was muted by Ryan’s ear. Questions followed. Ryan responded with mostly one-word answers. “Yes.” “No.” “Undetermined.” “Suspicious.”

“I’ll put you on speaker.” He did, then placed the phone on the dash.

“How’s it going, Doc?” Rodas.

“Hunky-dory.”

“Here’s what we’ve got so far. A canvass of the neighbors took about five seconds, practically no one out there. The couple to the south are both in their eighties. Can’t hear, can’t see. They knew the Corneaus, said they used the place in spring for sugaring, sporadically in summer. Lamented their passing. The husband thought a granddaughter lived there for a while.”