Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(65)

I spent another hour going over photos from the Gower, Nance, Estrada, and Leal scenes. Scrutinizing faces with a handheld magnifier. Comparing features, body shapes, clothing, silhouettes. It was no good. The vessels in my head were trying to blast through my skull. Someone with superior skills and equipment would have to do it.

At ten I packed up and headed home. I’d just pulled in at the annex when my mobile launched into “Joy to the World.” I’d switched the ringtone to try to be festive.

The number was blocked. I hesitated a moment, then clicked on. “Brennan.” Shifting into park.

“It’s Latoya Ring. I’ve just spoken with Hen Hull.”

“Thanks for returning my call.”

“No one here at the Post phoned the sheriff.”

I felt an electric shock fire through my body. “You’re certain?”

“We’re not The New York Times. Only two of us cover the crime beat. He didn’t call, I didn’t call.”

Across the yard, something rippled the tangle of shadows thrown by an enormous magnolia. A dog? A late-night walker? Or did I imagine it?

“And I phoned my editor just to make sure,” Ring continued. “A move that will not contribute to my being named employee of the month. He green-lighted no follow-up on Estrada.”

“You’re certain of that?” Straining to see through the dark.

“The assignment would have fallen to me. I’d asked several times. Was repeatedly told no.”

“Why?”

“There was no point. The cops had zip—no suspects, no leads. The mother wasn’t even in the country by then.”

Tia Estrada wasn’t a blue-eyed darling with Shirley Temple curls.

“Thanks for jumping on this,” I said.

There. Was that movement just past the coach house? A deer?

“The whole thing stinks.”

I waited for Ring to elaborate.

“Some bastard murdered this kid. Then the system let her fall through the cracks.”

“We’ll get him,” I said, squinting into the thick vegetation surrounding my car.

“Take care.”

I sat a moment, mildly uneasy. Then got out and scurried to the annex.

I was in bed in seconds.

Unconscious in minutes.

Unaware of what I’d set in motion.





CHAPTER 28


THAT WEEKEND IT rained in Charlotte, not hard but constantly. At times a mist, at times ramping up to a halfhearted drizzle. A cold dampness saturated the air, and water dripped from the eaves and off the broad green leaves of the magnolias outside.

On Saturday, Mary Louise dropped by to see Birdie. That day’s hat was a striped bucket affair with a tassel on top.

Maybe I was lonely for Ryan. Maybe just lonely. Or maybe I was avoiding a stack of reports that needed my attention. Hell, maybe it was the weather. I surprised myself by asking Mary Louise to stay for lunch.

After gaining parental clearance, we made and ate ham and cheese sandwiches. Then we baked cookies and decorated them with M&M’s. Mary Louise talked about her desire for a dog. Her problems with math. Her love of Katniss. Her goal of becoming a fashion designer. The kid was good company.

On Sunday I drove up to see Mama. At higher elevations, the precipitation hovered on the brink of snow. We sat by the fireplace, watching soggy flakes dissolve into puddles on the deck.

Mama seemed tired, distracted. She asked only once about the “poor lost angels,” drifted through other topics, as though she’d forgotten or lost interest in what had energized her less than two weeks earlier.

Mama’s stance on chemotherapy hadn’t softened. When I broached the subject, she shut me down. The only spark she showed all day.

On my way out, I conferred with Dr. Finch. She urged acceptance. I asked how long. She refused to speculate. Inquired what hospital I preferred should the time come when Heatherhill was no longer adequate. As before, her eyes said more than her words.

Once in the car, I phoned Harry. She refused to acknowledge the inevitable. Talked only of new therapies, miracle cures, a woman in Ecuador who had lived a decade following diagnosis. Classic baby sister.

After disconnecting, I let the tears flow. Riding the salty gush, I focused on my headlights arrowing through the dark.

The trip down the mountain seemed endless. The slushy snow triggered thoughts of my trip from St. Johnsbury to Burlington. I almost welcomed them. But not the horrendous collage that followed in their wake.

A pale body floating in amber liquid. A small bloated corpse on a stainless steel table. Adolescent bones stored in a box on a shelf.

That night the same images kept me awake. When sleep finally came, they invaded my dreams.

Nellie Gower on the edge of a quarry. Lizzie Nance in a field at Latta Plantation. Tia Estrada beside a gazebo at a campground. Shelly Leal under a highway overpass.

Facts. Leading to questions. Which looped into more questions. Never to answers.

Anique Pomerleau hadn’t acted alone in Montreal. Her MO had involved an accomplice.

Pomerleau’s second killing season had begun at a farm in Vermont. Her DNA was found on a victim there, on another in Charlotte.

DNA from a lip print said the current doer in Charlotte was male. That fit the theory that Pomerleau had a killing partner.

But Pomerleau was dead. Had her accomplice taken her off the board? Why? When?