Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(66)

Had he brought his perverse delusions south? Why North Carolina? Was I the draw? Why?

Was he following Pomerleau’s pattern of kidnapping on the anniversaries of previous abductions? Why continue the legacy without her?

Would he strike again soon?

I awoke to bright sunlight. Made coffee and went to bring in the paper.

Blown leaves dotted the patio bricks. The sky was blue. The trees were alive with the businesslike twitter of mockingbirds and cardinals.

I’d just filled my mug when my mobile sounded. At first I didn’t recognize the caller ID. Then I did.

“Hope I didn’t rouse you.” Something in Hen Hull’s voice kicked my pulse up a notch.

“Awake for hours,” I lied.

“Took some doing, but I got it,” Hull said. “Ready?”

I grabbed pen and paper from the counter. “Shoot.” She read off a number, and I wrote it down. “Can you trace—?”

“Ready?”

“Shoot.”

“The call to Bellamy inquiring about the Estrada case came from a pay phone near the intersection of Fifth and North Caswell in your fair city. I thought mobiles had put pay phones up there with the horse and buggy. That and vandalism.”

“The line might be long gone.”

“Or the booth could be a toilet stall.”

I thought a moment. “Even if the phone exists, and there’s video surveillance on that corner, there’s no chance footage would still be around.”

“Not after two years.”

The number was another dead end. I wanted to scream in frustration. “You think the caller was Estrada’s abductor?”

“It wasn’t a journalist at the Post.”

“Any word on the hair?” I asked.

“The autopsy was done by a guy named Bullsbridge. I’m waiting for a callback.”

“Is he competent?”

“I’m waiting for a callback.”

“I’ll brief Slidell,” I said.

“Keep in touch.”

I disconnected. Redialed. The line was busy.

I left a message. The device was still in my hand when Slidell phoned back.

“I got—”

“Hull got—”

We both stopped.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“I got the number of the call on Colleen Donovan. From Tasat’s phone.”

I read off the digits I’d written down.

“Where the hell’d you get that?”

I told him about the caller claiming to be a journalist at the Salisbury Post.

“Same phone. I’ll be goddamned.”

“Undoubtedly the same person. A solid link between Estrada and Donovan.”

“Still don’t tie ’em to Gower and Nance. Or those two to the others.”

“Jesus, Slidell. What do you need?”

“I’m advocating the devil.”

I was too amped to point out that he was garbling the metaphor.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now I get my nuts handed to me by the DC.”

“You’ve asked for another meeting with Salter?”

“No. Special Asshole Tinker has.”

“Why?”

“He’s got issues with my attitude.”

“Tell Salter about the calls.”

“Eeyuh.”

I tried Ryan. Got voicemail. Rodas. Barrow. Voicemail. Voicemail.

My pulse was humming. I couldn’t sit still.

I changed my ringtone. Did a load of laundry. Ran the vacuum. Put eggs on to boil. Forgot them until the smell of burning shells made me race to the kitchen.

At noon I pulled on gym shorts, a sweatshirt, and Nikes and pounded out two miles on the booty loop. Breathing hard, I inhaled a mixture of wet cement and rain-soaked grass and leaves. Of sun-warmed metal from the cars lining the curbs.

When I finished, students were streaming between the buildings at Queens University. As I walked the last block back to Sharon Hall, the air felt cool on my sweat-slicked skin.

At home, I checked my mobile and landline. No one had called. I wondered if Slidell was still in his meeting with Salter. Or if he’d left it too peeved to bother with me.

I showered and changed into jeans and a sweater. Continuing to feel agitated, I pulled out the copy I’d made of the Nance file.

What was the definition of insanity? Repeating the same action and expecting different results?

Knowing it was futile but needing to do something, I began going through every entry again. Photos. CSS and ME reports. Interview summaries. As with the files in Montreal, the exercise felt like a faded letter from another time.

But today there was an added element. Something nagging at the periphery of my thoughts. Something that refused to come into focus.

Was my subconscious noting a detail that I was missing?

At three I tried Slidell again. With the same result. I thought about calling Tinker. Didn’t, knowing Skinny would rip the skin off my face.

Harry called at four. Should she send Mama flowers? Should she come for a visit? For now, I endorsed FTD.

A cup of Earl Grey, then back to the file.

Still my subconscious tickled. What? A photo? Something I’d read? Something Ring had said? Hull?

At five I gave up.