Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(7)

I said nothing.

“He ever talk about favorite getaways? Places he wanted to visit? Places he’d gone on vacation?”

“Ryan is not the vacationing type.”

“The guy has quite a reputation.” Rodas grinned. “Way they parlez-vous up there, he’s cleared every homicide since the Black Dahlia.”

“Elizabeth Short was killed in L.A.”

The burn of embarrassment also colored Rodas’s cheeks. Or something did.

“Ryan worked Pomerleau,” Barrow said. “We could really use his input.”

“Good luck.” Testy, but I don’t respond well to pressure.

“LaManche had the impression that you and Ryan were close.”

I managed to curb my impulse to get up and leave.

“Sorry. That came out wrong.”

No, Detective Rodas, that came out right. Ryan and I share more than murder. We share memories, affection. We once shared a bed.

“What I meant was, LaManche thought if anyone could find Ryan, it would be you.”

“Bring him in from the cold?”

“Yeah.”

“That only happens in books.”

Original files never leave the CCU squad room. After telling Slidell, Barrow, and Rodas everything I could remember about Anique Pomerleau, I set about photocopying the contents of the plastic tub.

Slidell went to take a call. He never came back.

Shortly before one, my mobile rang. Tim Larabee wanted me to examine remains found in the trunk of a Subaru at an auto salvage yard.

My head felt like lead, my throat like hot gravel. And I was about to pass out from toner fumes.

Screw it.

I delivered a duplicate of the Nance file to Slidell’s desk. Then I got a box, loaded my own copy, and left.

Instead of heading to the ME facility west of uptown, I called Larabee to beg off, citing plague as an excuse. Then I pointed my Mazda toward an enclave of overpriced homes set beneath trees so large, their summer foliage turned the streets into tunnels. Myers Park. My ’hood.

In minutes, I turned off Queens Road onto a circular drive that swooped up to the pompous brick Georgian reigning over Sharon Hall. My complex.

I continued past the carriage house to a tiny two-story structure tucked in one corner of the grounds. The “annex,” date of birth and original purpose unknown. My home.

I let myself in and called out, “Hey, Bird.”

No cat.

I thumped the box on the counter and looked around the kitchen. The shutters were angled down, casting long golden slashes across the oak floor.

The refrigerator hummed. Otherwise, the place was quiet as a crypt.

I pushed through a swinging door, crossed the dining room, and climbed to the second floor.

Birdie was curled on my bed. He lifted his head from his paws at the sound of movement. Looked startled. Maybe irked. Hard to tell with felines.

I tossed my purse to the chair, then my clothes. After pulling on sweats, I downed two decongestant tabs and slipped under the covers.

Eyes closed, I listened to familiar sounds, trying not to think about Anique Pomerleau. Trying not to think about Andrew Ryan. The steady dip dip dip of the bathroom faucet. The soft scree scree of a magnolia branch scraping the screen. The rhythmic prrrrr of air flowing past Birdie’s vocal cords.

Journey burst into song. “Don’t stop believin’ …”

My lids flew open.

The room was dim. A thin rectangle of gray outlined the shade.

“Hold on …”

I rolled to my side. The glowing orange digits on the clock said 4:45.

I groaned.

The music ended abruptly. I stumbled to my purse, yanked out my iPhone, and checked caller ID.

Groaned again.

Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I hit callback. Slidell picked up right away. Background noise suggested he was in a car. “Yo.”

“You phoned.”

“Tell me this ain’t some new epidemic?”

My drug-clogged brain could do nothing with that.

“First Ryan takes a powder, then you.”

Seriously? “You’re welcome for the photocopies,” I said.

Slidell made a noise I took to mean thanks.

“You pulled your own disappearing act.” I yanked a tissue from the box and held it to my nose.

“Had to check out a lead on the Leal thing.”

“What lead?”

“Guy walking on Morningside Friday afternoon spotted a kid getting into a car. Said she looked upset.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the moron’s got the IQ of lentil soup. But the time line fits, and the guy’s sketch of the kid skews right.”

“Did he get the license?”

“Two digits. What the hell’s wrong with your voice?”

“It could be a break.”

“Or it could be the toad’s hallucinating.”

“What’s with you and Tinker?”

“Guy’s like something crawled out of a saucer at Roswell.”

Slidell’s negativity didn’t surprise me. His knowledge of the alleged UFO incident did.

“Is it just that Tinker’s state?”

“It’s all bullshit.”

“What do you mean?”

“The SBI’s taken a real hosing in the press lately. Now some * in Raleigh’s decided a clear on a serial involving kids is just the spit shine they need.”