Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(76)

The block held ten residences, all the creation of a single developer enthralled with timber and stone. Entrance was through a faux wrought-iron gate decorated with a plastic wreath. I keyed in the code Slidell had provided, and drove through. No big pines or live oaks here. The scraggly saplings suggested fairly recent planting. Or a paltry landscaping budget at the time of construction.

Ajax’s house was at the far end, above the others on a slight rise. Like its neighbors, upmarket but not over-the-top. Unlike its neighbors, devoid of Santas, reindeer, icicles, or elves.

Ajax’s lawn was neat, the shrubbery basic. Hollies. Boxwoods. Nothing requiring attention.

Slidell’s Taurus headed a line of vehicles circling the cul-de-sac curb. Two cruisers. A CSS truck. An unmarked SUV. Skinny wasn’t messing around.

I added my Mazda to the assemblage and got out. Walking up the drive, I noticed movement in the front window of the house to my left. A silhouette stood with arms crossed, eyes pointed in my direction. Though a reflection off the glass obscured the face, body form suggested the curious neighbor was male.

I hurried up stone steps to a darkly stained door. Tried the handle and found it unlocked.

The foyer had a slate floor, oil-rubbed bronze sconces, and a matching bronze fixture overhead. To the left, a powder room. Straight ahead were living and dining rooms. In each was a CSS tech in white Tyvek coveralls. One was taking pictures. The other was dusting dark powder onto a door frame.

Voices came from somewhere in back and to the left. Loud. Unhappy.

A mound of disposable Tyvek shoe covers lay on the slate. I slipped on a pair and moved forward.

The house’s interior looked like an attempt to re-create an old black-and-white photo. The upholstery, rugs, and walls were all variations on gray. Fog. Ash. Sweatshirt. Steel. Chartreuse accessories added splashes of color. Throw pillows. A mirror frame. A chair. DVDs crammed built-ins beside a fieldstone fireplace. A small flat-screen TV hung above.

In the dining room, a dove-gray drum chandelier dangled over a table set with chartreuse place mats. In the middle, candles that had never been burned. A chartreuse ceramic bowl sat perfectly centered on a sideboard. A painting of bright green poppies decorated a wall.

I wondered if Ajax or the builder had chosen the decor. Suspected the latter. The place had a cold, impersonal feel. As though the furnishings had been purchased at Rooms To Go and Pottery Barn, then placed exactly as displayed in a magazine spread.

I nodded to the techs as I wound my way toward the kitchen. They nodded back.

Slidell was on one side of a brown-granite-topped island. Tinker was on the other. Both wore shoe covers and latex gloves.

“—couldn’t like him or not like him. They don’t know him. The woman next door thought he worked at an Apple store.” Tinker looked red-faced and cross.

“Track down the ones you missed.” Slidell looked crosser.

“I’ll get the same story.”

“You’re the one pushed for this.”

“You don’t think Ajax is dirty?”

“I’m not saying that,” Slidell snapped.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying if Salter learns about the stall on Oklahoma, it’s my balls on a rusty hook, not yours. Not to mention blocking Ajax from his lawyer right now.”

“Or is it that those balls are already gone? Once burned, twi—”

“Get the f*ck out there and bring me something!”

Tinker started to reply, heard my plastic-bottomed footies slapping the tile. Mouth tightening into an inverted U, he spun and stomped off.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“We’ve been through the whole friggin’ place. So far, nothing. No porn. No girls’ clothing. No key, no ring, no ballet slippers. No boarded windows, no padlocked doors. Nothing to suggest a kid was ever in here.”

“Prints?”

“One set, which, you can bet your ass, will come back to Ajax. Same for hairs, fibers. Either he’s the tidiest f*cker on the planet or the most careful.”

“Have the techs checked the vacuum cleaner?”

“Bagged the contents.”

“The trash?”

Slidell just looked at me.

“Did they get anything that might yield DNA?”

“Toothbrush. But Ajax ain’t on file.”

“We can compare it to DNA from the lip print on Leal’s jacket.”

“Right.”

“Did you find a computer?”

A moment of hesitation. Then, “No.”

“A charger for a laptop?”

“No.”

“A modem? A router?”

Tight shake of the head.

“He could have gone online elsewhere. Maybe at the hospital.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a basement?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“Just a crawl space. Empty except for crap the builder shoved under there. And a whole generation of spiders.”

“Garage?”

“Clean.”

“Where’s his car?”

“Uptown.”

“Is it included in the warrant?”

“No.” Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. We both knew. If this search came up empty, there would not be another.