Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(78)

“Yard service?”

“No.”

“What about mail?” I noticed a small white box on the wall beside the back door.

“Utility bills. Circulars. Catalogues. Nothing personal.”

“No indication he maintained contact with his family?”

“They’re in India.”

“They have phones and mailboxes there.”

“No shit.”

“Catalogues might mean he shopped online.” The box had a sticker.

“I don’t shop online, and I get the same crap.”

“Was the security system activated when you came in?” The sticker had a logo. ADT.

“Yeah.”

“Ajax gave you the code?”

“I persuaded him that sharing was in his best interest.”

“So he sets the alarm when he’s away.”

“Where you going with this?”

“If ADT keeps records, they could tell you when Ajax entered and left the house.”

“They could tell me when someone entered and left the house.”

“So this was a bust,” I said.

“You kiddin’? Double score.” Slidell stripped off his gloves. “First, this house ain’t a crime scene.”

Slidell’s phone buzzed. He yanked it from his belt. Checked the screen. Sighed and raised it to his ear. “Slidell.”

A tinny voice. Female. Strident.

“Yeah?”

The voice boiled again.

“Musta been a misunderstanding.”

More boiling.

“On my way.” Hooking the device back into place. “Salter’s putting me up for cop of the year.” Slidell looked at me, eyes bloodshot from worry and unrest. Then strode toward the door.

“And the second?” I asked.

“What?” Turning.

“What’s the second thing you learned?”

“The prick keeps another crib for his dirty work.”

While Slidell reported to Salter, I went to the MCME.

Larabee’s bones weren’t as straightforward as he’d hoped. Though far from complete, the skeleton was obviously human. A male, middle-aged, edentulous, probably white. Cortical flaking, discoloration, and adherent fibers suggested the man had occupied a coffin for many years.

Larabee was off somewhere. I wrote a preliminary report and left it on his desk. It would be up to him to investigate or not.

Slidell phoned late in the afternoon. His mood made the morning’s seem happy-go-lucky.

Salter had gotten two calls before noon. One was from Ajax’s lawyer, Jonathan Rao, accusing the CMPD of denying his client the constitutional right to counsel. The other was from the judge who’d issued the search warrant—Rao had also reamed out Her Honor.

Since neither caller was happy, Salter wasn’t happy. After laying into Slidell, she’d relented and said he could re-interview Ajax. Wearing gloves made of very young goat. The session yielded nothing. The few answers Ajax gave were filtered through Rao. At three, both walked out the door. It was the last time anyone would talk to Hamet Ajax.

Slidell had received video from Walmart and Harris Teeter that covered the day Leal went missing. So far, he hadn’t spotted Ajax or his car. He planned to continue working through the footage.

I got through two reports, knocked off at five. Back home, I ate Bojangles’ chicken with Bird and watched a rerun of Bones. For some reason, the cat is nuts about Hodgins.

Slidell called again at nine. “He’s on tape.”

“Which one?”

“Walmart and the Manor.” Gloomy. Obviously not wanting Ajax to be there.

“LSA for Leal was 4:15 at the convenience store on Morningside.”

“Ajax was in the Walmart on Pineville-Matthews Road. Entered at 3:52. Left at 5:06.”

“Rush hour, and those locations are at least ten miles apart.”

We both gnawed on that.

“Maybe you were right.” Slidell sighed. “Maybe this douchebag don’t work alone.”

Or maybe. Just maybe.

I didn’t say it.

That night, sleep was elusive.

The rain was back. I lay in the dark, listening to drops hit the screen and patter on the sill. To the subtle hum of my bedside clock.

And thought the thought again.

Impossible.

I reviewed what I knew about serial killers. Their victims usually conform to a type. A tall blond woman. A teenage boy with short brown hair. Cher. A hooker. A homeless codger with a cart full of trash.

The individual means nothing to the killer. He or she is irrelevant, a bit player in a carefully constructed ballet. The dance alone matters. Each battement and pirouette must be carried out with precision.

The killer is both dancer and choreographer, in control at all times. Victims enter and leave the stage, interchangeable, bit players in the corps.

I thought about Pomerleau. About Catts. About the mad tango that had left so many dead in Montreal.

I thought about Ajax. To what sick music was he moving? Did he learn it from Pomerleau? Or did he compose the score himself?

In his subconscious, who might Ajax be killing? His daughters? His wife? The babysitter who seduced him and ruined his life?

Birdie jumped onto the bed. I scooped him close. He readjusted, settled, and head-bumped my palm. I stroked him and he started to purr.