A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(100)

“Motorcycle approach … oving fast. If … your location, ETA … ess than two minutes.”

“Copy that.”

Slidell moved fast. In seconds, the 4Runner was backed into a driveway across from and facing the cul-de-sac.

The purr sharpened into a whine. The same whine I’d heard at the bunker? Shortly, a motorcycle slalomed up the block, swerved onto Pine Lily, and angled up the walkway leading to number 4. The rider wore faded cutoffs, a yellow tee, cowboy boots, and a shiny blue helmet.

I watched the rider kill the engine and heel the kickstand into place. My jaw tightened. The boots were tan with a green floral overlay and turquoise studs.

“It’s Holly Kimrey,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Kimrey dismounted and removed the helmet. His hair was the color of old beets, spiky on top and slicked back on the sides with some sort of oil. From my vantage point, it was impossible to see his features.

Moving with a coiled energy I found unsettling, Kimrey balanced the helmet on the seat, then hurried up the walk and let himself into number 4. Staring at the drab suburban ranch, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the thought that this was Nick Body’s home. Could the vainglorious firebrand really live in such a mundane setting?

And an even more grim possibility. Might April Siler be in that house? Buried in the yard or the woods beyond? Were we about to confront a monster? Or was this all a ghastly mistake?

Again, Slidell reached for his phone.

“I’m going in. You and Torrance cover the back in case anyone decides to take a runner.”

Mumbled whatever.

“Roger.” To me. “Let’s go squeeze this jackass. I do the talking, got it?”

“Is it OK if I breathe?”

While crossing the cul-de-sac, I noticed Slidell reach down to adjust his holster. The precaution suggested a tension level equal to mine.

Slidell’s knock was answered by a flicking drape in the bay window. No one came to the door. He pounded again, harder, fingers curled into a fist.

“Beat it.” A warbly voice said, probably Kimrey.

“Police. Open up.”

“Go away.”

“Not happening.”

“What is this shit?”

“A little party I call open the fucking door.”

“Why should I?”

Slidell lifted his badge and waggled it in front of a tiny window at eye level.

“How about we talk warrant?” Kimrey said.

“How about we talk murder?”

“What the fuck?”

“I’m not getting any cooler standing out here.”

The door opened the length of a security chain, enough to allow Kimrey to eyeball Slidell. Apparently, what he saw made an impression. Acting with the enthusiasm of a dead man walking, he closed and liberated the door, then withdrew, leaving a gap large enough for us to pass through.

Friends tell me the annex needs a makeover. The decor here was so outdated it should have been wearing vinyl boots and a pillbox. The L-shaped space was small but crammed with an abundance of furniture way past its shelf life. Swag lamps hung from the corners of the ceiling. Olive shag carpet covered the floor.

Straight ahead, up the back of the L, was a dining alcove containing a sideboard, table, and chairs, all pretending to be maple. Metal shelving ran below a window at the far end. A drone-sized fly was sluggishly buzzing one of the panes. A walking cane leaned in one corner, wood, with a derby handle and leather wrist loop.

The living room was directly to the right, in the foot of the L. Gold floral paper covered one wall. The others were bare save for warehouse imitations of great works. Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Monet’s Sunrise. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

A flat-screened Sony obscured most of the bay window. Opposite the TV, against the flowery paper, was a grouping upholstered in beige brocade. A matching armchair squatted to either side of a sofa, a faux chrome-and-glass coffee table cowered in front. Identical end tables held identical lamps composed of peony ceramic bases crowned with bubblegum-pink tasseled shades.

Except for the TV, the whole place looked like it was frozen in time. Being generous, I’d say the sixties.

A green bakery box gaped open on the coffee table. A crumb and sugar scatter on the glass suggested the recent ingestion of doughnuts.

Floy Unger was on the sofa, bony knees winging, hands clasped and hanging between them. He looked tired. And something else. Scared?

Holly Kimrey slouched in the chair facing our way, legs outstretched, ankles crossed. Eyes focused on a remnant of chocolate glazed. A man sat opposite, motionless, his back to us. I saw thick black hair and a sunbaked neck suggesting future melanoma.

A fist tightened in my belly.

Was I about to meet the notorious Nick Body?





35


“Anyone else attending this little freak show?” Slidell, gaze bouncing the room and the trio in it.

Unger continued staring at a point in space somewhere beyond his knees. Kimrey remained fixated on the pastry. The black-haired man said nothing.

“I’m talking here, people.” Almost a snarl.

Unger flinched. No one else reacted.

Slidell shot me a stay put look, then, hand hovering at his Glock, moved off to make a sweep of the house. I watched him pass through the dining alcove into what I assumed was a kitchen, then reverse down a hall into what I assumed were bedrooms and baths. In seconds, he was back. A quick nod to me, then he strode across the nasty shag toward the unfortunate brocade, every sense on high alert.