A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(104)
ITO was the brand name of a tie sold in Japan in the mid-nineties. The company, started by an entrepreneurial high school kid, manufactured a very limited run before going bankrupt. The ties, quite rare, were now worth a fortune. Vodyanov had scored one, liked the name, and used it for one of his many aliases.
The apartment in Ramos’s building was leased primarily for storage of files Body wanted kept off-site and hidden. Felix had lived in the house on Pine Lily Court. Otto Schneller was a Vodyanov cousin. Wanting to safeguard his and his brother’s anonymity, Body had gotten Schneller to agree to put the title in his name in exchange for a trip to the States. Little risk, it seemed. Otto was eighty-seven and living in Minsk.
Again, my gut told me there was more to it. Why such security? Such secrecy? Something reeked like week-old trout.
Everyone agreed that Vodyanov had left the Hyundai at Art’s garage. That he’d written the directions to help locate the car, probably as a reminder to himself. He’d jotted the message in code, as was his habit. Perhaps he’d visited the area several times while planning his final goodbye.
One of the numbers indented into the notebook was for a burner briefly owned by Holly Kimrey. None of the four knew why Vodyanov had listed my mobile on the same page. Or the reference to Jahaan Cole. So they said.
That unconnected dot came from Yuriev. And an explanation of his reaction upon hearing Jahaan Cole’s name during our conversation in his car. When pressed, the good doctor admitted that Vodyanov had once spoken of an interview given by a forensic anthropologist named Temperance Brennan on the fourth anniversary of Cole’s disappearance. Hence, Vodyanov’s choice of me as the person to contact.
* * *
Yuriev’s link to Body and Vodyanov was through a chess club favored by Russian expats. The doctor had nothing to do with Vodyanov’s suicide, had tried to argue his patient back from the edge. In the end, he gave up, knowing Felix’s future held nothing but misery. He’d supplied no drugs. Though Kimrey denied it, Body and Unger both implied the fentanyl came from him.
Why taphophobia? Yuriev and Vodyanov found the paradox amusing.
Kimrey was doing a drug run to the bunker the day I found the folder. He was sure Vodyanov had chucked it in the dumpster, speculated Felix was cleaning house before offing himself. He’d seen Vodyanov burning the contents of other boxes, probably those he’d kept at Ramos’s building. Not knowing who I was or what I intended to do with the file or the teeth pouch, Kimrey nicked both. Plus, he was freaked that I’d breached security due to his carelessness, didn’t want his boss to learn he’d left the gate unlocked.
Based on details grudgingly pried loose from all four interviewees, a picture of Vodyanov slowly emerged. A man devoted to Nick Body yet always in his younger brother’s shadow. A man crafting the appearance of a lifestyle he couldn’t afford—secondhand clothes, imitation art. A man facing his own physical and mental decline, stumbling, falling, writing notes to himself to keep his thoughts organized. To access passcodes he couldn’t remember. A man tortured by some of his actions, seeking to make amends before ending his life.
But no one was involved in harming kids. No way. Never. Inconceivable. Either the four were telling the truth, or their performances were superb.
By Monday afternoon, Body, Unger, and Timmer had all lawyered up. Simultaneous with Slidell’s interrogation, slowed now by endless interruptions from counsel, searches of the Pine Lily house and Body’s home in Weddington were carried out, and another was begun at the bunker. All day, Slidell’s mobile buzzed. Each time, he grabbed it and stepped out of the room. Each time, the news was discouraging. Nothing was turning up to tie any of the men to any missing or murdered child.
Slidell also ordered an investigation into Body Language. Although the site generated some revenue via advertising, he was curious about how Body earned sufficient income to maintain his lifestyle. As expected, records were convoluted and far from transparent.
By Monday night, neither the tossing nor the grilling nor the financial digging had produced evidence of any criminal activity. Rising up like a small swarm of angry wasps, the lawyers demanded that Slidell release their clients.
My fingers curled into fists as I watched the smarmy trio walk free. The little voice in my hindbrain bellowed hopeless opposition.
Holly Kimrey wasn’t so lucky. The tail bag on his bike had yielded a full catalog of pharmaceuticals, so Body’s dealer would continue as a guest of Mecklenburg County. In addition, the district attorney was preparing charges related to the B&E and fire at my townhouse. A search of Kimrey’s apartment had produced items suggestive of arson, not sure what that means. And my phone. No confusion there. Enough to convict, but the DA hoped Kimrey would flip and finger Body as the person behind the plot.
At seven thirty, tired and discouraged, I headed home.
A few hours with the Pasquerault file, then I fell into bed. Of course, I didn’t sleep.
The faceless man refused to let go of my mind.
Why had Felix Vodyanov sought me out? Phoned my mobile? He’d seen the interview, knew my role in the Jahaan Cole case, but how had he learned where I live? Found my number? What was it he’d wanted to say or ask before dying?
He’d written Jahaan Cole’s name in his notebook. Maybe posed as a cop to talk to Cootie Clanahan. Clipped and saved articles on Cole and Timothy Horshauser. Did he have information on one or both? Had he been involved in harming them?