A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(111)

I took my mug to one of two white leather armchairs facing the glass. Traffic on Sherbrooke was light at that hour. I stared out, watching vehicles stream toward me, then away. A lone cyclist was pedaling slowly along the empty sidewalk. Up and down the street, windows winked crimson, reflecting the extraordinarily colorful antics of le soleil. Lights were on in some of the rooms. I sat sipping, wondering fleetingly at the lives filling each.

A little more caffeine to fuel up, then I lifted my phone, confirmed that it was indeed Slidell who’d pinged me, and opened his text.

A pair of screenshots showed the apps on Body’s mobile. All but two were standard issue—settings, calendar, contacts, phone, text messages, and so on. One of the oddballs was a program designed to intercept telemarketers. I had the same blocker on mine.

The other unique app was orange with two teepees, one upright and white, one inverted and peach. I stared at the icon, feeling that little tingle deep down in my id. I’d seen it before. Where?

I made a visit to the App Store. Scrolled. Didn’t find it. The app wasn’t trending. I had no keyword or suggestive phrase with which to search.

My eyes drifted to the scene far below. The cyclist had stopped outside the Musée des Beaux-Arts gift shop. He was squatting by his rear wheel, adjusting something only cyclists understand.

The tingle released random bytes into the wilds of my brain. Keesing’s reference to “places that lit up bright on some kind of maps.” Body Language rants about a fitness app revealing the location of secret military bases. A bent bicycle wheel shadowed under camo netting. A racing bike pressed to a wall at Pine Lily. Body’s sunbaked neck.

Acceleration.

Supercollision at one of those trillion cerebral synapse points.

Barely breathing, I went back to the App Store and searched using the keyword biking.

I recognized the icon instantly. Strava, a mobile fitness app used by cyclers and runners to keep track of their distances, speeds, and routes. Larabee had relied on it to log his runs.

Easy, Brennan. It could be nothing.

I bolted for my laptop.

Two hours later, I was punch-dialing Slidell.





39


“Will you please stop barking and listen?”

“I’m listening. You ain’t making sense.”

“Do you have your computer open to the Strava website?” Between Skinny’s churlishness and my own excitement, I was finding it hard to stay civil.

“Yeah. But I—”

“The user logs on with a smartphone, or Apple Watch, or Fitbit, or whatever.” I explained the application once more. Slowly. “As he bikes or—”

“You’re sayin’ Body did this?”

“He has a verified account.” Resolutely controlled. “As Body bikes, GPS tracks his location and draws a line following his path.” Out of habit with Skinny, keeping it simple.

“He don’t have a million privacy settings hiding where he goes?”

“Strava allows access for any registered user, so information on routes is publicly available.” To clarify. “Profiles are public by default. Though privacy settings are offered, Body set none.”

No response. I assumed Slidell was studying the screen on his end.

“I created an account, made up a profile—”

“This Agnes Pipehead dame.”

“Yes.”

“Why the hell’d you pick the name Agnes—”

“Then I went outside and walked around, to test the program for accuracy. What you’re seeing is the publicly accessible route report generated by Strava on my account.”

“That squiggly red line.”

“Yes. Now, do this.” I gave instructions on how to get to Body’s profile. Then on how to bring up stored routes. I waited out the slow clicking of keys.

Then, “Body’s had an account since 2013.”

“At least that long.”

“He’s stored a shitload of outings.”

“He has. Open this one.” I provided more guidance, then waited, confident Slidell would grasp the import. He did.

“Sonofafreakinbitch.”

The route map included a neighborhood painfully familiar to both Skinny and me. A segment of street. A corner with a library stand once offering a copy of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie.

“Body pedaled his skanky ass through Jahaan Cole’s hood.” Simmering rage in his voice.

“He did.”

I waited out a long stretch of agitated breathing. “DA’ll say his being there don’t mean squat.”

“Check the date.”

“October 6, 2013. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Four days before Jahaan Cole disappeared.”

“So even if the DA drags ass about charges, I maybe could use the info to get one of these turds to junk his jeans.”

“Exactly.”

“Vodyanov registered the Hyundai in West Virginia, right down the road from where the Horshauser kid went missing. You find anything tying Body to him?”

“Not with Strava.” I’d looked.

“I’m on it.”

And Skinny was gone.



* * *



At nine that night, he called again, sounding like a bundle of jolting nerves.