A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(13)

“Am I late?”

“Just got here.” I smiled, maybe a little too broadly. Nerves. The pinging id. “How’s your mother?”

“Makes me wish I’d taken a job in Missoula.”

“There’s a lab in Missoula?”

“I could start one. Get me a hat and a bandanna, screw cowboys while wearing my boots. But wait. Isn’t Montana the state that elected that jerk to Congress? The one who body-slams reporters?”

“In its defense, the place has a lot of big sky.”

“And must be far cooler than here. Damn.”

“The Lut Desert must be cooler than here.”

“Look, Tempe, I’m not a gusher, but I really appreciate your taking an interest in Mom. Your visits are truly above and beyond.”

“It’s just around the corner from my townhouse.” Not exactly. “And she’s an interesting lady.”

“She’s ninety-nine and thinks I’m still in school.”

Lizzie completed her doctorate in molecular biology in 1972. When I hit the local forensics scene, she was working in serology at the CMPD crime lab. One winter day, we shared a tuna salad sandwich and a laugh over the peculiarity of names. Lizzie’s mother was called Temple. Tempe—Temple. We found the coincidence funny.

Over the years, Lizzie and I consulted on dozens of the same cases. Though she was at least a decade my senior—a guess, she’d never say—the collegial camaraderie morphed into friendship via dinners, movies, and shared tales of parental woes.

Eventually, Lizzie’s father died, and her mother began to forget. How to brush her teeth, find the pharmacy, use the remote. Temple Griesser was currently a resident at Sharon Towers, Charlotte’s oldest assisted-living and retirement community. Lizzie was now employed by a private DNA lab in Richmond. I dropped in on Temple as often as I could.

The waitress came and introduced herself as Suzy. Suzy asked our preference in water, then filled our glasses from a pitcher awash in lemons. After issuing menus the size of window shades, she queried our wishes from the bar.

“Mom’s happy enough,” Lizzie continued when Suzy had gone. “Oblivious to everything but her cactus collection.”

“I’ve learned a lot about succulents.”

We took a moment to peruse that evening’s offerings. To sip our lemony drinks.

“How about you?” Lizzie laid down her menu. “How’s your maternal situation?”

“Mama is engaged to be married.”

Lizzie’s brows shot to her hairline. Which, like them, was silvery gray.

“Don’t ask,” I said.

Suzy returned with Lizzie’s martini, my Perrier. She ordered the duck, I went with the chicken. Unless it’s winter—rabbit potpie season—I always do. I’m a sucker for the garlic smashed potatoes.

We were finishing our meal when I finally made my play. Setting down my fork, I broached the subject that was causing the pinging.

“There’s something I want to roll past you.”

“Shoot.”

“First, some background.” I told her about my conflict with Margot Heavner.

“I’m sorry about Larabee,” she said when I’d finished. “He was solid.”

“He was,” I agreed.

“Word is Heavner’s a she-beast.”

She is. I didn’t say it.

Lizzie waited as I reached behind me for the brown envelope and the tube and placed both on the table. She’d noticed the green bag the minute she’d arrived, hadn’t asked.

“A body was found Friday out in Cleveland County. Hogs had devoured the viscera, hands, and face.”

“So no visual, no prints.”

“Exactly. Heavner may run DNA, but that’ll mean waiting into the next eon for results. And what are the chances of getting a cold hit?”

“The vic carried no form of ID?”

“None.”

“Doesn’t sound good.” Guarded. Lizzie was getting the first hint where I was headed.

“It doesn’t.”

“A mugging gone wrong followed by a body dump?”

“The guy had two hundred dollars on him.”

Lizzie said nothing.

“Some personal items suggest he might not be local.” I finger-tapped the envelope. “It’s all here.”

Lizzie made no move toward Hawkins’s illegal plunder. “Let me guess. Heavner’s icing you out.”

“She is.”

“You do plenty of consults. Why lose sleep over this one?”

The same question I’d asked myself. “I’m not sure. I mean, the guy could have kids, a wife, a”—undirected, one hand rose into the air—“a cocker spaniel.”

“Come on, Tempe. We both know the game. Every death leaves a hole in someone’s life.”

The hand dropped back to the table. “Fine. Full disclosure. I think Heavner’s going full-on Dr. Morgue again.”

“Exploiting the situation to get her face on TV?”

“She called a presser, played up the”—I hooked air quotes—“?‘mystery’ surrounding the case.”

Lizzie leaned back and ran a hand down one cheek. Her knuckles were knobbier, her skin more liver-spotted than I recalled.