A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(17)

I put Ryan on hold, clicked over, and fired off the image. Seconds later, I heard the text ping in.

Законченный.

Ryan didn’t try voicing it, either.

“Meaning?” he asked.

“?‘Finished.’ According to three separate internet translation sites. One suggested the word could also mean ‘ended.’?”

“Note d’adieu?” He used the French phrase for suicide note. No lilt.

I shrugged. Wasted effort. Ryan couldn’t see me. “Or it could refer to the book from which the page was taken. An affair. A trip. A job. A—”

“I get it.” Pause. “Is that writing running sideways down the right edge?”

My reaction, too. “I’m not sure. It’s too smudgy and faint to make out. Think it could be some sort of code?”

“Or blood. Spaghetti sauce. Hog poop. A—”

“Touché.”

“What’s on the flip side?”

“I was hurrying and didn’t turn the scrap over. I’ll ask Hawkins to snap a shot.”

“If Heavner learns about the photocopies, Hawkins’s ass will be on the line.”

“Only Lizzie and you know.”

“And what happens when you start poking around?”

“You’re a detective, right?”

“For years, it said so right on my badge.”

“I’m hoping you can provide pointers on detecting discreetly.”

“This case is that important to you?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

A long, empty silence hummed down from Canada. Then, “First off, I wouldn’t go diming Detective Spevack out in Cleveland County.”

“What would you do?”



* * *



Having come from the pocket damp, the scrap had been spread on a drying tray while the autopsy proceeded. The reverse side had not been examined. Hawkins was going into the MCME early Monday morning and agreed to inspect and photograph the back.

I started with my single close-up of the front. Felt the same spark of excitement. The staining definitely looked like lettering.

Barely breathing, I returned to Photoshop and enlarged the image again and again. Thought I could make out an E, maybe an 8 or a 3. Couldn’t be sure. Magnification caused the shapes to blur and go grainy.

I used tools to sharpen the edges and reduce background noise. Then, by creating a brightness/contrast layer, I worked to whiten the paper while darkening the writing. Maybe writing.

An hour later, I sat back, pulse humming even more.

No hog poop. No doubt.

AΛG HonΓd NE R48.

Code? Shorthand? In English? Another language? Meaning what?

I studied the string, wondering if the sequence was complete. Were the gaps intentional? Or had information been lost to the elements? To the pocket?

I tried googling a few of the letter sequences. Got nothing useful. Honored. Nebraska.

Wind beat at the annex like an angry landlord come for overdue rent.

Why the underlining of R48? I googled the number-letter combo. Got the following.

A road in South Africa.

An expressway in the Czech Republic.

A risk phrase meaning danger of serious damage to health by prolonged exposure.

HMS Wrangler, a British World War II W-class destroyer.

A diagnosis code for dyslexia and other symbolic dysfunctions not elsewhere classified.

That cleared it up.

I thought about a suggestion Ryan had offered before disconnecting. A comment he’d made. Until then, I’d been unaware of friction between Slidell and Heavner. Had to admit. The revelation didn’t displease me. Not that it takes much to irk Skinny, whose ego is the size of a small African nation.

Ryan’s idea made sense. During his tenure with the CMPD, Slidell had notched far more solves than any of his colleagues. And his role as a volunteer with the cold-case unit gave him access to resources that I didn’t have.

I picked up my phone and hit speed dial.

Four rings, then, “Yo.”

“It’s Temperance Brennan.”

“Hell-ooo, doc. I got caller ID. Besides, who else would nag my ass on a Sunday?” To say diplomacy isn’t Skinny’s strength is like saying plague was a minor health issue in the Middle Ages.

“I’m sorry to—”

“Anyone tip you what Sunday means? Like, watching NASCAR, maybe tying some fishing lures, or enjoying a little sheet time with my lady?”

“You fish?”

No response. In the background, a woman asked who was calling. Verlene, the live-in girlfriend. Another mind-blowing development.

“I’m phoning concerning a situation with Dr. Heavner.” Cool. “Ryan thought you might be interested.”

“Yeah?” I heard rustling, then the commentator’s voice and the roaring motors grew fainter. “I was wanting another brew, anyways.”

I described the faceless man, providing less detail than I had for Ryan. The dossier, the photos, the Russian word, the code.

“You want to fuck Heavner up,” Slidell summarized when I’d finished. “Expose her for the rodent turd she is.”

Sounded about right. “I want to get this man ID’d.”

“How’s that my problem?”