A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(21)
“Stakeouts, break-ins, whatever.”
The tools had been lying on a stack of neatly folded clothing. Slidell watched as I inspected the garments. Tan pants with soil in the cuffs; one silk tie, paisley print; two long-sleeved cotton shirts, one denim, one white; two pairs of boxers, both black silk. All labels had been removed, with a single exception. The tie had the letters I-T-O stitched into the lining. The labels had also been cut from the duffel.
Beneath the clothing was a folded copy of Moskovskij Komsomolets. I can’t read Cyrillic but recognized the logo and knew the newspaper was a Moscow daily with a large circulation. I checked the date. The edition was ten days old.
Beneath the paper was a six-by-nine spiral, the kind I often use for recording case notes.
Quick glance at Slidell. His brows were raised as high as mine.
I lifted the notebook and opened to the first page. Handwritten on top were two Latvian words: Nogrim?anas tra?ēdija. Below the words, a name: Felix Vodyanov.
“It translates ‘sinking tragedy.’?” I pointed to the heading.
“The rest in Latspeak?”
I skimmed. Nodded.
“That it?”
I ran my hand around the bottom of the duffel, felt a small rectangular object, and pulled it out. A thumb drive. Across one side was a line of Cyrillic text: Медицинские.
“What’s the writing?”
“I don’t read Russian,” I said.
Using my iPhone, I shot pics of the drive and the articles taken from the duffel.
“Could be your vic is this Felix Vodyanov?”
“Many Latvians have Russian names.”
“Maybe the worm’s KGB.”
Comedic delivery is not Slidell’s forte. I looked up to see if he was kidding. Wasn’t sure.
“The KGB ended with the dissolution of the Soviet Union.” I didn’t point out that had happened in ’91, thus the Latvian independence. “An operative planted in the States would probably be with SVR, Russia’s external intelligence service.”
“You seriously thinking the guy’s some sort of spy?”
“I’m not thinking anything. I’ll go online for a translation.” Picking up the thumb drive. “Can you run the plate?”
We were punching keys when the double click of a pump-action shotgun froze us both.
8
“One move buys you a butt load of twelve-gauge.”
“I’m a cop—” Slidell started.
“Turn around. Real slow.”
We did.
The man was bushy-haired and tall, maybe six-five. The stub of a cigar rested in one corner of his mouth. A Remington 870 rested in his hands. Which had fingers long enough to wrap an asteroid.
The man looked us over impassively. His stubble was dark and abundant, his eyes the faded blue of overwashed denim. I put his age at somewhere between forty and fifty.
“I got no vehicle come from the likes of you.” Cigar bobbing a little.
“Let me guess.” Controlled. Even Slidell wouldn’t pick a fight with this guy. “You’re Art.”
“And you’d be?”
“Police.”
“Pass me a flag. We’ll have us a parade.”
I sensed Slidell stiffen.
“Detective Slidell and I would like to ask you some questions.” To ease the tension, I voiced the cliché.
“Don’t talk to cops.” All glare and defiance. And shotgun.
“It will take just a moment.”
The pale blue gaze went past me. Slight frown as Art took in the Hyundai with its open trunk. “That your car?”
“No,” I said.
“Ain’t my inventory.”
“That’s why we’re here.” I slanted a quick side-eye to Slidell. His attention never wavered from the man with the gun.
“How’d it get onto my lot?” Art sounded a little less confident.
“Last Friday, a body was found beside Buffalo Creek, just past your property line,” I said.
“Got no knowledge of that.”
“We don’t know the man’s name. But this may be his Sonata.”
Art stared, cigar firm in his teeth. Something new in his eyes. “How’d this fella get his self killed?”
“Cause of death is unclear. The medical examiner—”
The cigar dipped a hair as Art swallowed.
“Look. Either you green-light me to toss this car now, or I come back with a warrant this afternoon. Meanwhile, I bide my time checking your business licenses, your taxes, your gun permits. You living in that dung heap?” Slidell cocked his chin toward the trailer. “I get real bored, I might make a few calls, get inspectors out to verify your little slice of heaven meets fire and health codes. You really want to go that route?”
Typical Slidell bluff. But Art bought it. Nodding once, he lowered the barrel of the Remington. Didn’t even ask for a badge.
Slidell’s phone was still in his hand. He waved it at the assemblage spread across the trunk. “This shit goes with us.”
As I began repacking the duffel, Slidell stripped off his gloves, unpocketed a notebook and pencil stub, spit-thumbed to a clean page, and jotted the Hyundai’s tag and license info. Walking toward the 4Runner, he punched keys with one clammy finger. A momentary pause, a click of a conversation, then he disconnected. Butt-leaning the quarter panel, he waited.