A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(22)
Art watched me, now so close I could smell his sweat and the calamine he must have smeared on a rash. I’d just zipped the duffel when Slidell’s cell exploded into lyrics about a goodhearted woman. He answered, then shoulder-tucked the phone to write. As I joined him, he was assuring someone named Carla of a beer in her future.
“The car’s registered to a John Ito.” Pocketing the mobile.
“Ito.” Not the name I expected.
“India. Tango. Oscar. The same letters stitched into the tie lining.”
“Not Felix Vodyanov.”
Slow wag of Slidell’s head.
“Ito sounds Japanese.” Heavner was right, and I was wrong?
Shoulder shrug.
“OK.” At the end of a long breath. “Anything else?”
“Morgantown address. I’ll check it out when we get back. Seems Ito’s licensed and insured in West Virginia.”
“Maybe there’s no connection to the faceless man.”
“Right. Your stiff’s carrying Latvian intel on doomed ships and biochemical weapons. The same jabberwocky’s in the trunk of that car.” Thumb jabbing the Hyundai. “No connection there.”
Unable to fault Slidell’s logic, I said nothing.
“Assuming Affordable Art’s being straight, and he and I will definitely be discussing his veracity, either Ito parked here on the sly and walked out, or his killer slipped in and ditched the car.”
“Both scenarios suggest knowledge of the area.”
“Not bad, doc. I’ll brief Poston. Ask if he knows a John Ito. Tell him the vehicle’s all his.”
I peeled off my gloves, feeling unexpected empathy for the Cleveland County sheriff.
* * *
Slidell insisted we “stop for slop” en route home. The detour to Hog Heaven added an hour and a half to the trip. The barbecue was good, the hush puppies outstanding. It was almost two by the time he dropped me at the annex.
I called Pete straight off. Couldn’t do it from the car since my damn phone had died. His voice mail informed callers that he was away until the middle of the month. The sound effects were either a gun salute or cherry bombs. Patriotic as Art.
I left a request for help with a Latvian translation. Kept it vague, hoping to tickle his curiosity.
Ninety minutes later, my partially charged mobile rang. Thinking my ploy had worked, I answered blindly.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
The shot of anger caught me by surprise. I lowered my hand to disconnect.
Saw the name of the caller.
“Dr. Heavner.” Heart rate up a notch.
“What the shuffling fuck?” Lab noises in the background. The metallic clanking of a bay door. The grinding of a transport van in reverse. The fast, resolute click of heels on tile.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Did we not discuss this? Did I change my mind and request a consult? Did I imply, in any way, at any time, that I desired your assistance?”
“Do you?” Carefully neutral.
“You have no idea how vehemently I do not.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Tell me it’s bullshit.” So furious she was practically spitting her words. “Tell me you did not go to Cleveland County asking about one of my cases.”
“I was asking about a car.”
“My John Doe is none of your business.”
“So the body is still not ID’d?”
“Are you hearing my voice?”
“Did you try CODIS? NDIS?” I was asking about the Combined DNA Index System, the FBI’s database, and the National DNA Index System, the part of CODIS containing profiles contributed by federal, state, and local forensic labs. It took a while, but sometimes you got a cold hit.
A long second of silence as Heavner weighed options.
“I have no obligation to tell you anything, Dr. Brennan.” Oh, so measured now. “But as a professional courtesy, and to persuade you to desist, I will share that we believe the man’s name is John Ito. But due to your meddling, you already know that.”
“You still think he’s Asian.”
“I do.”
“Based on?”
“It would be unethical for me to reveal personal details about a deceased.”
It took everything I had not to point out that she’d done exactly that. On air. And not to argue that her assessment of the man’s ancestry was incorrect. But Heavner couldn’t know that I’d shot pics of her case. Or that Hawkins had leaked me the file.
“Of course.”
“We should have confirmation shortly.” Curt. “I trust you’ll keep this information to yourself.”
“As would any professional.” Reckless. But my patience was rubbing thin.
Three beeps, then empty silence. Heavner knew I’d been alluding to both the present and the past.
I sat a moment, wondering. Was Heavner right, and I was utterly wrong? She’d done the autopsy, explored every inch of the man’s anatomy. I’d seen only the jpgs texted to me and my own hastily shot cell-phone pics.
I went to the guest room/study and pulled every image up on my laptop. Printed some.
For the next hour, I reexamined the mutilated craniofacial features. Took what measurements I could and calculated indices—ratios between one dimension and another.