A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(25)

I have years of practice in ignoring Slidell. In letting his callous commentary roll over me. Usually, the experience works to my advantage. Not at that moment.

“Holy Jesus Christ Almighty!” I exploded.

Slidell raised placating palms. “Look. This wanker had your number. John Ito or whoever the fuck left that car. There’s lots of ways that could play.”

“Don’t ever ask me a question like that again.” Anger had totally routed the fear.

“Does the third line mean anything?” Peppers asked.

I looked at the letter-number combo. JCOLE1013. Shook my head no.

A small silence. Then Peppers handed Slidell two prints. “I’ll keep the original page here, preserve it properly.”

Slidell grunted and headed for the door.

“Is he always this pleasant?” Tipping her head toward Skinny’s retreating back.

“He’s a boor but a good detective. Thanks for doing this.”

Downstairs in the squad room, the boor checked one of Peppers’s pics, then punched keys on his landline. The tinny sound of a connection came through the speaker. One ring, then a message, the words low and warbly, as though spoken underwater.

“Leave it. Short like this.”

A long beep followed by expectant silence.

Slidell disconnected with an irritated jab.

“Can you get someone to trace the number?” I asked.

A one-shoulder shrug.

“Why not?”

“The phone’s probably a burner, scored at a Walmart, chucked into a dumpster the next day.”

“Voice mail is still working.”

“Waste of time.”

I knew the basis of Slidell’s resistance. He was an outsider now. Enjoyed squad-room space only because of his long tenure and his volunteer work with the cold-case unit down the hall. He could call in only so many favors.

I was about to say something snarky. Which would have sent us into one of our death-battle spirals. Instead, I took a deep, calming breath and dropped into the chair opposite Slidell’s.

“The owner of the Hyundai had two numbers—”

“The owner of the notebook.”

“The one you just dialed,” I said, gesturing at Slidell’s phone. “And mine. The Hyundai’s owner may or may not be John Ito. Or Felix Vodyanov.”

“Or Buck Baker’s great-aunt Maude.”

I hadn’t a clue who that was. “The Hyundai’s owner may or may not have turned up dead and become hog feed in Cleveland County.”

Slidell arranged himself more comfortably. Loosened his already loose tie, hooked a heel onto an open desk drawer, tipped his chair onto its rear legs, and began rocking slowly back and forth. But he was listening.

“You get any calls from unknown numbers lately?” he asked.

“I get dozens of calls from unknown numbers. Telemarketers trying to sell me insurance or roofing repair. I don’t reply to the voice mail.”

But I followed Slidell’s thinking.

Pulling my iPhone from my purse, I scrolled backward in time, checking the red listings indicating missed calls. Yesterday. Saturday. Wednesday.

Friday. June 22. Area code 681.

I switched to Google. Verified the call’s origin.

“A week ago Friday, someone rang me from a West Virginia exchange. I opened my voice mail to check that date. “The caller left no message.”

“The Hyundai was registered in West Virginia,” Slidell said.

Our eyes met, mine seeking permission. Slidell nodded. I tapped the number. Put my phone on speaker and laid it on the desk.

Two rings, then a voice, robotic, perhaps mechanically distorted to disguise the speaker.

“Record your name, the date and time, and a brief message.”

I looked a question at Slidell. He gave a thumbs-up.

“I’m sorry I missed your call. Please try me again. You have my number.” Disconnect. To Slidell. “Reach out to the local guy?”

“Sure.” Flipping me the second of Peppers’s prints.

I read the recovered number, dialed. Got the same recording as Slidell. Did as instructed.

“I need to speak with you concerning a mutual friend. You know where to reach me.” Disconnect.

My gaze slid back to Slidell. He was studying Peppers’s photo, fingers drumming riffs on the desktop.

“Any hallelujahs on this third line?” he asked.

JCOLE1013.

I manipulated in my head, moving letters and numbers like pieces on a board. Separated the alphabetic from the numeric. Set the first pair of digits apart from the second. Split off one letter at a time. One numeral. Recombined them in various ways.

At one point, I heard Slidell lean back and resume his precarious oscillation.

JCOLE? A name? Wasn’t there a hip-hop artist named J. Cole?

10-13. A date? October 2013?

Across from me, Slidell was playing the same game.

The squad room quieted as detectives drifted off to dinner, to interrogations, to promising or tenuous leads. Overhead, the fluorescent bars buzzed softly. Across from me, Slidell’s chair groaned in undulating protest.

Abruptly, the grating stopped, and the chair’s front legs smacked the tile. “Who was that kid went missing?”

I looked up. Slidell’s eyes were on the print, brows angled into a bushy V.