A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(30)

Pause.

“A certain guest.” Very low, hand cupping the mouthpiece. Then words I couldn’t make out.

E. Desai was cradling the receiver—gingerly, as though it might break—when I felt a change in the air pressure at our backs. We turned.

A man stood eyeing us dispassionately. Through the open doorway framing him, I could see a carved and painted wooden desk. On it, a bronze of Rabindranath Tagore, the Indian philosopher and poet. Facing it, a pair of mahogany chairs upholstered in red velvet. Behind it, a chair whose back brought to mind a male peacock in full display. Behind the chair, ivory inlaid shelving displaying a collection of brass and silver objects. An Agra rug on the floor. Stacked silk-covered cushions in one corner. The office appeared designed to persuade visitors they were actually in turn-of-the-century Jaipur.

The man’s gaze shifted from Slidell to me and back. Remained expressionless as he directed a question to his receptionist.

“Were you shown proper identification?”

E. Desai nodded, lips now tightly compressed.

“I’m Dr. Aryan Yuriev.” Yuriev was short, with curly brown hair, an off-angle nose and upper lip, and a chin showing a whole lot of attitude.

“How may I help you, Detective … ?” Voice rising in question.

Slidell snatched the composite from the desk and held it up. “I’ll make it quick. You know this guy?”

Yuriev glanced at the sketch for a full half second. Then, “Do you have a warrant, sir?”

“Do I need a warrant?”

“You surprise me, detective.” Not looking surprised. “We both know I’m not at liberty to discuss a guest.” Realizing his mistake. “Had that man been a guest here.”

“And you’re thinking your ‘guests’?”—using air quotes—“enjoy doctor-patient privilege?”

“The ashram provides many services for those seeking spiritual healing. Among them is medical care should the need arise. That is my function. And as a licensed physician, my interactions with those I treat are strictly confidential.”

“How about I refresh your memory?” Slidell’s tone was taking on a familiar edge. He suspected Yuriev was lying. “The name Felix Vodyanov mean anything?”

Yuriev said nothing.

“Felix Vodyanov. You wrote him script for—” Slidell curled upturned fingers in my direction.

“Depacon, Zoloft, Seroquel,” I supplied.

Yuriev continued to stare coolly.

Slidell waggled the sketch. “Suppose I tell you the guy’s dead. That put a new spin on your doctor-patient bullshit?”

Hearing a sharp intake of breath, I reoriented subtly. E. Desai was still avoiding eye contact, but a red blossom was spreading on each of her cheeks.

A few beats as Yuriev decided his course. Behind me, E. Desai had gone very still.

“Sparkling Waters is a private facility, detective. You have no warrant. I have explained my position, and now I am asking you to leave. Should you not comply, you will be trespassing, and I will call security to have you escorted from the grounds.”

“We’re going. But take it to the bank, asshole.” Slidell now sounding dangerous. “I’ll be back.”

“An occasion to which I look forward with relish.” Flash of unhealthy gums, then Yuriev placed his palms together, bowed slightly, retreated into his office, and closed the door.

Slidell and I were crossing the parking lot when a voice called softly. “Wait.”

We turned. E. Desai was hurrying toward us with all the grace of a startled wombat. I was right about the sandals. Birkenstocks.

Slidell checked his watch. A mannerism to redirect frustration. We both knew it was noon.

E. Desai closed in, breathing hard, face now homogeneously red. I could smell her patchouli cologne and the perspiration it was meant to conceal.

Slidell crossed his arms, spread his feet, and eyed her impatiently. A sheen of sweat made his face look like shiny red plastic.

“It’s him,” she said, casting a quick look behind her. “He was a guest.”

“You’re certain?” My pulse tripping.

E. Desai nodded, eyes wide. “Is he really dead?”

“What can you tell us about him?” I asked.

“I don’t interact with the guests.” Slight dip of her brows. “Was his name Vodyanov? Oh, dear.”

“When was he here?”

“More than once. Last year, for sure.”

“He just come for the monk junk? Or was something more wrong with him?” Slidell, sharp. The sun was directly overhead, a hot white ball in a sky hosting very few clouds.

“I don’t interact—”

“Why was Yuriev treating him?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

“Do you have contact information for Mr. Vodyanov?” I asked gently.

She shook her head.

“A phone number? An address?”

Another head shake.

Slidell shifted his weight and fist-jammed his hips. A dark green crescent circled each underarm. The rest of his shirt resembled wilted lettuce.

“You should talk to Asia Barrow.” Lowering her voice to the same hush she’d used on the phone. “She was his primary counselor.”

“Was?”