A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(36)

Now what? Vodyanov was in the morgue, not here. I had no key. Try the neighbor, Garcia, in unit 5? Ramos? Perhaps one or the other was the caretaker.

I was conceding what a spectacularly stupid idea this had been, on so many levels, when a thunderous clang sent adrenaline into every cell in my body. My eyes cut left, right. Nothing.

I was turning to leave when a voice froze me in place.

“Just you hold it right now.”

A woman crouched at the top of the stairs, right foot on my level, left foot below on the top tread. Short and skinny and swathed in something floral resembling a tent, she was wheezing and leaning on the banister. The exposed wrist sported enough bangles to stock a Target jewelry counter.

Before I could answer, the woman palm-pushed the upraised knee with her free hand, also bejeweled, hauled herself fully into the hallway, and shuffled toward me, bracelets jangling in rhythm with her steps.

“What you be doing there?” The first two words came out “wha-choo.”

“I’m sorry if—”

“Qué chingados!” What the fuck. Breathy, with a tense edge of anger.

Close up, I could see that the woman’s makeup was cheap, overdone, and losing out to perspiration. Her skin was mahogany, her hair polychromatic, combining shades favored by apricots, cherries, and merlot. “Are you Mrs. Ramos?”

“And if I be?”

“Are you the caretaker?”

The woman sniffed, insulted. “Owner.”

I pulled the composite sketch of Felix Vodyanov from my bag and held it up. “Is this man your tenant?”

The mascaraed eyes narrowed, almost disappeared above the overly rouged cheeks. “You be with immigration?”

“No.”

“The cops? Don’t matter. I don’t be lovin’ not the one not the other.” Her speech had such an odd cadence I couldn’t place her. It sounded like a mélange of Jamaican patois, gangsta rap, and Spanish slang.

“I work with the medical examiner.”

Blank stare.

“The coroner.”

The eyes reemerged, wider. “The guy’s dead?”

“Possibly.”

“Maldito.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Couldn’t say. His rent came as cash in envelopes under my door. He was reliable, I’ll give him that.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“What is to tell? Tenants pay, I don’t ask their business, you understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Did he have a vehicle?”

“Never saw one.”

“How long was he here?”

She gave the question some thought. Or pretended to. “Maybe two years.”

“How did he find this place?”

“I never knew, and I didn’t ask. We’re listed like everyone else.”

I went at it from a different angle. “Do you run background checks? Require potential tenants to fill out applications?”

“I be renting flats here, not managing Trump Tower.”

“You say this man lived in the building two years.” Indicating the sketch. “Did you—”

“Not sure he did.”

“What do you mean?” Trying to mask my frustration.

“I barely saw him. Don’t know if he actually slept here. Just sayin’.”

“Through that entire two-year period, the two of you never talked?”

“Maybe a few times.” Drenched in the saccharine light of the hall sconces, the clown face turned wary.

“I’d like to see the apartment,” I said.

“Ni de co?a.” Not a fucking chance. My knowledge of street Spanish was coming in handy.

“How much to let me in?” Tone hushed, though we were alone.

“Violatin’ tenants’ rights could jam me up.” The woman’s hand rose, palm up, bracelets clanking. I dug five tens from my wallet and laid the bills on it. The hand stayed level. I added two more.

The woman produced a ring from somewhere deep within the flowery folds, fished out a key. After inserting her selection into the lock, she turned the knob and pushed the door in.

“Can’t hurt if the guy’s dead. Help yourself. Less clearing for me.” With that, the woman jangle-shuffled down the stairs.

Using one arm, I eased the door back as far as it would go. The displaced air smelled of mildew and old wood. And something else. Something that triggered a tumult of images. Larabee’s lifeless face the night he was shot. Tubes. Pinging machines.

After slipping on latex gloves, I leaned in and slid my hand along the wall. Felt a switch and flicked it.

An overhead fixture turned the room a jaundiced ocher. Glancing up, I saw one of those amber bulbs shaped like pine cones. A large stain circled the bulb’s chipped ceramic fixture, its color alarmingly similar to that of dried blood.

My eyes made the rounds.

Facing the door was a single window with a torn and discolored shade pulled all the way down. Below the window, a collapsible metal table held a hot plate, a kettle, a small fry pan, a can opener, a dining kit composed of plate, cup, and bowl, all red, and a trio of clear plastic utensils. No ramen noodles, cans of Dinty Moore, or boxes of Kraft dinner. Not a crumb or particle of food in sight.