A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(37)

A battered dresser, down one leg, leaned at a cockeyed angle against the right wall. A twin bed sat opposite against the left, a single pillow and a rough wool blanket piled at the foot. A ratty orange carpet covered the floor space between.

Satisfied no one was home, I stepped into the unit.

The heat inside was even crueler than that in the hall. I vowed this would be a quick in-and-out.

Flanking the dresser were doors opening onto a tiny bath and what I assumed was a closet. No TV. No phone.

I checked the bath. Toilet sans lid, pedestal sink, shower hung with a translucent plastic curtain. Not a single product or personal item.

I returned to the main room. Ran a hand over the top of the dresser. The glove came up grease-and dust-free. One by one, I checked the drawers. Empty. No lint, no fibers, no hairs.

Tent Woman may have been right. The shabby space held nothing to suggest anyone lived in it.

I stood a moment, looking around. Since entering, I hadn’t shaken the sense that something was off. What? Like a name you can’t recall, the troubling impression skulked below the surface, untouchable.

I circled the dresser and opened the second door. The closet was roughly three feet square. Wire hangers held two items: a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of tan chinos.

I ran my hand over the shelf, then along the rod. Again, the latex was clean.

A third article dangled from a wall hook near one of the closet’s rear corners. I stretched forward and lifted it free.

Other images detonated. A dark silhouette in the shadows at Sharon Hall. A face staring from within a pale cone of light.

Recognition sent my heart rate spiking.

The garment in my hand was a faded gray trench coat. Identical to the one worn by the man on the night of my migraine dream. The faceless man. Felix Vodyanov.

Trench Coat was real!

Confiscate the thing? Hell, yes. The owner had granted permission to take what I wanted.

A clap of thunder startled me back into action. One last sweep, then adios.

I looked under the shade, below the metal table, behind the dresser and commode. Found all surfaces and objects spotless.

Was that the detail my subconscious had logged? A dingy, empty apartment, yet every inch immaculate?

I dropped to my knees to check beneath the bed. The odor was stronger close to the floor. I turned to sniff the orange rug. It reeked.

Sudden recognition. I was smelling hospital antiseptic, the kind I’d inhaled for hours in the intensive-care unit the night Larabee died. The kind strong enough to destroy materials containing DNA.

Second shocking realization.

The apartment and all its contents had been wiped clean of prints and everything that could identify its occupant. Vodyanov had wanted to destroy all traces of himself. And was sophisticated enough to know how to do it.

But why?

I was snapping pics when the jingle of faux silver again caused me to jump. Pivoting, I noted floral patterning filling the gap between the door and the jamb. In one move, I was on my feet and out into the hall.

“You’re spying on me.”

“Don’t you go getting all up in my face,” Tent Woman shot back.

“Talk to me about the occupant of this unit.”

“Got nothin’ to say.” Overridden by a peal of thunder louder than the first.

“Perhaps I should drop a word to ICE.” Unkind, but my patience had run thin.

The woman’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Two years,” I said. “You must have learned something about him? His name? His hometown? His occupation?”

Two bony arms floated high in surrender, revealing that the tent actually had sleeves.

“Dios mío. I barely saw the guy.”

“Look, Mrs. Ramos. It is Ramos, right? I’m not trying to cause you trouble. I couldn’t care less who lives in this building.”

“Qué chingados.” Apparently, she liked the expression.

“Seriously,” I said.

The arms dropped, the shoulders. Then, grudgingly, “It’s Ms., not Mrs. Se?or Estúpido kicked eight years back. I kept his building and name.”

Unsure if that called for condolences or congratulations, I said nothing.

“We don’t do intros here, you understand what I’m saying? People come, people go, everyone they keep to themselves. I speak with your guy a couple of times. Heard him now and again through the door.”

Meaning she’d eavesdropped. As she had with me. I didn’t say it. “Was he speaking on a phone?”

“Hell if I know. Could be he had someone in there. I don’t provide chaperone service, if you catch my meanin’. What I can say is sometimes he talked foreign.”

“What language?”

“Not English or Spanish.”

“Can you recall anything he said?”

Blank stare.

“When he spoke English.”

“Mostly he’d whine about needing security. Like this place is Guantánamo or something.” A scrawny finger came up. “But wait. One thing stuck with me. Once, he said his life would soon be over.”

“When was that?”

“Six, maybe seven months ago.” The digits spread, palm facing me. “That’s all I know. I didn’t ask no follow-up.”

“Did you ever see him with anyone?”