A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(42)

The only sound was an undulating hum coming from inside the trailer. I guessed an oscillating fan.

“Hot enough to grill steaks on the blacktop.” Jesus, Brennan.

No hint of a smile.

“I’m curious about your neighbors.” Jabbing a thumb over one shoulder.

Dreads continued to appraise me.

“A man died not far from here a little while back. I’m trying to determine who he was.”

“Why?”

“I’m helping the medical examiner.” Sensing that mention of the police might be a deal breaker. “I wonder if you know the owner of the property across the road.”

Dreads didn’t move for a full thirty seconds. From where I stood, I could see his tongue doing something with his front teeth.

“We have reason to believe—”

“I knew someone would show up one day.” Accent definitely not local. New York?

Before I could ask his meaning, Dreads gripped the banister with hands missing four digits and a thumb, collectively. A palm-foot maneuver brought him swinging down the ramp.

“Name’s Duncan Keesing.” Nodding toward the Crayola grouping. “Park it there.”

I did. Keesing followed, hopping like a pogo, then tossed a flip phone onto the table, dropped, and scooched his chair to face me.

“You’re not here to beef me about the cat?”

“No.” Surprised. Keesing didn’t strike me as the Mr. Whiskers type.

“VA gimme a prosthetic. Hurts like a bitch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Say you got a nameless stiff?” Keesing’s face remained immobile behind the beard, but his eyes roved curiously over me. Odd, russet eyes.

“That’s correct.”

Keesing tapped the dog tags on his chest with an intact middle finger. The nail was long and yellow, with a black crescent cap. “The day I buy it, the cops’ll know exactly who’s gone down.”

“That’s very clever.”

“In Nam, your unit had to leave your sorry carcass, they kicked these little beauties into your teeth.”

“Yes.” Not sure that was true.

“It’s the only reason I keep a phone.” Tapping the device. Which looked like it was manufactured in the eighties. But probably worked better than mine. “Got no one to call me. But I get to feeling poorly, I can SOS.”

“I hope that never happens.”

“Keep my number right there on the lid. It’s ten digits now. That’s a lot to remember.”

“Smart.” It was handwritten in Sharpie. I wondered, didn’t ask, why he might need to call his own line.

“You think your dead guy’s the nutjob from over yonder?” Chin-cock toward the fenced acreage.

As had become my routine, I pulled the composite sketch of Vodyanov from my purse and held it up.

“Yes, ma’am.” Keesing nodded. “That’s the fella.”

“His full name is Felix Vodyanov. Can you tell me anything about him?” Slapping a mosquito that was lunching on my arm.

“No, ma’am.”

“Did you two ever speak?”

“We chewed the fat now and again.” Studying the sketch. “Vodyanov, eh? Sounds right. I called him Igor.”

“Why?”

“He talked like a Russki.”

“You never asked his last name?”

“No need to know.”

“Have you visited the property across the road?”

“Negatory.”

“Do you know why it’s protected by security cameras?”

“Negatory.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Going on twelve years.”

“Why did you refer to Vodyanov as a nutjob?”

“The guy was fucked up, pardon my French.”

“Can you be more specific?” One of the dead mosquito’s pals was circling my ear. I waved it away.

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe my words was harsh. We’ve all got our demons.”

I gave Keesing silence, hoping he’d feel compelled to fill it. He did.

“The guy would drop by, usually at night, like he had nowhere else to go or didn’t want to be alone. Not often, just now and again. Guess he’d see my light burning, figure an old hermit gimp was safe territory.”

Keesing dropped his gaze, perhaps reliving the horror of his injury. Perhaps his path to a solo life in a trailer at the back end of nowhere.

“Go on,” I encouraged.

“Sometimes he’d talk a blue streak, all wound up and shaking. Sometimes he’d sit and brood. For a while, I thought he might be a drinker. Never smelled a drop. I got a condition. Might be he had one, too. Made him unsteady.”

“Vodyanov exhibited mood swings?”

“That’s it.” Pointing what remained of an index finger. “He’d either be flying high or draggin’ ass.”

“When chatty, what did he say?”

“Bunch of twaddle.” Slowly wagging his head.

“Such as?” Exasperated. The bugs and oppressive heat and humidity were getting to me.

Keesing’s shoulders hunched, and his good leg began dancing a jig.

“I’m sorry,” I said, more gently. “Please take your time.”