A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(47)

“You just got into your car and—”

“Duncan Keesing. A war-damaged Vietnam vet living in a trailer just up the road.”

The change in Slidell’s breathing cued me to his level of ire.

“A bit odd, but you’d like the guy.”

“Son of a freaking bitch!” A hair below outrage.

“Here’s why I’m calling. Vodyanov’s life coach at the ashram thought he was a spy. He told his landlady the government was out to get him. I doubt it was either.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“No cloak-and-dagger. No fatwa. Vodyanov was into conspiracy theories.”

“Conspiracy theories.” Patronizing.

“The stuff’s all over the internet. The sinking of the Estonia was intentional. Vaccination causes autism. Fluoridated water is a pinko plot. Governments are implanting citizens with RFID chips. The earth is flat. The QAnon nutballs believe in a deep state that’s working to undermine the president. There’s a world of cockamamie crap out there.”

“You’re saying this mondo beyondo bullshit is what got your boy killed?”

“I’m not sure anything actually got him killed. Have you talked to Margot Heavner?”

“Don’t plan to.”

“I wrote an email explaining the Vodyanov ID on the faceless man. Haven’t heard back. So we still don’t know the official cause of death.”

I waited out a pause that felt like a month, certain Slidell would wet-blanket my theory big-time. He didn’t.

“Vodyanov looked at child porn and visited sites listing missing kids. Wrote Jahaan Cole’s name in his notebook. Drove a scared kid through his gate in the middle of the night.”

Slidell has many faults. He’s uncouth, judgmental, and short-tempered. But when focused, his mind chews through data like a buzz saw through pine. His summation nailed it.

“So this shitbird was a perv,” he went on. “Don’t suppose you know who owns that property?”

“No.”

Slidell digested that for a few seconds. Then, more to himself than to me, “No judge will issue a warrant based on hearsay.”

“We could—” I started.

“There’s no ‘we.’?” Snapped. “You will sit tight while I do some digging.”

I rolled my eyes. Pointless, since Slidell couldn’t see me.

“I’m serious. If this guy’s dirty for Cole, maybe others, I want this done by the book.”

“May I continue with my computer?” Chilly.

“Nothing else until you hear back from me. Comprendo?”

“Perhaps if you speak with a bit more condescension,” I said.

Dead air.

It’s a sick feeling being an exile, unable to go home.



* * *



The phone rang again at eight. I was stepping from the shower, reeking of fake citron and ginger. Bathing twice in one day? Not for cleanliness or hygiene. Churning with anxiety, agitation, and frustration, every nerve in my body was going berserk. I thought drugstore herbals and hot water might reboot the system.

Eager to answer, hoping Slidell had gotten a name from some tax roll or deed registration, I skidded and nearly ass-planted on the tile.

It was Mama. She and Sinitch had argued, and her mood wasn’t cheery.

“The man refuses to take a position on anything.”

“Don’t you two have a pact to never discuss politics?” One-handed wrapping my hair in a towel.

“I’m talking about our nuptials. Venue? Theme? Lord in heaven, he won’t even weigh in on a destination. Doesn’t he grasp that a wedding takes months of planning?”

I was with Sinitch on this one. Didn’t say it.

“You sound out of breath, sweet pea. Are you OK?”

“Mama, stop.”

“You need to be mindful—”

“The doctor said I may have had this aneurysm from birth. It’s unerupted and now packed with tiny platinum coils.”

“I’m just—”

“Mama. My arteries are not conspiring to drown me in my own blood.”

“So why the headaches?”

“We will figure that out. How about we discuss your chemo? How are you feeling?”

Exasperated sniff. “What are you doing?”

“I just finished showering.” And just started the day’s second seminude phone conversation.

“Would you prefer to call me back? It’s nothing that can’t wait.” Meaning I want to talk now.

“Sure, Mama.”

Fifteen minutes later, dried and lotioned, I dialed. She picked up instantly.

“Feeling reborn?”

“Definitely.”

“This heat is absolutely beastly.” Ice clinked against glass. “I hope you’re not leaving your nice cool house.”

“Mmm.”

“Did you use that lovely Chantecaille energizing cream I gave you for Christmas?”

“Yes. Thanks again.” I had no idea what I’d slapped on. “So what’s the issue with the wedding?”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing. Sinitch is a man, and they do have their ways.”

The past quarter hour had obviously involved Southern Comfort.