A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(57)

When I arrived at the annex, the silver 4Runner was moored in the drive. Face crimson, Slidell launched himself from it and stormed toward me. His pants were brown, his socks orange. The ends of a green-and-rust tie hung to either side of his unbuttoned collar. I assumed he’d bumped up the couture for his visit with Jahaan Cole’s neighbor.

“I don’t believe it!” Practically spitting, he was so irate. “I don’t freakin’ believe it!”

“Is it enough for a warrant?” I wheep-wheeped my car.

“Jesus Christ! You’re a defense lawyer’s wet dream, you know that?”

“Thus, the need for a warrant,” I said.

“You got some kind of hearing disorder? That why you don’t capiche what I tell you?”

“Bring it down, detective. I don’t want you having a coronary in my yard.”

“Or maybe the problem’s in your brain.” Finger jabbing his temple. “Maybe you got some delusion you’re a TV dick gonna get the big solve and a fucking medal from the mayor?”

I didn’t acknowledge that Slidell might have a point. That he might have stumbled very close to the truth.

“And no worries about me! My ticker’s a beast!”

I crossed the patio and let myself in. Slidell was right on my heels, smelling of temper and sweaty synthetics.

Over the years, I’ve come to recognize two things about Skinny. He can’t stand being defied. He can’t stand being bested. Today his anger was springing from twin wells.

“Would you like a cold drink?” Over my shoulder.

“Gimme everything. Now! Maybe, just maybe, I can talk some asswipe judge into overlooking the fact that what I’m writing up wasn’t even close to lawfully acquired. As in hot-fingered by a civilian out for a joy ride! You going through some kind of mental thing? Even for you, your behavior lately has been plain nuts.”

Another hard-earned insight. When Slidell does outrage, it’s best to let him vent. I’d trolled through garbage, found evidence concerning missing kids, maybe the remains of one, lost most of that evidence, taken shots to my head and torso, and driven for almost two hours with sun in my eyes. I was grimy and hot and devoid of patience. And hungry.

“Stop!” Pivoting to face him. Which sent pain spiking up my rib cage.

Slidell glared, jaw muscles doing shotgun flexes.

“Have a seat.” Lifting a ponytail that was plastered to my neck. “I’ll pour iced tea.”

He did. I did. After washing my hands.

We both drank. Then I got latex gloves from my scene kit, donned one, handed the other to Slidell, and laid the note and the larger bone fragment on the table. Not sure why, but I left the smaller one in my pocket.

Slidell eyed the glove, the note, and the bone but touched nothing. “I’m supposed to applaud?”

“Did you run Kimrey?” Ignoring his sarcasm.

Slidell opened a picture on his phone and showed me the screen. It was a mug shot of the guy who’d leveled me.

“That’s him,” I said.

Hunching a shoulder to blot sweat from his chin, Slidell slid a small spiral from his breast pocket, thumbed his tongue, and flipped pages.

“Thirty-four-year-old Caucasian, home boy, managed to graduate from Northwest School of the Arts back in the day. Kid was some kinda violin prodigy.” A pause to decipher his notes. Or triage what to hold back. “String of collars for dealing, soliciting, all small-time, nothing violent. Did a couple stretches at jail north, up on Spector Drive.”

I waited.

“The H is for Hollister. Goes by Holly. Known as Molly Holly on the street. Apparently, that’s his specialty.” Slidell referred to the drug Molly, thought by some to be pure MDMA, or ecstasy, but more commonly a toxic mixture of lab-made chemicals. “That and blow, acid, weed, you name it.”

“You alerted the sheriff?” I asked.

“Poston had one of his deputies swing by the property. Your guy was gone. Place was secure, no sign of forced entry, no response to his shouting.”

I tried to recall if I’d properly closed the gate. If that was even possible, given that I’d found it open. Had no idea. “Kimrey must have come to and split.”

“You hit him that hard?” Impressed?

“I think he was drunk.”

“What the hell was he doing out there?”

I had no answer to that. “Have you traced the owners of the property?”

“It’s a goddamn holding company. Individual names will be buried in reams of legal bullshit.” Gruff but more controlled. Slidell had kicked into cop mode. “Did you spot a vehicle?”

“No. But I wasn’t really looking.” Remembering the faint, truncated whine. “If Kimrey came by motorcycle, I might not have seen it.”

“You’re sure this Kimrey snaked the pouch and the folder?”

“I think so.”

Slidell’s face did something I couldn’t really describe. But he didn’t lambast me for my ineptitude. “Let’s see the pics.”

I watched Slidell swipe through the images, expanding some with an index finger and the spitty thumb. When finished, “Send ’em to me.”

“I will.”

“Kimrey works a patch off Eastway and Central.”