A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(65)

“I want to know what’s going on in there.”

“The homeowner ain’t exactly inviting us in. And I got no jurisdiction and no cause—”

“This is our only lead to Vodyanov. Maybe to those kids. Let’s try a different tack.”

One long-suffering look, then Slidell pivoted and headed for the car. I followed, certain he intended to leadfoot it back to Charlotte. Instead, he drove downhill, passed our entrance point, pulled in at the boat ramp, and cut the engine.

“They don’t open up willingly, we’re done.”

“Roger that.” I shoved my phone into a pocket, the flash into my waistband, and got out.

It was full night now. No moon. No streetlamp. Around us, only darkness and hot, stagnant air.

A small colony of neurons urged retreat.

Ignoring the warning, I stepped onto the concrete. The surface was slick with algae, forcing me to move gingerly. At my back, Slidell slip-slid and cursed indignantly.

To either side, the land dropped without drama to a narrow ribbon of rock and sand. To call it a beach would be unfair to beaches. Wooden piers ran from the edge of the ribbon out over the water. Most had a rowboat or canoe tied to an upright.

We maneuvered to the side of the concrete, worked our way downward, and, using our flashes sparingly to avoid drawing attention, set off along the shore. Far distant, across the water, lights twinkled with multicolored cheer. Now and then, the muggy air stirred on a rare breeze, carrying the murmur of waves listlessly brushing pilings, the muted hum of a distant outboard motor.

As my eyes adjusted, I could see that the ground was littered with debris. When lit, my beam crawled over dead fish, empty sunblock tubes, the long tentacles of twisted plastic grocery bags.

Ten minutes beyond the ramp, a rocky breakwater jutted toward the shore like a long, arthritic digit. In my scramble across, generations of algae transferred to my person. If Slidell and I did encounter Yates Timmer, we were going to look like creatures from some dark lagoon.

Paralleling the gradient on Lone Eagle Lane, the beach angled upward. Panting and perspiring, we forged on. Though less enthused now, I was determined to see the escapade through to its conclusion.

“This is the goddamn stupidest thing you’ve ever dragged my ass into.” Slidell was breathing hard. I hoped I wasn’t dragging his ass into a cardiac event.

The straps of my sandals, grown soggy and gritty, sawed channels into my heels and the tops of my feet. My clothing molded to me like a second skin. How had the distance seemed so much shorter in the 4Runner?

Behind me, I could hear Slidell crunching and wheezing. At any second, I was certain he’d order retreat. Then, without warning, the shoreline cut in, and the bank to our right rose sharply. Google Maps flashed bright and mutely announced we were at the programmed GPS coordinates.

I thumbed on my flash and pointed it toward the water. The pier was bigger than most and had a pontoon boat moored beside it.

As Slidell’s beam fell on the pontoon, I aimed mine right. It landed on a narrow flight of wooden stairs. I ran the light up the steps. Could see nothing beyond the top one.

As one, we killed our lights and listened for movement above us. I caught only Slidell’s breathing and the blood pulsing in my ears.

Jesus, Brennan. The guy’s a Realtor, not Polyphemus. He owns a party boat.

One fiercely unfriendly glance, then Slidell began climbing, cautiously testing before putting his full weight onto each tread. White-knuckling the rail, I followed.

Topside, a zillion tree frogs chirped amphibian gossip. Maybe crickets. I risked a nanosecond of flash. So did Slidell.

A path led from the stairs to a gate, then across a small yard to the cottage. Surprisingly, the back door was ajar. A violet-blue slash cut through the gap, lighting a deck holding a Weber grill and angular shapes that looked like rockers and patio chairs.

The gate was unlocked. Slidell disengaged the lever and strode to the deck.

“Yo!”

Same result as out front. Silence. He shouted again. Still no response.

Slidell palmed the door open. We both stepped inside.

We were in a kitchen lit by overhead recessed cans. Faux-brick tile floor, farm-style sink, stainless-steel appliances. The refrigerator was just to our right. Through a glass panel, I could see containers of Osetra and Beluga caviar, smoked duck, foie gras, and lump crab meat. Enough cheeses to feed all of Wisconsin.

At the room’s center was a plank pine table. Eight bamboo place mats, eight chairs, one askew, as though hastily vacated. At the table’s center, a ceramic vase with a pink calla lily in its prime.

A clipboard lay on the mat in front of the off-angle chair. I walked over, glanced down, and noted a list of names, all but two checked. Beside the clipboard, a crystal tumbler holding an inch of amber liquid.

Slidell joined me and picked up the glass. Sniffed. “Hell-o.”

He extended his arm. I inhaled. ID’d cognac or brandy.

Straight ahead, opposite the back entrance and beside a Wolf range, was a closed door. From beyond it came what sounded like a recorded voice, the cadence suggesting TV or film dialogue.

To the right of the closed door, an open one allowed a view into a pantry. We crossed to it. On the floor were cases of liquor and wine. Macallan. Patrón. Tito’s. Rémy Martin. The wines were mostly domestic pinot noirs and French burgundies. Good ones. I knew. Light reds had been my poison of choice.