A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(66)

Godiva chocolates and other delicacies filled the shelves. Walker’s shortbread cookies. Jars of olives and tiny cornichon pickles. Boxes of cigars displaying the word Habana.

“Looks like someone’s planning a party,” Slidell said, voice muted.

“That someone’s a mighty big spender.”

Then a high-voltage shot of adrenaline. In one corner, a stack of cocktail napkins with the word DeepHaven in royal blue script.

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later.” As I captured the napkins with my phone.

Beyond the closed door, the cinematic voice droned on. As Slidell moved into the pantry to inventory the shelves, I scurried over and put my ear to the wood. Made out a few words. Maybe safety? Maybe threat? I was repositioning for better acoustics when a hinge squeaked at my back. I whirled.

A man stood in the doorway, feet spread, fingers fumbling with his fly. A plastic badge on his shirt introduced him as Bing. A rainbow tattoo on one forearm showed a snarling reptile and said Florida Gators.

A tug, another, then Bing gave up and braced with a hand to the frame. He was large, in a linebacker-gone-to-fat way. A slack jawline and blond fringe struggling to form brows and cover his scalp said Bing’s gridiron days were far in the past.

My gaze found Slidell’s. His eyes narrowed as he indicated his badge and shook his head. I dipped my chin in acknowledgment of his desire to conceal that he was a cop.

“The door was open.” As Slidell listened from the pantry, I spoke up, not wanting to startle.

If my presence unnerved Bing, he gave no indication. Taking me in with bloodshot eyes, he said, “Had to piss.”

“Understandable.”

The scraggly brows dipped as my algae-stained state penetrated to Bing’s brain.

“Walked over along the beach.” To distract, I wiggled a finger at Bing’s unzipped pants. “You want to … ?”

“Sorry.” After clumsily achieving success, “I need to verify you’re invited.”

“Sure.”

Bing walked to the table, not stumbling but clearly unsteady. “Name?”

“Flora.” One of the unchecked pair on the list.

“You’re not …”

“I’m a friend of Flora’s. She said it would be all right if I came in her place.”

A beat, then, “You got ID?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to haul my purse. It’s really big. You know how women are.” Silly woman grin. “I left everything behind in my car. I suppose I could go all the way back to get it …”

More puzzled brows. Then a steroidal arm arced. “You can’t go in until they’re finished.”

“So I get to hang with you?” Accompanied by a flirtatious smile.

Blushing, which did not improve his appearance, Bing reoriented the arm, still upraised, in the general direction of the table. I sat.

“They’ll be tied up an hour, maybe longer.”

“Oh, my.”

“Buy a lady a drink?” The dolt actually said that.

“Please, sir.” I actually said that.

Bing walked to a cabinet, returned with a second tumbler and an open bottle of Courvoisier. Dropping beside me with a whoosh of cheap cologne and an alarming creaking of wood, he poured us each three inches of cognac.

“I’ll bet you played football,” I said, eyes roving, discreetly seeking options for an exit plan.

“Defensive tackle.” Bing knocked back two of his three inches.

“Wow.” Beaming feigned admiration, I pretended to drink.

“I can still bench-press three fifty.”

“That’s awesome.” I had no idea.

Bing tried to rest his chin on his palm. It slipped off. “Oops,” he said, grinning.

“Oops,” I said, grinning.

Bing drained then refilled his tumbler, leaned close, and placed the gator hand on my arm. “I gotta lock up here tonight. But you want to wait, I’ll drive you to your car. Or wherever.” The rheumy leer made me want an immediate shower.

“That’s so kind.” Taking another sham sip. “Your boss must be a really good guy, sharing such expensive cognac.”

Bing winked. “It’s our little secret.”

“I’ll bet your job allows you to meet loads of interesting people.”

Humble hitch of one shoulder.

“Have you met Felix Vodyanov?” Casual as hell.

The leer cooled. I’d said something wrong.

“I only asked bec—”

“You want more brandy?” Withdrawing his hand.

“This is lovely. But I’m actually more of a scotch drinker.”

“Hold on.”

As Bing lurched off, I poured my cognac into the lily. A glance at the list revealed my mistake.

“I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have used a last name,” I said when my glass held Glenfiddich and the bottle sat beside it.

Bing repeated the one-shoulder shrug.

“Flora explained.” Contrite. “I forgot.”

“It’s not a big deal with me. Just, you know, house rules.”

“Won’t happen again.” Mimicking a key turning over my lips.