A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(68)

“I did.”

A sliver of a pause, then, “You fraudulently claim to know one of my clients. You enter my property under false pretenses. Somehow I doubt your veracity, Miss—?”

“We’re done here.” Slidell jumped in before I could answer.

“I could have you both arrested.” A hint of aggression in Timmer’s voice.

“That would be a very bad idea.” To me. “Let’s go.”

Without warning, Bing launched himself at Slidell in a disorganized, sloppy-jointed, slo-mo lunge. Skinny reacted with more agility than I’d have thought him capable of. In one lightning move, he sidestepped, grabbed Bing’s leading shoulder, and, using the forward motion to his advantage, spun and slammed the big man into the wall.

Timmer retreated behind the door.

Slidell held Bing a long, painful moment, crooking one arm high behind his back. Then, “As I said, we’re going now.”

Bing grunted and nodded, one beefy cheek tight to the plaster. A few beats, then Slidell released his grip. Bing slid to the floor, a glistening trail of drool and snot marking his descent.

With one glare in my direction, Slidell strode past me toward the door.



* * *



The return trip along the beach was not an experience I want to repeat. Slidell was furious. At me. At Timmer. At being in a situation not fully under his control. Mostly at me.

“That was one stupid goddamn waste of time.”

“It wasn’t. We learned several things.”

“Yeah? Like I shouldn’t listen to any more of your harebrained ideas.”

“We learned that Felix Vodyanov and Nick Body are brothers. That Vodyanov got into a fight with a guy named Twist.”

Slidell tripped and stumbled forward. I waited as he regained his balance.

“We learned that the fight took place two days before I spotted Vodyanov prowling my front yard.”

“If the guy in the trench coat was Vodyanov.”

“A week after the fight with Twist, Vodyanov turned up dead.”

“Eeyuh.”

We continued past yards and cottages still as crypts. Through mud-crusted litter. My breathing was good, my legs strong from the hours of jogging. And the downhill gradient didn’t hurt. Beside me, Slidell was struggling.

Then, above Slidell’s panting and slogging, I heard a sound. Footsteps? Were Timmer and Bing following us? Others? Cops? Had Timmer called 911?

“What was that?”

We both froze, vigilant for movement ahead, above, or out over the water. I heard a swish of fabric. Knew Slidell’s hand had cocked toward his gun.

All was muggy stillness around us.

As we clambered over the algae-slimed outcrop, I worried. Had Timmer deployed his henchmen to discover where we’d parked? Did he have henchmen? Was he planning an ambush at the 4Runner? Or had he simply returned to his movie? Was my paranoia playing more games with my sanity?

Minutes, maybe eons, then we finally reached the boat ramp. The 4Runner sat alone in the dark. No Bing. No Timmer. No henchmen.

Thank Christ.

A surprising puff of hot air brushed my skin as we both scrambled up the incline and across the concrete. When Slidell wasn’t venting his indignation over one thing or another, we rode to Charlotte in silence. Which provided far too much time for reflection.

Had Timmer ordered a covert investigation? Surely he wanted to know who we were. It was obvious he hadn’t called 911. Was he afraid of a police presence in the cottage? Of an inquiry into the nature of the event and those who were present?

Had we blundered into something more sinister than a pitch for the delights of a subterranean abode?



* * *



Slidell phoned early the next morning. Spent time reemphasizing themes he’d highlighted during the previous night’s trudge down the beach and the endless drive home. Finally got to the point.

“Vice boys knew the name right off. Vincent Aiello. Online, goes by Twist.”

“Good work.”

“You know that dark web thing you been talking up?”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve bee—”

“There was a kiddie porn site down there called PlaySchool. Users went in through some sick-as-shit browser—”

“TOR?”

“Sounds right. Keeps your cyber-prowling secret, so word on the street had PlaySchool as a nice, safe hidey-hole for viewing and trading kiddie porn. Vice guys say there were over a hundred thousand users and tens of thousands of posts involving sexual abuse and exploitation of minors.”

“You’re using the past tense.” Hiding my revulsion.

“Two years ago, the feds shut the fucker down. They arrested the creator and head administrator, a douchebag in Philadelphia name of Sammy Lowenstein, a busload of child porn producers, and a couple hundred U.S.-based users.”

“Jesus.”

“Messed up, eh? On the plus side, they also rescued thirty-two kids.”

“How does Vincent Aiello figure in?”

“Your boy Twist was a frequent flier.”

“Meaning?”

“He regularly posted content in the forums.”

“The FBI snagged Aiello in their net?”

“Yep. Prosecuted him on a number of counts of engaging in a child-exploitation enterprise.”