A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(74)

“Motive?”

“No idea. But Timmer’s DeepHaven setup gives off a bad vibe.”

Slidell wiggled impatient fingers.

“Too much security, too little transparency for a Realtor.”

“What he hawks ain’t exactly standard.”

“Selling bunkers and missile silos is perfectly legal. Why employ a steroidal bouncer?”

“Any other ideas?”

“Gerry Breugger?”

“Who the fuck is Gerry Breugger?”

“A freelance journalist who called looking for intel on the Vodyanov case.”

“Would Breugger go that far?”

“If he thought the story would put a shine on his Wikipedia bio.”

“Others?”

I lifted both palms and shoulders in frustration.

“Or maybe it was just turpentine and bad wiring.”

A beat as we both looked around. Slidell spoke first.

“I’ll send someone to slap plywood on this window and the one downstairs.”

“I can do it.”

“He’ll do it faster.”

“Thanks.” Detesting my role as a victim.

“You want I should have CSU swing by in the morning? The arson boys?”

“What’s the point?” I said.

“Can’t hurt to establish someone torched the place. Dust for prints.” With little enthusiasm. “Don’t touch—”

“I got it.”

When Slidell left, I tried phoning Ryan. Was rolled to voice mail.

Exhausted, I ignored my face and teeth and crawled into bed. A cue for my brain to begin trolling for worries over which to obsess. That night, the choices were endless.

At one point, I heard banging, figured Slidell’s minions had arrived to secure the window. Birdie joined me when the hammering stopped, probably peeved that his call-of-the-wild portal had been sealed. I reached down to stroke his head.

“So glad you weren’t hurt.” Mumbled, at last drowsy. “Was our arsonist a cat lover or just a cat burglar? Did you charm him? Or hunker down and sneak outside unnoticed?”

Faulty wiring or an intruder?

Suddenly I was wide awake, struck by a horrifying thought.

Had Birdie slipped out on his own when the downstairs window was broken or the back door opened? Or was he intentionally spared?

If the latter, had leaving Birdie unharmed been intended to send a message? A message saying my intruder could have taken or killed my pet but didn’t?

Was there an intruder?

Was there a message?

A message telling me who was in charge?

A threat?

A threat from whom?

Or was my paranoia flaring again?





25


WEDNESDAY, JULY 11

CSU, the crime-scene unit, showed up at seven. Slidell’s “arson boys.” After they’d finished dusting the guest room/study, I cleaned up the glass. No doubt a death sentence for the vacuum, but I wanted it gone.

Next, using my phone, I emailed LaManche, explaining the fire and the demise of my laptop and asking that copies of the Pasquerault file be sent to the MCME. I’d planned to review all my reports and notes following dinner with Pete. Only one week until my testimony, and I was starting to get anxious.

When CSU wrapped up in the upstairs office, I plowed through the charred chaos. Found not a single readable document or viewable photo. What the fire hadn’t consumed the water from the hoses and the foam from the extinguisher had reduced to pulp.

Slidell phoned as I was depositing another five-gallon bag of slop into my outdoor trash bin.

“Aiello’s ass is parked in a room down the hall.”

“At the Law Enforcement Center?”

“No. I booked him into the Ritz.”

“How did you persuade him to come in?”

“Told him his name came up in a cold-case investigation.”

“He asked for no details?”

“I promised lots when he got here. Being an upstanding citizen, he agreed. That and the fact I mentioned the old jacket on kiddie porn. Maybe implied I was debating a call to the state bar.”

“Will he bring counsel?”

“He mentioned that. I mentioned how I hoped the media didn’t get wind of our chat.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“I want to sweat Aiello a while, let him take a solo stroll down memory lane.”

“What time will you start?”

“Eleven.”

“I’m in.”



* * *



I arrived on the second floor at 10:52. Slidell was not at his desk in the violent crimes division. He was not in the cold-case unit. A detective named Conover thought he’d gone to question a witness. Gave me directions I didn’t need.

Hiding my annoyance, I thanked Conover, hurried back up the hall, and let myself into a space the size of my pantry. Leaving the overheads off, I stepped to a lighted rectangle on the right-hand wall.

Through the one-way mirror, I could see the adjacent interrogation room, a stark duplicate of the one I was in. Same wall phone, same recording equipment, same institutional table and chairs.

No red light glowed on the camera tucked high in one corner. I wondered if Aiello had balked at being taped. The audio was working. Objection or not, Slidell would have insisted on that.