A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(75)
Slidell occupied one chair, his back to me. A yellow legal pad and a folder lay on the table before him, the contents of the latter mostly blocked by his bulk.
The man opposite looked like he’d never visited a gym in his life. Which I guessed had lasted maybe fifty years. His hair was dirty-blond, center-parted, and tucked behind his ears. His bottom lip was fuller than his top, giving his face a perpetual pout.
Aiello shoved a paper across the tabletop, I assumed some type of waiver form. Tossed a pen after. When Slidell leaned forward to collect them, I caught my first glimpse of Aiello’s eyes, Coke-bottle green and bereft of feeling.
Slidell was still in good-cop mode.
“OK, Vince. Glad we got all that legal mumbo jumbo out of the way. It’s OK if I call you Vince?”
“Could we move this along?”
“I appreciate you coming in. You need anything? A coffee? A soda?”
“I’m good.” Pointedly checking his watch. Which was gold and the size of a manhole cover.
Slidell shuffled his papers, selected and studied one. Or appeared to. Smiled, friendly as hell.
“You’ve lived in Charlotte since—”
“Since 1984.”
“You’re a lawyer, right?”
“I am.”
“You help folks protect their inventions?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about that.”
Aiello took Slidell through a brief discourse on the U.S. Patent Act, exclusive rights, trademarks, limited monopolies, for all of which Slidell feigned avid interest. He appeared to take notes. Finally laid down his pen.
“You know how you can never fill up your bathtub? I got an idea for this gadget plugs the overflow drain so’s you can have a nice, deep soak. Think that’d qualify?”
Aiello listed the five requirements: patentable subject matter, utility, novelty, nonobviousness, and enablement. Advised Slidell to apply for a utility patent, describing his device as a machine with a new useful purpose.
Slidell listened, overnodding. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” Then, reading from a printout, “You live alone, right?”
“Last I checked, that’s not a crime.”
“You own property in Dilworth.”
“We both know these things.”
“A house on Mount Vernon Avenue. That’s near Latta Park, yeah?”
“As I said, I have a busy day. What’s this all about?”
“Real pretty park. I used to walk my dog there.”
“Please spare me the small talk.”
“Will do.” Quick flick of a smile. “Tell me what you know about Felix Vodyanov.”
“Who?” Clearly surprised at the question.
“Felix. Vodyanov.” Slowly.
“Don’t know the man.”
“I think you do.”
“You are mistaken.”
Aiello tried to cross his arms on his chest. The parts involved were too large for the arrangement to work. The flabby forelimbs dropped back to the armrests barely containing his torso.
“We’ll circle back to Vodyanov,” Slidell said. “Talk about his brother.”
“Who?”
“Nick Body. You three buddied up through Yates Timmer, correct?”
“I’ve never heard any of those names.”
“That’s not the story coming from Timmer’s muscle. According to Bing, you and Vodyanov had one hell of a throwdown.”
“You said you had questions about a cold case.” Still cocky but showing the first cracks.
“He’s cold enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“Vodyanov entered long-term parking right after the two of you went at each other.”
“Long-term parking?”
“He turned up dead.”
“I’m sorry for the man’s misfortune.”
Slidell switched tacks. An old trick to catch a witness off guard. “Twist. That’s an odd handle. How’d you get it?”
Seconds passed. Aiello looked like he was counting the concrete blocks in the wall to Slidell’s left. Or deciding on a strategy.
“Probably not your dancing skills,” Slidell said.
“Boo-hah. The cop does comedy.”
“I’m guessing it’s a reference to your favorite pastime.”
The pouty lips tightened.
Slidell pulled a photo from his file and skimmed it across the table. Through the speaker, the paper made a slithery, hissing sound. Through the glass, I caught a flash of bright pink beads.
“Jahaan Cole.” Slidell’s words were suddenly curdled with loathing. “She was nine when some degenerate piece of shit yanked her out of her life. You get your rocks off leering at naked kids, Twist. You know anything about that?”
Aiello’s Adam’s apple took a roller-coaster ride in his fleshy throat.
“Look at her!” Slidell finger-jabbed the image.
Aiello glanced down, quickly away.
“What happened to her?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“OK, fine. I heard about her on the news.” The Coke-bottle eyes were now round and flat. “Everyone did. Because of past … difficulties … I was caught up in the hysteria, questioned illegally. I had an alibi. I wasn’t in Charlotte when the child disappeared.”