A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(89)

“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Don’t know there’s ever a good time for bad news.”

“Oh, no, sir. This isn’t bad news. I just wondered if I could ask you a follow-up question.”

Fuzzy air. Then a cat meowed loudly.

“Mr. Keesing?”

“I’m here. Calculating if you’re my first time talking on this thing.”

“I’ve been wondering about the child you saw in the car entering your neighbor’s gate. Do you know what date that took place?”

“Damn, lady. I told you that?”

“You did, sir.”

Another pause, then, “You’re talking three, four years ago.”

“I know, sir. But it would be very helpful if you could be more precise.”

“Helpful with what?”

“An investigation.”

“That little one come to harm?” Voice rising.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics.”

“That why that fat cop come by my trailer?”

“Mm.”

Objects clattered, then the cat let loose a piercing screech.

“Goddammit, Sarge. Git.” To me. “I gotta go. All this ringing’s got my cat’s balls in a twist.”

“If you think of anything, would you please contact me?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I gave Keesing my number. He may or may not have written it down.

We disconnected.

I returned to the timeline. The interviews. As before, I kept checking the clock, impatient for a call from Slidell. Again.

I started by focusing on Felix Vodyanov. The victim. The faceless man.

I browsed the interviews, plucking out facts and observations.

Ryan came downstairs around one. Banged around in the refrigerator, then placed two sandwiches on the table. A diet Coke for me, a Grolsch beer for himself.

“Going well?”

“Eh.”

“Bounce it off me.”

I did. Between bites and swigs.

“Barrow thought Vodyanov was a spy. Ramos thought he was terrified of being killed. Keesing and Aiello thought he was nuts.”

“There are things known and things unknown and in between are the doors of perception.”

“Rod Serling?”

“Aldous Huxley. Or maybe it was Jim Morrison.”

“Right. So. Barrow said Vodyanov, aka Vance, had been at Sparkling Waters more than once. That his issue was taphophobia. That he stayed to himself. That Yuriev alone tended to his medical care and administered his meds.”

“Was that unusual?”

“No idea.” I rolled a questionable item around on my tongue. “Is this a beet?”

“Yes.”

“On ham and cheese?”

“Go on.”

“Vodyanov’s body was found close to the Cleveland County property. He may have stayed or worked in the bunker. Does taphophobia seem compatible with underground living?”

“Not really.”

I pictured my autopsy-room photos of MCME 304-18. The mangled face and belly. The missing hands. The bruising that Heavner had failed to note.

“Vodyanov’s body showed multiple hematomas in various stages of healing.”

“From falls? Blows?”

“Who knows?”

“How old was Vodyanov when he died?”

“I put him at mid-to-late forties or early fifties.”

A thought tapped softly deep down in my subconscious. I tried to haul it up but couldn’t.

“What else did others say about Vodyanov?”

“Keesing said sometimes he’d be all wound up and shaking. Speculated about a condition that made him unsteady. Bing called him Felix the fall guy. Klutzoid. Mocked him.”

Tap. Tap.

“In the weeks before his death, Vodyanov tried to contact several people. Vince Aiello. Me.”

“Maybe this Cootie Clanahan?”

“Maybe.”

Tap! Tap!

“Vodyanov’s thumb drive listed Depacon, Zoloft, and Seroquel.”

“Do those drugs make sense for the treatment of taphophobia?”

I hardly heard Ryan’s question. Data bytes were clicking together in my mind.

Bruising. Unsteady movement. Middle age. Mood stabilizers.

In a blinding moment of absolute clarity, the thought broke through.

Jesus on a tightrope!

“What?”

“Just give me a few minutes.”

Fingers flying over the keyboard, I got back online and linked from site to site. At one point, I heard Ryan request car keys, the door open and close.

Thirty minutes later, I was so jazzed I couldn’t sit still.

I knew the reason Vodyanov had been at Sparkling Waters.

I knew that he’d killed himself.

I knew why.





31


It was then that things kicked into warp speed. Had Ryan stayed, I might have acted with more caution. Perhaps avoided a spectacular mistake.

He didn’t. Though his offer was sincere, I assured him my cerebral vessels and all other systems were fully online and insisted he return to France, knowing he was anxious to get back on Neville’s trail. Lots of discussion, in English and French, and in the end I won. Ryan’s retirement was recent, his career as a PI in its infancy. He needed to establish his reputation. That’s the argument he bought.