A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(91)

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Sparkling Waters Ashram looked as summer-camp-monasterial as it had two weeks earlier. Same security fence. Same cameras. Same guardhouse. I skipped all that and went straight to the squat pink box housing administration.

E. Desai’s replacement looked up when I came through the door. Blond hair, not from a bottle, the real deal, aquamarine eyes, skin so pale it was almost translucent. The name bar on the desk now said Z. Kantzler.

“Welcome to Sparkling Waters.” Kantzler beamed a smile that would have made her predecessor proud. “May I assist you?”

“I’m here to see Dr. Yuriev.”

“I’m so sorry.” Looking impressively blue. “The director isn’t here at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”

“When do you expect him?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I turned. Yuriev’s door was closed. I crossed to it and tried the knob. The office was locked.

Kantzler pushed away from her desk, the wheels on her chair protesting the sudden backward thrust. It was a soft sound but hostile in its own way.

“You mustn’t go in there.”

I pivoted. Kantzler was on her feet and no longer smiling.

“Is he gone for the day?” I asked.

Her eyes cut to the front window. “His car is still here.”

“The white Mercedes?” Following her sightline.

The aquamarines snapped back, clouded by worry at leaking classified info. “Is Dr. Yuriev aware of your visit?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you’d like to schedule an appointment?”

“No.”

“May I give him your name?”

“No.”

My blasting out the door obliterated Kantzler’s next question.

It was maybe two degrees cooler than on my previous visit. Which put the mercury at a bump south of 98°F. Waiting al fresco wasn’t an option.

I got into my car and started the engine. The gas gauge indicated a half-full tank. Uncertain how long that much fuel would last, I turned the AC to low, rolled to a spot beside the Mercedes, and settled in to wait.

Twenty minutes later, Yuriev came striding up the path. He was carrying a briefcase and had a fawn linen jacket finger-hooked over one shoulder. His pants were tan, his shirt so white it threatened to trigger snow blindness. Scrunching low, I tracked his progress.

Instead of continuing toward the pink box, Yuriev veered from the path and angled toward the Mercedes. Five yards out, he wheep-wheeped the locks, then popped the trunk.

It was then I realized I had no plan. Confront him on the pavement? He might get into his car and drive away. Follow him? Then what?

Yuriev circled to the rear to deposit the briefcase and jacket. The raised trunk lid blocked his view of my car. Without further thought, I acted.

Moving with as much speed and stealth as possible, I eased open my door, crouch-walked the gap between vehicles, and slipped into the Mercedes’s passenger seat.

The good doctor entered butt-first and sideways, then swiveled to position his feet by the pedals. Catching a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision, he gave a small squeak. His shoulders jumped, and both hands shot into the air. They were trembling.

“Take the car!” Never looking my way.

“I don’t want the car.” Not quite true. It beat the hell out of mine.

“Take my wallet. My watch.”

“It’s me,” I said.

Nothing but quick, hiccupy breathing.

“Look at me.”

“If I do, you’ll have to kill me.”

“If you don’t, I’ll shoot your ass.”

Yuriev’s head rotated so slowly I thought it might be stuck on his neck. His chin was canted and showed decidedly less attitude than on our first meeting.

I waggled my fingers, demonstrating I was unarmed.

Yuriev seemed unsure, just for a moment. Then his shoulders and hands dropped, and his eyes went stone-hard.

“You,” he said.

I smiled in confirmation.

“You were with that rude detective. The one asking about someone he claimed had been a guest at this facility.” Yuriev looked different somehow. Not just the chin. A trick of the lighting?

“Felix Vodyanov,” I said. “Aka F. Vance.”

“As I have explained, doctor-patient privilege prohibits discussion of any guest under my care. Had that ever been the case.” His face was more symmetrical than I recalled, the nose more centered over the upper lip.

“Vodyanov is dead,” I said.

“I do not know the man.” Enunciating every syllable by moving his mouth in exaggerated slo-mo. Exposing the very bad gums.

Snapshot memory.

Sudden insight. Like nuclear fusion—two separate atoms coming together to form something new.

“I think you do,” I said.

“I am going to ask you to—”

“I think the two of you shared a fondness for snus.”

Yuriev said nothing, but an overly forceful hiccup suggested surprise.

“G?teborgs Rapé? Is that your preferred brand?”

The stone eyes narrowed.

“Vodyanov died with a canister of G?teborgs Rapé in his pocket. Also a thumb drive recording your name.”