A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(95)

“Nuclear war, natural disaster, pandemic. Pick your calamity. And a new twist. The bastard’s saying his brother was murdered.”

“Why?”

“Felix had uncovered secret information about the government kidnapping kids.”

“That’s bullshit.” Slidell sounded as repulsed as I felt.

“It is.”

“But I meant, why go there at all?”

“Typical media ploy. Get out ahead of a scandal.”

“But why?” Added hours without sleep hadn’t improved Slidell’s disposition.

“How the hell would I know?” Or mine. We were both edging toward shrill. “Maybe he thinks we’re closing in. Maybe he thinks Heavner’s about to release the tox report.”

“Is she?”

“You think she’d tell me?” Hearing my tone, I brought it down a level. “Whatever Body’s provocation, these tirades make his earlier ones sound like yogic meditation.”

“What’s your read on Yuriev?” Also more controlled.

“The bastard knew those kids’ names.”

“He admitted that?”

“No. But I could sense it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, it all ties together. Cole. Horshauser. Maybe this new one.”

“That’s going a stretch.”

“Body renews his crusade about child abductions. Voilà! Another kid disappears in his own backyard.”

“You’re really liking Vodyanov for these disappearances?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“He definitely didn’t snatch April Siler.”

“No. Yuriev fingered a guy named Floy Unger.”

“Hold on.”

I heard protesting springs, then the slow, two-fingered clicking of keys.

“Unger’s in the system. The FBI investigated him for running an investment-pool scam. Hold on.” More keys. “He was collecting money to build apartments in storm-ravaged areas, assuring a twenty-two percent return. The first wave of investors were getting paid, but off the backs of later victims.”

“Sounds like a Ponzi scheme.”

“Then there’s something about an impersonation and advance-fee scheme—”

“The Nigerian email-type crap?”

“Yeah. Not much stuck. He did a nickel at Butner for a pump-and-dump securities fraud.”

“Sounds like Unger is strictly white-collar.”

“Well hell-o. Floy Unger was charged with assault in ’09. Pleaded out to a lesser.” Another, longer pause. “Nothing since then.”

I heard the whir of a printer. The unhappy springs. Wondered at the absence of background noise.

“Any progress on April Siler?”

“Got one solid lead. A witness claims he saw the kid leaving the athletic fields with a woman in a ball cap. Another says she saw the kid getting into a van. Same description.”

“Anyone get the plate?”

“No.” Leaden with fatigue. “I been helping with the tip line. Which don’t make for heart-pumping action. The kid’s snatched by gypsies. Locked away by nuns up in Boone. Transported to Roswell so aliens can study her innards. There are some freakin’ loons out there.”

“Indeed.”

“But I did score some intel on that property. You were dead-on. There’s an underground Atlas F missile silo inside that fence.”

“Wait. Are you talking about Cleveland County?”

“No. The convent in Boone.”

“Hilarious. Owned by whom?”

“Originally, Uncle Sam. In ’08, the property sold through something called—let me get this right.” More squeaking springs. “The Formerly Used Defense Site program. FUDS. Can’t beat the military for alphabet soup.”

“Who bought it?”

“A holding company called DeepHaven Ventures, LLC.”

“Who owns the holding company?” Heart spiking hard.

“The thing has a shit ton of subsidiary LCs, LPs, LLPs, SOBs, but only two principal investors. You ready for this?”

I wanted to reach across the line and strangle Slidell with his Kmart tie. Instead, I waited.

“Nick Body and Yates Timmer.”

“Sonofabitch.”

“Sonofabitch.”

“I’m telling you, everything circles back.”

All I heard was air whistling in and out of Slidell’s nose. Finally, “There’s no PO listed for Unger, and his LKA dates to ’09.” Cop code for parole officer and last-known address. “You got any idea where to find this mutt?”

“Yuriev gave me an address. Could be a misdirect.”

“Let me have it.”

I did.

“I’ll send a unit to haul his ass to the bag.”

“For what?”

“Pissing in public. Failure to register his pet iguana.”

“It’s going on midnight.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“You’ll let me know if you get him?”

“Sure.”

“Then what?”

“Unger cooks overnight, enjoys Sunday-morning pancakes. Then I open him like a can of sardines.”