A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(98)

“In abandoned missile silos?”

“They’re called survival homes. It’s a booming market.”

“The sky’s falling. I get it. How’s the scheme work?”

“Body and Timmer had little of their own money, so they created a holding company, DeepHaven Ventures. Do you want actual figures?”

“Later.”

“They each put up a small sum, then got investors to contribute much larger amounts in exchange for part ownerships in the project. They got a bank to provide additional money via a secured nonrecourse mortgage. Do you follow?”

Slidell scribbled, nodded. I doubted he did.

“A percentage derived from the sale of each unit is paid to businesses called DeepHaven I, LLC, and DeepHaven II, LLC, two subsidiary holding companies.”

Unger interpreted Slidell’s expression as confusion.

“Look at it this way. The holding company allows Body and Timmer to tie up peanuts for a controlling interest in a multimillion-dollar project.”

“You cooked this up?”

“I did not invent the concept of the holding company.”

“Where are these ‘homes’?”

“DeepHaven I is in a converted Atlas missile silo in West Virginia.”

“Describe it.”

Unger kicked into what sounded like a sales pitch. Which made me wonder if he’d been at Lake Wylie the night Slidell and I crashed Timmer’s party.

“In addition to eleven floors of living units and one penthouse, the complex includes a swimming pool, dog park, theater, general store, classroom, arcade, library, shooting range, rock-climbing wall, and aquaponic farm.”

Slidell didn’t interrupt.

“The complex has redundant infrastructure for power, water, air, and food—everything needed for comfortable and extended off-grid survival.”

“It’s safe living where they used to stash nuclear warheads?” Despite himself, Slidell was intrigued.

“Before construction began, the site was examined by the State of West Virginia, the Army Corps of Engineers, and the Environmental Protection Agency and was declared fit for development.”

“So how’s this money train rolling?”

“DeepHaven I is complete and fully sold out. DeepHaven II is ready for conversion.”

“What’s the holdup?”

“Some investors have withdrawn, and presales are sluggish.”

“Sluggish.”

“They’ve only managed to sell a single half-floor unit.”

“Timmer and Body feeling the squeeze?”

“Big-time,” Unger said.

Quick change of direction. “Is Body staying at the Cleveland County property now?”

“No.”

“Where’s he living?”

“No clue.” Unger’s eyes slid down and left, a sure sign of deception.

“Got a phone number?”

“No. I receive the files electronically. If he needs to talk, which is rare, he contacts me.”

“Who’s Holly Kimrey?” Slidell veered again.

Unger leaned back. Picked at one thumbnail with the other.

“I’m waiting,” Slidell said.

“Holly Kimrey is Body’s gopher.” Mirthless snort. “And dealer.”

“Body’s on the junk?”

“The guy’s nose burns more bread than his DeepHaven project.”

Slidell sat very still, considering, I assumed, what Unger had told him. Then he did exactly what I would have done.

A few misleading questions. Then Slidell picked up the phone and ordered Unger’s release.





34


The next three hours seemed to last three days. Then the whole bloody mess ended with a whimper.

Slidell phoned to ask that Unger’s release be delayed until he could position himself for a tail. Then he requested backup. After disconnecting, you guessed it, he ordered me to sit tight. I told him not a chance. He blustered all the way down to ground level.

Two uniforms were waiting in the lobby, a guy who could have passed for Ice-T and a woman who must have been born lifting weights. Torrance and Spano.

When a rough plan was in place, Torrance and Spano exited and climbed into their cruiser. As Slidell and I hurried to his 4Runner, he called upstairs to give the go-ahead. Twelve minutes later, Unger appeared, cell phone to one ear. Six minutes after that, a red Ford Fiesta pulled into the lot. I heard Unger ask the driver if his name was Olaf.

“Shit-looking taxi,” Slidell mumbled.

“It’s probably an Uber.”

Two bloodshot eyes cut sideways to me. “I’m not a moron. I know about Uber.”

Half right, I thought.

Unger got in, and Olaf pulled out into traffic. Slidell waited ten seconds, then followed. Torrance and Spano were right on our bumper.

It was early afternoon on the Lord’s Day in Dixie, so uptown traffic was sparse. To avoid notice, Slidell held back several car lengths. No problem. The Fiesta stood out like a maraschino cherry on wheels.

Passenger and driver were visible as overlapping silhouettes through the rear window. The body movement suggested animated conversation, Unger’s head bobbing a full foot higher than Olaf’s.

Slidell drove in silence, either sulking or concentrating on the road. Maybe running logistics in his head.