A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(99)

Olaf exited uptown on Central Avenue, eventually made a left onto the Plaza, then a right onto Belvedere, heading into the Plaza-Midwood neighborhood.

“Sonofabitch.” Slidell palm-slapped the wheel.

“What?”

“The toad’s going home.”

“How do you know?”

“We busted him there last night.”

“Maybe he wants to pick up his car.” Or maybe we’re wrong, and Unger won’t lead us to Body. I didn’t add that.

Slidell said nothing.

The Fiesta made several more turns, weaving through streets lined with frame-and-brick bungalows built a century ago to create Charlotte’s first streetcar burb. Prices are modest, so many university faculty live in the hood. I’d been to the occasional party but hadn’t recognized the address Yuriev provided.

A quarter hour after leaving the Law Enforcement Center, Olaf pulled in at one of the larger homes on the street, a two-story number with a wide front porch bordered by desperately thirsty azalea bushes. A silver Jaguar XF sat in the gravel drive.

Slidell stopped twenty yards short of Unger’s house. Torrance and Spano drove past us and eased to the curb far up the block.

Unger got out of the Fiesta and went inside. Olaf drove off.

“Goddammit.” Slidell again smacked the wheel.

“Will you please stop that,” I said, equaling Skinny’s testiness.

Shortly after entering, Unger reemerged. He’d swapped khakis for the shorts, deck shoes for the flip-flops. His hair was still greasy. I watched him cross to the Jag and, limb by limb, fold himself in. Made me think of a walking stick.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror, then Unger backed down the drive and vroomed up the street. Slidell threw the 4Runner into gear and gunned off in his wake. I braced against the dash, watching the world come at me way too fast. Hoping no kid or beagle got in our way.

Unger retraced the path we’d taken from uptown, eventually got onto Freedom Drive, which, with a slight apologetic bend, became Moores Chapel Road. Several miles, then he cut onto Sullins and made another quick right. When Slidell rounded the corner, the Jag was hooking a left.

Crap! Had he spotted us?

Slidell made the turn.

The Jag was halfway up the block, traveling more slowly, not being evasive. Relieved, I leaned back and surveyed my surroundings through the passenger-side window.

We were weaving through another residential area, this one of more recent vintage than the one we’d just left. The homes were all one-story and variations on a very limited, very artless theme. Siding in dingy pastels. Painted versus stained front doors. Carports to the left or to the right. As developments go, it seemed the bottom of the architectural food chain.

Unger turned again. As before, Slidell held back, then followed. A hundred yards up, the Jag veered onto a street cutting in from the right, a spur that ended in a cul-de-sac.

We rolled to a stop just short of the corner and surveyed the scene. Two homes faced off across a concrete circle, each flanked by empty lots. One house was pea-green and had a bay window, detached garage, and small front stoop with a Kmart bench holding a black-and-red racing bike tight to one wall. The other was gray and had none of those niceties.

The Jag was parked in front of the pea. A curbside mailbox said Schneller. The neighbor’s said Russak. Unger got out of the Jag and strode to Schneller’s front door. A thumb to the bell, it opened, he disappeared inside.

Slidell punched keys, then spoke into his phone.

“Pull this up.” He gave the address. 4 Pine Lily Court.

The response was deadened by Slidell’s head. I heard muted sputtering. More sputtering. The voice again, high, probably Spano, a lengthy report.

“What’s behind it?”

I couldn’t make out a word of the reply.

“No street access?”

Clipped answer. No, I assumed.

“Holding position.”

“What?” I asked when Slidell had disconnected.

“Title’s been in the name Otto Schneller since the house was built in ’97. No record of any calls to the address. No complaints from the neighbors. Schneller’s got no history, no jacket.”

Though the day was heavy and humid, Slidell felt the need for outside air. We sat with his window half open, breathing the strong smells of rotting garbage, charcoal briquettes, and chlorine losing out to stagnant pool water. Of Slidell’s failing Right Guard and sweat-soaked shirt.

Five minutes. Ten.

As Slidell would say, stakeouts don’t make for heart-pumping action. My eyes roved the property, logging detail.

Trees muscled up to the edge of the backyard, maybe twenty yards distant from the house. A huge wasp’s nest hung below one eave. A door stood ajar at the rear of the garage. Beside the door, a wheelbarrow held a jumbled green blanket. A garden spade lay crosswise atop the bowl, fresh soil on the blade.

That seemed wrong.

I widened my scope.

Neither the street we were on nor Pine Lily Court was seeing any action. No kids riding bikes or scooters. No neighbors washing cars, pushing mowers, or pulling weeds. The only sounds were Slidell’s thumbs drumming on the wheel and a persistent locust hum.

Then, over the drumming and humming, a muted purr.

I was about to comment when Slidell’s mobile buzzed. This time, he didn’t mash the thing so tight to his ear. I caught most of the exchange.