A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Hiding my annoyance, I thanked Conover, hurried back up the hall, and let myself into a space the size of my pantry. Leaving the overheads off, I stepped to a lighted rectangle on the right-hand wall.

  Through the one-way mirror, I could see the adjacent interrogation room, a stark duplicate of the one I was in. Same wall phone, same recording equipment, same institutional table and chairs.

  No red light glowed on the camera tucked high in one corner. I wondered if Aiello had balked at being taped. The audio was working. Objection or not, Slidell would have insisted on that.

  Slidell occupied one chair, his back to me. A yellow legal pad and a folder lay on the table before him, the contents of the latter mostly blocked by his bulk.

  The man opposite looked like he’d never visited a gym in his life. Which I guessed had lasted maybe fifty years. His hair was dirty-blond, center-parted, and tucked behind his ears. His bottom lip was fuller than his top, giving his face a perpetual pout.

  Aiello shoved a paper across the tabletop, I assumed some type of waiver form. Tossed a pen after. When Slidell leaned forward to collect them, I caught my first glimpse of Aiello’s eyes, Coke-bottle green and bereft of feeling.

  Slidell was still in good-cop mode.

  “OK, Vince. Glad we got all that legal mumbo jumbo out of the way. It’s OK if I call you Vince?”

  “Could we move this along?”

  “I appreciate you coming in. You need anything? A coffee? A soda?”

  “I’m good.” Pointedly checking his watch. Which was gold and the size of a manhole cover.

  Slidell shuffled his papers, selected and studied one. Or appeared to. Smiled, friendly as hell.

  “You’ve lived in Charlotte since—”

  “Since 1984.”

  “You’re a lawyer, right?”

  “I am.”

  “You help folks protect their inventions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  Aiello took Slidell through a brief discourse on the U.S. Patent Act, exclusive rights, trademarks, limited monopolies, for all of which Slidell feigned avid interest. He appeared to take notes. Finally laid down his pen.

  “You know how you can never fill up your bathtub? I got an idea for this gadget plugs the overflow drain so’s you can have a nice, deep soak. Think that’d qualify?”

  Aiello listed the five requirements: patentable subject matter, utility, novelty, nonobviousness, and enablement. Advised Slidell to apply for a utility patent, describing his device as a machine with a new useful purpose.

  Slidell listened, overnodding. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” Then, reading from a printout, “You live alone, right?”

  “Last I checked, that’s not a crime.”

  “You own property in Dilworth.”

  “We both know these things.”

  “A house on Mount Vernon Avenue. That’s near Latta Park, yeah?”

  “As I said, I have a busy day. What’s this all about?”

  “Real pretty park. I used to walk my dog there.”

  “Please spare me the small talk.”

  “Will do.” Quick flick of a smile. “Tell me what you know about Felix Vodyanov.”

  “Who?” Clearly surprised at the question.

  “Felix. Vodyanov.” Slowly.

  “Don’t know the man.”

  “I think you do.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  Aiello tried to cross his arms on his chest. The parts involved were too large for the arrangement to work. The flabby forelimbs dropped back to the armrests barely containing his torso.

  “We’ll circle back to Vodyanov,” Slidell said. “Talk about his brother.”

  “Who?”

  “Nick Body. You three buddied up through Yates Timmer, correct?”

  “I’ve never heard any of those names.”

  “That’s not the story coming from Timmer’s muscle. According to Bing, you and Vodyanov had one hell of a throwdown.”

  “You said you had questions about a cold case.” Still cocky but showing the first cracks.

  “He’s cold enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Vodyanov entered long-term parking right after the two of you went at each other.”

  “Long-term parking?”

  “He turned up dead.”

  “I’m sorry for the man’s misfortune.”

  Slidell switched tacks. An old trick to catch a witness off guard. “Twist. That’s an odd handle. How’d you get it?”

  Seconds passed. Aiello looked like he was counting the concrete blocks in the wall to Slidell’s left. Or deciding on a strategy.

  “Probably not your dancing skills,” Slidell said.

  “Boo-hah. The cop does comedy.”

  “I’m guessing it’s a reference to your favorite pastime.”

  The pouty lips tightened.

  Slidell pulled a photo from his file and skimmed it across the table. Through the speaker, the paper made a slithery, hissing sound. Through the glass, I caught a flash of bright pink beads.

  “Jahaan Cole.” Slidell’s words were suddenly curdled with loathing. “She was nine when some degenerate piece of shit yanked her out of her life. You get your rocks off leering at naked kids, Twist. You know anything about that?”

  Aiello’s Adam’s apple took a roller-coaster ride in his fleshy throat.

  “Look at her!” Slidell finger-jabbed the image.

  Aiello glanced down, quickly away.

  “What happened to her?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  “OK, fine. I heard about her on the news.” The Coke-bottle eyes were now round and flat. “Everyone did. Because of past … difficulties … I was caught up in the hysteria, questioned illegally. I had an alibi. I wasn’t in Charlotte when the child disappeared.”

  Skinny knew the Cole file inside and out. Knew Aiello hadn’t been a suspect. I understood his motive.

  The chair legs screeched as Slidell popped to his feet and leaned across the table. When he spoke again, nose inches above Aiello’s, his voice was low and dangerous.

  “That’s the cold case I want to talk about, you dumb prick.” Sending droplets of spit onto Aiello’s face. “Only this one’s never going cold on my watch. So. You want we should dive down that hole? Or maybe you’re suddenly remembering your pals?”

  Aiello raised a hand to wipe the saliva from his skin, reconsidered, and dropped it.

  “I’m waiting, asshole.”

  Aiello held perfectly still a moment before responding.

  “Please step away.”

  Slidell hesitated, then dropped back into his chair.

  “Nick Body is a radio personality. But I’m sure you are cognizant of that fact.”

  “He’s a boil on the buttcheek of humanity, but go on.”

  “Body has a large national audience but avoids the limelight when off air.” Aiello was choosing his words carefully. “He fervently safeguards his privacy and allows very few into his inner circle. I am not one of those few.”

  “You met Body through Timmer.”

  “I did.”

  “Timmer sells real estate.”

  “He does.”

  “What’s DeepHaven?”

  “My word, detective. You have done some digging.”

  “You need I should repeat the question?”

  “DeepHaven is a sort of social club.”

  “For suckers buying into Body’s conspiracy bullshit?”

  “Nothing like that. Body and his brother are mere members like the rest of us.” Another pause for word choice. “DeepHaven is a gathering place for those sharing the same concerns as Yates Timmer.”

  “Wackadoos wanting to live underground.”

  “In his day, Edward Jenner was considered a wackadoo. You’re familiar with Jenner, of course?” Raising supercilious brows. “Vaccination?”

  “Talk about Vodyanov.”

 
; Aiello said nothing.

  “You need a visual aid on him, too.” Sharp. “I got one. It ain’t pretty.”

  “I hardly knew the man.”

  “You fought with him.”

  “He attacked me.”

  “Was Vodyanov into hard candy, like you?” Slidell’s face was red and moving toward claret. “You two pair up to ogle toddlers outta their diapers?”

  Aiello’s eyes returned to the concrete blocks.

  “Why was Vodyanov carrying info on this kid?” Slidell snatched up Cole’s photo, glowering hard.

  “If you’ll calm down and keep your distance, I’ll tell you what I know.” Again, the arm-cross failed. “But this cannot get back to DeepHaven.”

  “Those cretins are the least of your worries.”

  A moment of mental editing. “Felix Vodyanov was delusional and dishonest.”

  “Explain that.”

  “Here’s an example. He liked custom-made clothing he couldn’t afford, so he shopped resale. You know what I’m talking about? Stores where high-end items are sold on consignment?”

  Slidell probably didn’t but nodded.

  “Then he’d cut out the labels so no one would know.” Aiello smoothed down the front of his shirt. “He’d buy cheap tobacco and transfer it to fancy European packaging.”

  “I got a nephew’s pretentious like that. Don’t make him a perv.”

  “Vodyanov was also paranoid. He’d pay only in cash, had no credit cards, no cell phone, constantly created and abandoned internet accounts. He went through aliases like the rest of us go through tissue.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “I don’t know. At DeepHaven, one does not query the personal lives of others.”

  “Yet he told you where he bought his skivvies.”

  “I certainly didn’t ask.”

  “The guy have a job?”

  “He did research for Body’s blogs and podcasts. Apparently, little bro was too cheap to support the lifestyle to which big bro aspired.”

  “Why’d you clock him?”

  “I told you. I was defending myself.”

  “Why’d he jump you?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Very deep sigh. “Early last month, people started reporting that someone was looking for me. I had no idea who. Or why.”

  “People?”

  “Neighbors, a client, the gardener.”

  “Go on.”

  “One day, I saw a man on the sidewalk outside my home. He was just standing there, staring at the house. It was Felix Vodyanov.”

  Flashback. A face lit by a streetlamp in a parking lot at Sharon Hall.

  “What did he want?”

  Aiello’s fingers interlaced, tightened so hard they paled. Discomfort with the upcoming part of the story.

  “He used to ask me questions about kids. I don’t know why he was interested or why he chose me.”

  “What kids?”

  “Missing kids.”

  Slidell again jabbed the Cole photo, now back on the table.

  Aiello nodded. “And others.”

  “What others?”

  “I don’t recall names.”

  “Don’t jerk me around.”

  “I’m not.” Aiello was sweating visibly now. His skin looked silky yellow through the filter of the mirror. “More than once, he accused me of kidnapping and molesting children. Of being behind these disappearances.”

  “What made him think that?”

  “The man was insane.”

  “And there’s that pesky arrest record you got.”

  “I was never convicted.” Churlish. “Everyone misunderstands. Viewing images does not equate to hurting children.”

  “Go on.” I couldn’t see Slidell’s face but knew he was struggling to control his temper.

  “For a while, he dropped the whole subject. Then, as I said, maybe six weeks ago, he started this stalking business. When I saw him outside my home, I confronted him. He said he’d come to force me to level with him. To tell him what had happened to these kids. I told him to go screw himself. He tried again at DeepHaven. That’s when I hit him.”

  Slidell looked at Aiello a very long moment. Then, “Don’t move.”

  “I really must—”

  Slidell gathered his papers, got to his feet, and crossed to the door. I met him in the hall.

  “What do you think?” Wiping his face with a grayed square of fabric yanked from a back pocket.

  “He never asked how Vodyanov died.”

  “You noticed that, too.”

  “Still, my gut says he’s telling the truth.”

  “But not all of it.”

  “Exactly.” The hands on the wall clock were pointing to the twelve and the five. “Listen, I still have some cleaning up to do. And a file to collect and read before my testimony next week.”

  “Go.” Pocket-jamming the hankie. “I’ll trot this wanker through his story a couple more times. See if it hangs together when he’s balls to the wall.”

  A wave of hot, humid air engulfed me when I left the building. Slogged me across the lot to my car.

  I was at the MCME in minutes. The lobby was almost empty, not unusual for a Wednesday afternoon in July. An elderly woman slouched in a chair, crying quietly into a lavender tissue. A death investigator stood flipping through papers on a clipboard.

  I swiped my card, passed through the bio-vestibule to the secure side of the facility, and went straight to my office. No sign of Heavner. Mixed feelings about that. Part of me wanted to confront her. Another part wanted to avoid another skirmish with Dr. Death.

  Once at my desk, I logged onto my computer and checked my email. Nothing from LaManche. I busied myself with other messages and requests, other tasks. The Pasquerault file finally arrived around four. After downloading and printing the relevant portions, I logged off and headed out.

  I made a not-so-quick stop at the vet’s office to pick up a case of Birdie’s preferred food, apparently stored in a warehouse in suburban Dubrovnik. I was back at the annex by five.

  After a glass of sun tea, which I’d brought in from outside and placed in the fridge, I opened the Pasquerault file and sorted the components into stacks at the kitchen table.

  I was reviewing my skeletal autopsy report when Dorothée Pasquerault opened the back door.

  26

  THURSDAY, JULY 12

  Sounds eddied around me, a cacophony of beeping and clanking and humming and ringing.

  And voices, most hushed, one forceful, frenzied almost.

  I smelled climatized air and disinfectant.

  My head pounded. My chest burned. My forearm prickled.

  I tried to sit up. Felt pressure on my shoulders, gentle but firm. I lay back.

  “She’s awake.”

  Footsteps clicked, hard and fast.

  I opened my eyes.

  Light scorched my optic nerves like a jolt from a Taser.

  A face hovered above me, a landscape of foggy valleys and peaks. Slowly, the geography crystallized into a recognizable pattern.

  “You’re going to be just dandy, doc.” Forced calm belying tension.

  I could only stare at Slidell, unable to speak.

  “I rang for the nurse.” Then, bellowed over one shoulder, “Where’s the goddamn nurse?”

  “Drink?” My mouth was as dry as an unwatered lawn in August.

  Slidell conferred with someone. Got clearance. A plastic tumbler was produced. I sucked on the straw like I’d never drunk liquid before.

  Flash synapses. Dorothée Pasquerault backlit in my doorway. Standing at my car, flies buzzing and dive-bombing the fenders and hood.

  “Wha … time?”

  “Almost four.”

  Jesus Christ. Could that be?

  When I tried rewinding a mental tape of the afternoon, my brain unspooled a mash-up of visual, tactile, and olfactory impressions. Images of a jarringly blue path winding through psychedelica
lly green vegetation toward an open blast door leading to a pitch-black void. A tiny green beacon beckoning me through an endless warren of ebony darkness. My fingers brailling over concrete furry with moss, convoluted piping, metal fittings vomiting rust. My nose sorting primordial smells—moldy earth, rotting fabric, and creatures long dead.

  Had I gone to Cleveland County? Had I descended into Vodyanov’s bunker?

  Slidell read my confusion. “It’s four a.m., Thursday morning. You were AWOL for almost ten hours.”

  Was that possible?

  “What happened?” I croaked.

  “A guy walking his poodle found you outside by the back wall at Sharon Hall. Harcourt, that’s the guy, claims Larry, that’s the poodle, was sniffing for a leak, nosed you out under a hedge. Thinking you were either drunk or dead, Harcourt called 911. That was around two a.m. Don’t ask me why the dog needed to piss at that hour of the morning.” Nervous run-on. Slidell was clearly wired. “Harcourt says he’s willing to do interviews. Not sure about Larry.”

  Had I spent that long wandering the grounds or curled up outside? Had I driven to Cleveland County, eventually returned, and passed out by the wall? Had someone taken me there, then brought me back home? Was it all the result of a cataclysmic headache? Meds? I didn’t remember taking anything. A sign of deterioration? Of escalating symptoms? A stroke?

  I hadn’t a clue. My memories were like flakes in a blizzard, battered and spun by the wind, then left to melt in my head. Vivid, detailed, yet surreal. A Hiroshima of garish chaos.

  “How did you know?”

  “I swung by your place around eight last night to brief you on some news. Found your door wide open, your purse on the counter, your wheels in the drive. I waited a bit, thinking maybe you was out jogging, but that seemed off, even with the lone-gunslinger act you been peddling lately. I called in a BOLO, eventually got word the EMTs had brought you here.”

  “My cat?”

  “Already pissed when I showed up. I fed him.”

  The curtain whrrped on its little metal rings. A nurse strode into the bay. Her name was Georgia. She looked like El Chapo having a bad day.

  Georgia checked a printout, a drip bottle, the beeping machines. Crossed to me.

  “ER?” Stupid question.

  “That’s right, honey. We’re bringing you down easy.”

  “I have an embolized aneurysm and I suffer from migraines. I might have taken something if I felt a headache coming on.”