Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel tb-16

by Kathy Reichs

  I had messages from several accounts routed into one central mail program. The e-mail had come through the ME system, not through my personal Gmail account. The address was easily obtainable. It was on my business cards. Hell, I’d posted it on flyers up and down Old Pineville Road and South Boulevard.

  Was citizenjustice a disgruntled ex-con? Someone who’d served time because of my testimony? The reverse? A friend or family member unhappy that my findings had contributed to an acquittal? To loss of monetary recovery in a civil suit?

  I racked my brain for other possibilities.

  A student unhappy with a grade? A neighbor who doesn’t like my cat? A psycho stranger I’d passed on the street?

  I stared at the crude message. Tell Slidell? Screw it. I didn’t need his skepticism. Or, worse, his paternalistic hovering.

  It was probably nothing.

  I closed the computer, ate the lasagna, took an aspirin for my ankle, and crawled into bed.

  Sleep dropped like a curtain at the end of a play.

  • • •

  Sheee-chunk!

  My lids flew up.

  I listened, unsure if I’d dreamed or actually heard the sound.

  Sheee-chunk!

  The noise was definitely real. And inside the house.

  My pulse kicked into high.

  I blinked, urging my eyes to adjust. Held my breath.

  I searched the room, alert to the slightest movement. Saw nothing but shadows. Heard only stillness.

  The bedside clock read 2:38.

  Sheee-chunk!

  My pulse jackhammered harder.

  The noise was coming from downstairs, a sound like a typewriter carriage slamming home.

  I reached for the phone. Damn! I’d left the portable in the study, my iPhone in my purse.

  I eased from bed and crept to the door, careful to avoid boards I knew would creak.

  Breath suspended, I listened.

  No stealthy footsteps. No whisper of fabric brushing a wall. No movement at all.

  Something feathery touched my bare calf. I flinched and inhaled sharply. Looked down.

  Two round eyes gleamed in the darkness.

  I gestured at the cat with a downturned palm. Stay. He slipped through the door as the sound fired again.

  Sheee-chunk!

  A phrase flashed in my mind. Printed words.

  You’ll die, too, fucking slut.

  Adrenaline shot through my body.

  I glanced over my shoulder, searching the room for something to use as a weapon.

  The troll from Norway? The LSJML mug? The MacKenzie-Childs vase?

  I settled on the bronze of two monkeys holding hands. Heavy. Sharp.

  Sculpture clutched in one hand, I inched into the hall. In the dimness, the wall mirror provided a ghostly view of the stairs.

  No figure crouched below, knife or gun at the ready.

  Birdie was poised on the first riser. Hearing me approach, he rose and started gliding down.

  Sheee-chunk!

  The cat froze. His tail flicked. Then he shot back up and disappeared into the bathroom.

  Barely breathing, I took the treads one by one. My ankle floated little warning twinges.

  At the bottom, I stopped to listen again.

  Sheee-chunk!

  Louder.

  Jesus. What the hell was it?

  I squinted into the parlor, the dining room beyond.

  Seeing nothing alarming, I moved toward the study. The sound seemed to come from that direction.

  I pushed open the door.

  SHEEE-CHUNK!

  My eyes darted, searching for a phone. One handset lay on the sofa. The other stood upright on the desk. The charger’s tiny red light cast a patch of radiance across the blotter.

  Something flicked in the glow. Flicked again.

  My eyes flew to Pete’s laptop.

  As I watched, the CD tray spit forward, then quickly withdrew.

  SHEEE-CHUNK!

  What the hell?

  I lowered the bronze primate, crossed to the desk, and lifted the top of the Dell to its full open position. On-screen, bright yellow script scrolled across a deep purple background.

  PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED!

  For once, my Luddite ex had been right. His computer had a virus.

  I shut down, rebooted, and waited out the whole annoying Windows startup performance. The script was gone. The CD tray stayed put.

  “You owe me, big guy,” I whispered under my breath.

  I was crossing the dining room when movement again caught my attention. A subtle alteration in shadows mottling the carpet. Below the window, on the far side of the table.

  I paused. Was the adrenaline rush playing tricks with my brain? The whacked-out computer?

  No. Like the sound of the tray, the shadowy ripple was real.

  Back to the wall, I slid to the drapes and peeked out.

  The night was moonless, the grounds of Sharon Hall dark as a tomb.

  But there, below the magnolia. A wink of paleness. A silhouette?

  I crouched a full minute, watching. But that was it. I saw nothing more. If I’d seen anything at all.

  Sudden thought.

  Had I locked up properly? Engaged the alarm? I’d been surprised to see Birdie. Distracted and exhausted, had I forgotten? Wouldn’t be the first time. Though I’m conscientious when leaving, I’m often lax about security when at home.

  My gaze fell on the files I’d dumped on the table. Creach and Majerick. Both burglars. One a violent offender.

  I checked every door and window and set the alarm. As I grabbed a handset from the study, faint but distinct, I heard a car engine turn over.

  A little uneasy, I returned to bed.

  AGAIN MA BELL RANG ME awake. I think I was setting some sort of record.

  “We bagged Cecil Creach.” Slidell sounded almost chirpy.

  “Where?”

  “Moosehead, over on Montford.”

  I’d been to the pub, knew the owner had a zero-tolerance policy.

  “Creach wasn’t dealing in that place,” I said.

  “Dumbass was drinking and shooting the breeze. With himself. Freaked the other customers, so the bouncer tossed him. Creach sat in the parking lot wailing about the injustice of life. Bouncer called the cops. Creach had a bellyful of booze, but wasn’t holding.”

  “When was this?”

  I heard paper rustle.

  “Booked in just past one A.M.”

  If I’d had a nocturnal visitor, it hadn’t been Creach. I debated telling Slidell about the previous night’s incident. Tell him what? I’d been punked by a PC prankster?

  “Did Creach resist?”

  A snort from Slidell.

  “What now?”

  “I let him cook a while, then I sweat him.”

  “I want to be there.”

  “Show kicks off in an hour.”

  “Don’t start without me.”

  Slidell made a noise that might have been agreement.

  I fed Birdie, showered, and dressed. One coffee and a dollop of cold lasagna, and I was good to go. Despite the interrupted sleep, I actually felt energized. We were making progress.

  I jammed the untouched files into my laptop case, grabbed my purse and keys, and opened the kitchen door.

  And stopped.

  A box sat on the mat, the kind you use for gifting a sweater or shirt. The top had no label, no printed or written name or address.

  There was nothing overtly threatening about the thing. No wires. No sounds from inside. Still, every instinct went on alert.

  The shadow play in the night. The movement under the tree.

  And something else.

  A ruby-brown blossom spread from the box’s bottom up and across its left side.

  I looked around.

  My Mazda was sitting where I’d left it. No car idled curbside or looped the drive. The grounds were empty. Across the street, Myers Park Baptist Church was deserted. A f
ew vehicles waited out the stoplight at Selwyn.

  My eyes dropped back to the box. Inhaling deeply, I set down my laptop case and drew gloves from an outer pocket. After pulling them on, I crouched and carefully teased off the lid.

  The box contained one single item. Gray-brown and shriveled, it looked like a hunk of mummified meat. The cardboard below it was dark and shiny.

  At first I had no idea.

  I turned the thing over with a fingertip. Took in detail.

  Then comprehension.

  Although the day was warm, I felt a chill run my spine.

  “Jesus . . .”

  I shot to my feet, stomach roiling. My hand flew to my mouth.

  “Oh, Jesus . . .”

  I swallowed. Swallowed again. Raised my chin and let the cool morning air play over my face. Willed myself calm.

  One more check of my surroundings, then I replaced the cover, brought the box into the kitchen, and closed the door.

  With a shaking hand, I pulled my iPhone from my purse and punched a speed-dial button.

  Slidell picked up on the second ring.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Get over here. Now.”

  Slidell read the urgency in my voice.

  “You okay, doc?”

  “Yes. No. Just, please come now. And you may want to notify CSS.”

  To his credit, Slidell asked no questions.

  I locked Birdie in the bedroom then returned to the kitchen. Slidell was at the door in less than twenty minutes. He looked anxious, concerned.

  I let him in and showed him what I’d placed on the counter.

  “It was on my doorstep this morning.” Sounding much calmer than I felt. “I may have caught a glimpse of an intruder around two thirty A.M.”

  “Did you open it?”

  I nodded. Raised my gloved hands.

  “What is it?”

  Without answering, I removed the lid and stepped aside.

  Slidell bellied up to the counter and peered into the box.

  “What the fuck?”

  Slidell looked away, then quickly back. After a few seconds his brows drew together. “That what I think it is?”

  “A tongue.”

  “Human?” His tone told me he knew the answer.

  “Yes. Note the papillae.”

  “The little bumps that look like nipples.”

  “Yes.”

  Slidell ran a hand over his jaw. “Cut looks pretty clean.”

  “Yes. Though there are abrasions and lacerations probably caused by scraping against the dentition.”

  “Marks tell you anything?”

  “I see curvature. Multiple arcs, so multiple attempts to cut through the flesh. I’m guessing small handheld pruning sheers with curved blades.”

  Slidell straightened and took a deep breath.

  “Vic alive when this happened?”

  “Staining on the box suggests significant hemorrhage.”

  Slidell raised both brows.

  “Once the heart stops pumping blood to the vessels, bleeding stops.” Greatly oversimplified, but sufficient for Slidell.

  “You piss anyone off lately? I mean, more than usual.” Slidell was coming back into character.

  I shrugged. Who knows? “Do you think it’s a threat? A warning?”

  Slidell pulled out his mobile and punched some keys.

  “Get CSS over here.” He provided my address, then frowned at the information he was given. “As quick as you can, then.”

  Jamming the phone on his belt, he looked at me glumly. “What makes you think this is a threat and not just a windup?”

  “Come into the study.”

  He did, head swiveling left and right.

  I booted my laptop and opened the e-mail from citizenjustice@hotmail.com.

  “When did this land?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “And you didn’t mention it because . . . ?” There it was. That annoying paternalistic edge.

  “I didn’t see it until yesterday.”

  I told him what had happened in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe happened.

  “It might have been nothing.”

  “Or it might have been the asshole delivering your door prize. I’m putting eyes on this place.”

  “Is surveillance really necessary?”

  “Yeah,” Slidell snapped. “It’s really necessary. In the meantime, don’t touch the box. Or the door. Or the mat. Or the stoop.”

  “I know how CSS works.” Snippy. But Slidell’s attitude was tripping that switch.

  “Whoever did this was either angry or nuts. Which door you want, doc?”

  “How about we go talk to Creach?”

  Skinny gave me one of his Dirty Harry looks.

  “Look, I have to submit a statement.” I gestured at the box. “I might as well do it at headquarters.”

  Slidell pooched out his lips, then sighed.

  “I talk to Creach.” Jabbing at his phone. “You listen.”

  WHEN I FIRST STARTED WORKING for the MCME, the Charlotte Police Department had not yet merged with its Mecklenburg County counterpart. CPD headquarters was an unremarkable beige building at the corner of Fourth and McDowell.

  Today the CMPD is located in a four-story Dixie neoclassic at the intersection of East Trade and Davidson. Ten minutes after leaving my town house, Slidell and I were walking through the doors. After presenting ID, we rode an elevator to the second floor. He led me past a row of interrogation rooms to one marked A.

  “Creach is in C.” Slidell popped the door. “You watch from here.”

  The small cubicle held the usual table and chairs, AV setup, and wall phone. As I sat, the small screen came to life in grainy black-and-white. Metallic sounds sputtered through the speakers.

  CC Creach sat on a metal and gray plastic chair similar to the one I occupied, elbows on the table, chin resting on his fists. His long dark hair was pulled into a braid bound by elastic bands spaced inches apart.

  I heard a door open. Creach’s head jerked up and spun toward the sound.

  Footsteps, then Slidell came into view. Creach followed his progress, lower arms upright like long skinny poles, eyes wide and skittish.

  Slidell tossed a file onto the table. It landed with a sharp click.

  Creach’s hands dropped, allowing a better view of his face. The harsh fluorescent lighting turned the white patch on his cheek a pallid blue.

  “Hey, man.” Creach flicked a nervous grin. “What’s happening?”

  Slidell stared down at his subject, silent and unsmiling.

  “Guess I got a little worked up.” Creach made an odd giggling sound.

  Slidell pulled out a chair.

  “Dude has no sense of humor. I’ll apologize. No harm no foul, right?”

  Slidell sat. Opened the file. Slowly sorted and organized the contents.

  Creach sat back. Sat forward.

  Slidell checked that the AV equipment was on and working.

  “This interview will be recorded. For your protection and for mine. Do you have any objection to that?”

  Creach shook his head.

  Slidell hit a button. “Present at this interview are Detective Erskine Slidell, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit, and Cecil Converse Creach.” Slidell provided the date and time.

  As Creach watched nervously, Slidell drew a paper from his stack and pretended to read. I knew what he was doing. And why he’d left Creach waiting so long. He wanted Creach anxious, vulnerable. More likely to make mistakes.

  Slidell laid down the paper. “Class is now in session.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You ever go to school, CC? Maybe ride the special bus?”

  “School of hard knocks.” Creach giggled in a way that made me think of Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “I thought you was joking. You know, that shit about going to school.”
r />   Slidell just stared.

  Creach’s right foot started pumping, sending one bony knee bouncing like a piston.

  “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “That’s what we call a double negative, CC. If you didn’t do nothing, then you done something. Which is why you’re sitting here stinking up my interrogation room.”

  Some interviewers like to put their subjects at ease, gain their trust, then take advantage. Not Slidell. He believes in going straight for the kill.

  “You’re on parole, ain’t that right?”

  Creach nodded.

  “A drunk and disorderly violates. Am I right again?”

  No reaction.

  “You don’t cooperate, CC, your skinny black ass is back in the joint. I hear you’re a popular guy inside.”

  Creach’s eyes began jumping around the room.

  “Look at me, dipshit. You lose focus, I lose patience. You don’t want that.”

  “You got it wrong, man.”

  “Do I? Let’s try this. Passion Fruit Club.”

  Creach looked genuinely confused.

  “Ever get your pipe cleaned at the Passion Fruit?”

  “What?”

  “You need I should spell it out real slow?”

  Creach opened his lips, but said nothing.

  “I asked a question, asshole. You get your joystick tuned up at the”—Slidell hooked quotation marks—“massage parlor?”

  Creach couldn’t sit still. His fingers picked at the table edge. His sneaker went rat-tat-tat on the tile.

  Slidell sighed and began gathering his papers.

  Creach’s hands flew up. “Fine, then. Yeah. I been there.”

  “When?”

  “Couple times. Maybe three.”

  “When?”

  “Like, a date?”

  “Yeah, dipshit. Like a date.”

  “I’m not so good with dates.”

  “Dig real deep, CC.”

  Creach’s eyes stilled as he thought about his recent timetable.

  “A few weeks ago, maybe.”

  Slidell tipped his head.

  “A Monday? Yeah. I remember. Two weeks ago Monday. I was with this guy Zeno. Zeno said they got fresh stuff dancing at the Bronco Club.”

  I grabbed my iPhone and opened the calendar. Two Mondays back. The day our Jane Doe died.

  “What do you mean, ‘fresh stuff’?”

  “The owner brings new dancers in the first Monday of every month. When we’re flush, Zeno and me go to check out the titties.”