by Kathy Reichs
Ryan squeezed my hands in his, a gesture intended to calm. Instead, it increased my agitation.
“I really would like to stay, Tempe.”
I searched his face, hoping for words that would comfort. Instead Ryan released me and slipped into his jacket. Grabbing the tape, he reached out, touched my cheek, and was gone.
I stood a moment, pondering his comment.
Stay what, Andrew Ryan? The course? The night? Cool? Free?
Not a sound from the bathroom. Not a sound from the study. Anne’s light was off.
After cranking up the heat, I checked the lock on every door and window, set the alarm, and tested the phone. Then I headed toward my room.
I hadn’t noticed earlier. As I crossed the threshold, it drew my attention like some malignant phantom.
My legs gridlocked in shock at the macabre outrage above my bed.
11
“NO!”
Rushing forward, I jumped onto the bed, yanked a long, jagged shard from the painting above the headboard, and hurled it to the far side of the room.
Glass shattered. Fragments bounced from the wall and dropped onto others swept to the baseboard during our hasty cleanup.
“You low-life son of a bitch!”
My heart hammered. Tears burned the backs of my lids.
Stripping off my clothes, I flung them one by one after the shard. Then I threw myself under the covers, naked and trembling.
As an entering freshman at UVA, Katy chose a studio arts major. Her interest was short-lived, but during that brief blossoming, my daughter was as passionate about les beaux arts as any Montmartre aspirant. In one semester she produced four prints, fourteen drawings, and six oils, her style a lyrical blend of fauvist gaudiness and Barbizon realism.
On my fortieth, my only-born presented me with a Katy Petersons oil original, a raucous Matisse-meets-Rousseau interpretation of a Charlottesville hillside. I treasure that canvas. It is one of the few possessions I have transported from Carolina to Quebec to make a home out of my condo. Katy’s landscape is my last sight as I pull back the covers each night, and regularly catches my eye whenever I move through the room.
Why couldn’t you just take whatever it was you wanted? Why ruin Katy’s painting? Why ruin my daughter’s beautiful goddamned painting?
I squeezed my eyelids, too angry to cry, too angry not to. My fingers bunched and rebunched the blanket.
Minutes clicked by.
One.
Two.
Tears trickled to my temples.
Three.
Four.
Eventually, my breathing steadied and my death grip on the blanket relaxed.
I opened my eyes to blackness, and the soft orange glow of the clock radio. I stared at the digits, willing back rational thought.
Eventually, the anger abated. I began picking apart the mosaic of the last three hours.
What had gone on here? Had Anne and I merely interrupted a burglary in progress, or had we climbed into something more sinister? B and E didn’t figure.
Again, my fingers grip-locked. A stranger had violated my personal space.
Who? A very selective thief looking for particular items of value? A junkie looking for anything that could be fenced to fund a buy? Thrill-seeking kids?
Why? Most important, why the gratuitous violence?
I remembered Ryan’s words.
What was stolen?
Anne’s laptop and camera.
What was wrong there?
The jewelry case had been in full view. It contained items of value and was portable. Why not take that? The TV? The DVD player? Less portable. My laptop? In the excitement of Anne’s arrival, I’d left it in the trunk of my car.
Had the intruder been spooked before scoring the good stuff? Not likely. He had taken the time to break things. Assuming it was a he. Gratuitous damage is more characteristic of the male of the species.
The main door was open when we arrived. The courtyard doors were locked from the inside. Escape through the French doors would have necessitated scaling the backyard fence.
So? That’s how he’d come in. Had the front door been opened simply for the effect when I returned? Had Bird been thrown out or had he bolted through the French door when things were being smashed?
I rolled over. Punched the pillow. Rolled back.
Why so much damage? Where were my neighbors? Had no one heard the noise?
Was Ryan right? Was the episode more than a simple B and E? Burglars work in silence.
Why cut cleanly through the French door then smash mirrors and pictures?
Why mutilate the painting?
Another blast of anger.
Was the act a threat? A warning?
If so, to whom? Me? Anne?
From whom? One of my schizoid crazies? A random schizoid crazy? Anne’s buddy from the plane?
Thoughts winged and collided in my head.
I heard soft crunching, like whispered footsteps in sand. A weight hit the bed, then Birdie curled by my knee.
I reached down and stroked him.
“I love you, Bird boy.”
Birdie stretched full length against my leg.
“As for you, you loathsome son of a bitch. Yes, you’ve gotten to me, but one day we may have a reckoning.”
I was talking aloud over the gentle purring.
* * *
I awoke with a sense that something was wrong. Not full memory, just a nagging from the lower centers.
Then recollection.
I opened my eyes. Sunlight sparkled from flecks on the carpet and dresser top.
Birdie was gone. Through my partially open door I could hear a radio.
I found Anne drinking coffee in the kitchen, working a crossword and humming David Bowie.
Hearing me, she sang out aloud.
“Ch- ch- ch—changes!”
“Is that a suggestion?” I asked.
Anne glanced at my hair over the pink and green floral frames of her reading glasses, one of a dozen pairs she purchases each year at Steinmart.
“That do’s gotta go.”
“You’re not exactly the Suave girl, yourself.”
Anne’s hair was twisted upward and clipped with a barrette. A spray winged from her head like the crown on Katy’s cockatiel.
“I considered more tidying, but wasn’t sure how much I should touch.” Anne stood, dug a mug from a cabinet, filled, and handed it to me.
“Thanks.”
“What’s on the rail for the lizard?”
Anne had many expressions deriving from her Mississippi childhood. This was one I hadn’t heard before.
“Translation?”
“What are your plans for today?”
“I have a date with the last of those pizza basement skeletons. Yours?”
“Contemporary Art Museum. That’s the Place-des-Arts metro stop, right?”
“Correct.”
I poured cream into my coffee, then dropped two halves of an English muffin into the toaster.
“Did you know that twenty-five hundred morons bared their fat asses in the rain for a Spencer Tunick photo in that plaza?”
“How do you know they were all rump heavy?”
“Ever been to a nude beach?”
Anne had a point. Those who shouldn’t are often those who most willingly flaunt it.
“Then St-Denis for lunch and shopping,” she went on.
“Alone?” I asked, remembering the hunk in 3C.
“Yes, Mom. Alone.”
“Annie, do you suppose that man could have broken in here?”
“Why in the world would he do that? He probably doesn’t know you, and that is no way to impress me. Why would he do something so totally crazy?”
“Someone did.”
“I don’t think it could be him, really I don’t. The guy looked perfectly normal. But . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Tempe. It was stupid.”
I was spreading blackberry jam when Anne spoke ag
ain.
“What’s a seven-letter word for ‘insensitive’?”
“Hurtful.”
“Beginning with C.”
“Claudel.”
Anne’s eyes rolled up over the flowery frames.
“I think I’ll go with ‘callous,’” she said.
Anne refocused on her puzzle. I settled opposite her and listened to the news. A fire in St-Léonard. Another Habs loss. More snow on the way.
I’d just finished my muffin when Anne tossed down her glasses and pen.
“Is this Claudel a good detective?”
I sheeshed air through my lips.
“I take that as a negative.”
“Claudel’s thorough, but narrow-minded, opinionated, and stubborn. He also sees no need for forensic anthropologists in general, and female ones in particular. He views every suggestion as interfering.”
“Let me guess. And he’s not making much of an effort on your skeleton case?”
“He’s not even humoring me. And he considers it to be his skeleton case, not mine.”
“You’ve had that problem with him before, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. Often-wrong-but-never-in-doubt Claudel.”
“So he’s not your favorite?”
“Claudel’s not a laugh riot. His questions are curt to the point of rudeness, and he rarely explains why particular facts are of interest to him, or why my opinions are not.”
“What would it take to get him to listen?”
“I could sing the Hallelujah Chorus naked.” I got up and popped a second muffin into the toaster.
“You still have the bod, but you never had the voice. I was thinking along more professional lines,” Anne said.
“The point of controversy is postmortem interval. Claudel believes the bones are old. I don’t. I’ve sent off samples for Carbon 14 testing, but I won’t get results for at least a week.”
“What else might get his attention?”
“Six or seven dead preschoolers.”
“You’re starting to piss me off, Tempe. I’m asking a serious question.” Anne held out her empty mug. “What would inspire Claudel to show more interest in your bones?”
“Proof that the deaths were recent.”
I poured two refills and gave her one.
“There you go.” Anne proffered her coffee-free hand, palm up.
“Claudel believes such proof is lacking.”
“Don’t wait for the Carbon 14. Change his mind.”
“He refuses to explore the possibility.”
“So give him more to chew on.”
“What am I supposed to do? Hire thugs and have him beaten until he agrees?”
“Agrees to what?”
“To investigate.”
“Meaning?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” I sat back down with my second muffin.
“What is it you would like Claudel to do?”
I gave that a few moments’ thought.
“Canvas the neighborhood. Learn more about the building. Research previous residents. Find out who owned the place. Who lived there. How long the first floor has been commercial. What businesses have occupied the premises. What building permits were issued and to whom.”
“There you go.” Again, the upraised palm.
“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”
“Don’t force me to three.”
“Where do I go?”
“To the solution to your problem.”
It was too early. I wasn’t making the bridges.
“Which is?”
“Do it yourself.”
“Claudel would go ballistic.”
“How could he? He says the bones are old. He sees no reason to explore further. You’re doing additional research.”
“It’s not my job.”
“Apparently Claudel thinks it’s not his either.”
“Claudel has no interest in my suggestions, but if I do anything that even loosely resembles detective work, he gets overtly hostile.”
“Look. You don’t have to make a TV series out of it. Just poke down the burrow and see what crawls out.”
I thought about that while Anne entered, erased, then reentered thirty-four down in her puzzle. She had a point. What could it hurt to check out old deeds, tax records, and building permits? If Claudel was right, I’d be working with the archaeologists anyway. Besides, he was going to be tied up with this sting Ryan had mentioned. Also, when Claudel was free again and heard I was looking into things, though furious, he might feel obligated to do more investigating himself, just to guard against my finding things that he had not.
At that moment, the doorbell chirped. When I answered, SIJ announced its presence. I buzzed the team in, pointed out the damaged French door, Anne’s room, and Katy’s painting, and asked if they’d mind starting in the living room.
While the techs shot photos and dusted for prints, Anne and I retreated to our respective quarters to dress and brush and apply whatever makeup each deemed essential. During my toilette, I considered options.
It was Friday. Public offices were closed on weekends. If I examined the third skeleton today, I wouldn’t have access to the courthouse or City Hall until Monday.
I could work at the lab anytime, over the weekend if absolutely necessary. I couldn’t research records anytime.
Decision.
Once again, full analysis of the third skeleton was being deferred.
After replenishing Birdie’s food and water, I checked with the SIJ techs. So far, zip.
I was reaching for the phone when Anne swept into my bedroom. She wore boots and the jacket she’d declined the evening before. The angora scarf was in place, the hat and mittens clutched in one hand.
“Setting off?” I asked.
“We’re setting off,” Anne said.
“What about the museum?”
“Art is eternal. It will be there tomorrow. Today I sleuth. See? Already my life is multidimensional. You and I. Cagney and Lacey. It’ll be a gas.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Cagney and Lacey were trained detectives with badges and guns. We’ll be more like Miss Marple and one of her friends from the garden club. But, OK, let’s give it a go. The crime scene techs will let themselves out. I’ll check my messages and we’re on our way.”
I dialed the lab, punched in my mailbox number and access code. One message. Nine forty-three the previous evening.
The woman’s words started a holocaust of possibilities whirling through my head, each uglier than the next.
12
FRANTICALLY, I JABBED AT A PEN ON MY DRESSER. Anne darted and handed it to me.
“Dr. Brennan. I feel I must give this one last try or I will not be able to live with myself.”
I logged details of the voice. Old. Female.
“I called the day before yesterday about the story in Le Journal.”
A pause. As before, I heard chirping in the background, vaguely familiar chirping.
“I believe I know who is dead and why.” Shot through with desolation and doubt.
“Come on,” I urged under my breath. “Who are you?”
“You have my name.”
“No. I don’t!”
Anne’s head snapped up in surprise at my outcry.
“You may reach me at 514-937—”
“Atta girl!”
Anne watched as I scribbled the number, clicked off, and dialed.
Somewhere on the island a phone rang ten, eleven, twelve times.
I cut the connection and repunched the digits.
A dozen more unanswered rings.
“Damn!”
I clicked off and tossed the handset onto the bed, my whole body taut with frustration. I rose and paced the room, then snatched up the handset and dialed again.
No answer.
“Pick up your goddamn phone!”
What to do? Call Claudel or Charbonneau and give him the
number? Call Ryan? All three of them were probably fully occupied with this massive joint operation they were on and didn’t have time for phone numbers.
Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the basement, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down. She watched without comment as I booted the computer, and typed the phone number into a browser.
No results. The browser suggested I check my spelling or try different words. “How do you spell a number, you ignorant twit?”
I tried another browser. Then another.
No matches. Same useful tips.
“What good are you!”
Snatching the handset again, I punched another number, requested an individual, and made an inquiry.
No. Wednesday’s call to the lab had not yet been traced. Why not? These things take time. Well, then, write down this number and see if you get a match.
I sailed the handset back onto the bed, crossed to the dresser, dug for gloves, and slammed the drawer.
While jamming my right hand into one glove, I let go of the other. I bent to pick it up, dropped it again, kicked it to the wall, retrieved it, and yanked it onto my left hand.
When I turned, Anne was gazing up at me, arms still folded, an amused expression on her face.
“Is this our resident forensic specialist demonstrating the art of a tantrum?” Anne asked in a Mr. Rogers voice.
“You think that was a tantrum? Piss me off and I’ll show you a gorilla.”
“I haven’t seen you stage a nutty like that since you caught Pete screwing the travel agent.”
“It was a Realtor.” I had to smile. “And she definitely had a fat ass.”
“Let me guess. We aren’t pleased with our phone message?”
“No. We aren’t.”
I summarized the tale of Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s calls.
“That brought out the Diva of Dachau?”
I didn’t respond.
“The nice lady is probably out buying her weekly Metamucil. She has called twice. She will call a third time.” Again, the patient schoolmarm. “If not, you have the number and you will reach her later. Or you must have resources downtown that can identify the listing that goes with that number. Hell, some everyman directory assistance systems will give you the name and address if you have a number.”
I could not mask my agitation.
