Why had two of the hand bones been buried with bears? Was the slaughter of the animals related to the killing of the human?
“Ready?”
Ryan’s voice snapped me back.
“What?”
“Everything’s loaded.”
When we circled to the front of the property, I could see that a white Taurus had joined the cars and vans on the shoulder. A large man was emerging from the driver’s side, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
A tall, lanky man was unfolding from the passenger seat, feet splayed, long, bony fingers braced against the door frame.
Larabee exchanged a few words with the men as he and Hawkins passed them on the way to their vehicles.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?” Ryan asked.
“You’re about to meet Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”
“That’s not very charitable.”
“Rinaldi’s OK Slidell wouldn’t make the cut for
Skinny Slidell exhaled a stream of smoke, flicked the butt, then he and his partner started toward us.
While Slidell lumbered, Rinaldi seemed to move by fits and starts. Standing six-foot-four and carrying just a little over 160, the man looked like a stilt walker dressed by Hugo Boss.
Skinny Slidell and Eddie Rinaldi had partnered for nineteen years. No one on the force could understand the attraction.
Slidell was sloppy. Rinaldi was neat. Slidell mainlined cholesterol. Rinaldi ate tofu. Slidell was beach music and rock-and-roll oldies. Rinaldi was strictly opera. Slidell’s fashion sense ran toward the blue-light special. Rinaldi’s suits were custom-made.
Go figure.
“Hey, Doc,” said Slidell, yanking a wadded hanky from his back pocket.
I returned the greeting.
“Ain’t so much the heat as the humility, eh?” He ran the yellowed swatch across his brow, jammed it home with the backs of his fingers.
“The rain should cool things down.”
“Good Lord willin’.”
The skin on Slidell’s face looked like it had been stretched forward hard then allowed to drop. It hung in crescents below his cheeks and eyes, and drooped from the border of his jaw.
“Dr. Brennan.” Rinaldi’s hair was wiry thin on top, and stood out from his scalp like that of one of the characters in “Peanuts.” I could never remember. Was that Linus or Pigpen? Though Rinaldi’s jacket was off, his tie was meticulously knotted.
I introduced Ryan. As the men shook, Boyd ambled over and sniffed Slidell’s crotch.
“Boyd!” Grabbing his collar, I yanked the dog back.
“Whoa, girl.” Slidell bent and roughed Boyd’s ears. The back of his shirt was soaked in the shape of a T.
“His name’s Boyd,” I said.
“No news on the Banks case,” Slidell said. “Little mama’s still AWOL.”
Slidell straightened.
“So you found yourself a stiff in the crapper.”
Slidell’s face remained flaccid as I described the remains. At one point I thought I saw a flicker in Rinaldi’s eyes, but it came and went so quickly, I couldn’t be sure.
“Let me get this straight.” Slidell sounded skeptical. “You think the bones you found in the grave come from one of the hands you found in the dumper.”
“I see no reason to think otherwise. Everything is consistent and there are no duplications.”
“How’d these bones get out of the dumper and in with the bears?”
“That sounds like a question for a detective.”
“Any clue when the vic was chucked in?” Slidell.
I shook my head.
“Any impression on gender?” Rinaldi asked.
I’d made a quick evaluation. Though the skull was large, all sex indicators were annoyingly intermediate. Nothing robust, nothing gracile.
“No.”
