“Where’s the money?”
That had been Ryan’s question, too.
“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”
And I knew just whom I was going to ask.
19
FOR THE FIRST DAY IN ALMOST A WEEK, THERE WAS NO NEED TO go to the MCME. I’d done what I could with the privy remains, the Cessna passenger, and the bears. Slidell could get the feathers personally if he needed them quickly.
Over grilled cheese sandwiches at Pike’s Soda Shop, Ryan and I discussed the wisdom of leaving for the beach. We decided it was better to hold off for a few days than to be yanked back to Charlotte.
We also discussed my suspicions concerning the illegal trade in wildlife. Ryan agreed my theory posed a possibility given the feathers found with the cocaine, and the large number of black bears buried at the farm. Neither he nor I had any idea how the bears figured in, nor what the link was among the farm, Tamela Banks and Darryl Tyree, the privy victim, and the Cessna’s owner, pilot, and passenger, though there was clearly a cocaine connection to Tyree.
After an hors d’oeuvre run to Dean & DeLuca’s at Phillips Place, we returned to the annex. While Ryan changed into running gear, I phoned Mrs. Flowers.
Wally Cagle, the forensic anthropologist who’d done the headless, handless skeleton from Lancaster County, had called. She gave me the number.
Next I checked my voice mail messages.
Katy.
Harry.
Harry’s son, Kit, warning that his mother would be calling.
Harry.
Harry.
Pierre LaManche, the chef de service for the medicolegal section at the crime lab in Montreal. An informant had led police to a woman buried seven years in a sandpit. The case was not urgent, but he wanted me to know that an anthropological analysis was required.
My arrangement with the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale was that I would rotate through the lab on a monthly basis, doing all cases for which my expertise had been requested, and that I would return immediately should a critical investigation, disaster, or subpoena demand my presence. I wondered if the sandpit case could wait until my planned return to Montreal at the end of the summer.
Two hang-ups.
Knowing the Harry-Kit-Harry-Harry sequence meant my sister and twenty-something nephew were arguing, I put that conversation off.
As I disconnected, man and his best friend entered the kitchen, Boyd trailing like a shark on a blood scent. Ryan wore running shorts, a sweatband, and a T that suggested PERFORM RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS AND SENSELESS BEAUTY.
“Nice shirt,” I said.
“Half the proceeds went toward saving the Karner Blue.”
“What’s a Karner Blue?”
“Butterfly.” Ryan unpegged the leash. The chow went berserk. “It’s in trouble and the salesperson was deeply concerned.”
Smiling, I waved the two off and dialed my daughter.
She requested hors d’ouevres for the evening’s soiree. I told her I had purchased stuffed mushrooms and cheese sticks.
She asked if I was bringing the French Foreign Legion. I told her I’d be accompanied.
I called Montreal. LaManche had departed the lab for an afternoon of administrative meetings. I left a message about my scheduled return date.
I hadn’t seen Harry since the family beach trip in early July. Knowing this would be a long one, I got a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and dialed my sister’s number.
The fight concerned my sister’s latest boyfriend, a massage therapist from Galveston. Thirty minutes later I understood the issue.
Kit didn’t like him. Harry did.
I was dialing Wally Cagle when a series of beeps indicated another caller was trying to reach me. I clicked over.
“Checked your e-mail, Dr. Brennan?” The voice was high and warbly, like an electronic doll’s.
Tiny hairs rose on the nape of my neck.
“Who is this?”
