“The
Charlie whistled.
I started to answer.
After a long, hot shower, I checked the answering machine.
Four messages. Harry. One hang-up. Harry. Harry.
My freezer offered two choices. Miguel’s Mexican flag fiesta. Mrs. Farmer’s country chicken pot pie. I went with the pie. It had been a barnyard sort of day.
As my frozen entree baked, I dug out the number Hippo had provided.
No answer.
I phoned Harry. Thirty minutes later I’d learned the following.
Marital lawyers in Houston are plentiful. Divorce costs a bucket. Arnoldo’s parts aren’t zip-a-dee-doo-dah. A real ass-waxing lay in the man’s future.
After disconnecting, I ate my pie, then tried the Whalen brothers again.
Still no answer.
Disappointed, I clicked on the news.
There’d been a pile-up on the Metropolitan, one dead, four injured. A judge had been indicted for money laundering. Health officials had grown concerned about bacteria plaguing the beach on Ile Sainte-Helene. Police had learned nothing about the disappearance of Phoebe Jane Quincy.
The only good news involved the weather. Rain was on the way and, with it, cooler temperatures.
Disheartened, I killed the set and checked the clock. Ten-twenty. What the hell. I dialed the Whalens one last time.
“Your dime.” English.
“Mr. Whalen?”
“Might be.”
“Am I speaking with Archie Whalen?”
“No.”
“Patrick?”
“Who’s this?”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan. I’m an anthropologist with the medico-legal lab in Montreal.”
“Uh-huh.” Wary or dull? I wasn’t sure.
“Am I speaking with Patrick Whalen?”
“Depends on what you’re peddling.”
“About five or six years ago, you and your brother purchased bones from a Miramichi pawnshop. Is that correct?”
“Where’d you get this number?”
“From an SQ cold case detective.”
“We bought that shit fair and square. Paid full asking.”
“Am I speaking with Patrick?”
“The name’s Trick.”
Trick?
“Are you aware that trafficking in human remains is illegal?”
“I may pee my shorts.” No question about IQ versus attitude there.
“We might be able to let the charges slide, Trick. Providing you cooperate with our investigation of the origins of that skeleton.” I wasn’t sure who “we” were, but it sounded more official.
“Already I’m breathing easier.”
OK, asshole. Let’s see how tricky you are.
“According to the police report, you claimed to have purchased the skeleton from a pawnbroker.”
“Yes.”
“Where did he get it?”
“I didn’t background the guy. We saw it in his shop, flashed on the idea of a death scene sculpture, something totally war zone, bones, bullets, lots of black and green paint.”
