Bare Bones (13 page)

“What?”

The dog whined.

“You wimp.”

Boyd’l take on a rottweiler without batting an eye, but storms scare him sil y.

“We going in?” Ryan asked.

“We’re going in!” I replied in a Walter Mitty contralto.

I bolted for the house. Ryan fol owed. Boyd overtook us.

As I bounded onto the porch, the screen door opened and Slidel ’s face appeared in the gap. He’d abandoned the cigarette and was now chewing on a wooden toothpick. Before speaking, he rol ed the toothpick with his thumb and index finger.

“You’re gonna shit your Calvin Klein’s when you see what’s in here.”

THE TEMPERATURE IN THE HOUSE WAS WELL OVER A HUNDRED.The air was stale and moldy, with that no-one’s-lived-here-in-a-long-time smel .

“Upstairs,” said Slidel . He and Rinaldi disappeared through a double doorway straight ahead, then I heard boots moving around overhead.

The porch overhang, kudzu, dirt-crusted screens and windows, and the impending storm limited the interior light to subterranean levels.

I found it hard to breathe, hard to see. From nowhere, a cloud of foreboding engulfed me, and something menacing tapped at the back of my thoughts.

I sucked in my breath.

Ryan’s hand brushed my shoulder. I reached up, but already it was gone.

Slowly, my eyes adjusted. I appraised my surroundings.

We were in a living room.

Red shag carpet with navy flecks. Faux-pine paneling. Early American couch and chair. Wooden arms and legs. Red-and-blue-plaid upholstery. Cushions littered with candy wrappers, cotton stuffing, mouse droppings.

Above the sofa, a flea market print of Paris in springtime,Le Tour Eiffelal out of proportion to the street below. Carved wal shelf overflowing with glass animals. More figurines parading across a wooden cornice above the windows.

Col apsible TV trays, the kind with plastic tops and metal legs. Soft drink and beer cans. More cans on the carpet. Cheetos and corn chip bags. A Pringles canister.

I enlarged my scan.

Dining room dead ahead through a double doorway. Round maple table with four captain’s chairs. Red-and-blue ruffled seat pads. Upended basket of plastic flowers. Junk food packaging. Empty cans and bottles. Stairs rising steeply off to the right.

Beyond the dining room table was a swinging door identical to one that had separated my grandmother’s dining room from her kitchen. Beveled wood.

Clear plastic panel at hand level.

Adult hand level. Gran had spent hours wiping grape jel y, pudding, and little prints from the paint below.

Again, my nerves buzzed with an il -formed sense of apprehension.

Through the swinging door came the sound of cabinets being opened and closed.

Boyd put his forepaws on the couch and sniffed a Kit Kat wrapper. I pul ed him back.

Ryan spoke first.

“I’d say the last decorating order was placed around the time that latrine was dug.”

“But someone tried.” I gestured around the room. “The art. The glass animals. The red-and-blue motif.”

“Nice.” Ryan nodded false appreciation. “Patriotic.”

“The point is, someone cared about the place. Then it went to shit. Why?”

Boyd oozed back to the couch, mouth open, tongue dangling.

“I’m going to take the dog out where he’l be cooler,” I said.

Boyd offered only token objection.

When I returned, Ryan had disappeared.

Stepping gingerly, I crossed the dining room and pushed the swinging door with my elbow.

The kitchen was typical of old farmhouses. Appliances and workspace spread for miles along the right-hand wal , the centerpiece a white porcelain sink below the room’s single window. Kelvinator at the far end. Coldspot at the near end. Formica countertop at waist level. Worn wooden cabinets above and below.

To move from stove to sink or from sink to refrigerator required actual walking. The place was massive compared with my kitchen at the annex.

Two doors opened from the left-hand wal . One onto a pantry. One onto a basement stairway.

A chrome-and-Formica table occupied the middle of the room. Around it were six chrome chairs with red plastic seats.

The table, chairs, and every surface in the room were coated with black fingerprint powder. The granny glasses–wearing tech was shooting close-ups of prints on the refrigerator door.

“Think tank’s upstairs,” she said, without looking up from the camera.

I returned to the dining room and climbed to the second floor.

A quick survey revealed three bedrooms. The remaining footage was given over to the glorious modern WC. Like the first-floor motif, the bathroom fixtures looked circa 1954.

Ryan, Slidel , Rinaldi, and the male CSU tech were in the northeast bedroom. Al four were focused on something on the dresser. Al four looked up when I appeared in the doorway.

Slidel hitched his pants and switched the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth.

“Nice, eh? Kinda Green Acres Gone Trailer Park.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

Slidel swept a hand over the dresser, Vanna White displaying a game show prize.

Entering the room was like walking into a moldy greenhouse. Violets, now brown with age, covered the wal paper, the fabric on an over-stuffed chair, the curtains hanging limp at each window.

A framed picture lay against one baseboard, a cropped magazine shot of a nosegay of violets. The picture’s glass was cracked, its corners off their ninety-degree angle.

Crossing to the bureau, I glanced at the focus of everyone’s attention.

And felt the buzz electrify in my chest.

I raised my eyes, not comprehending.

“What’s up is your baby kil er,” said Slidel . “Take another gander.”

I didn’t need a second look. I recognized the object. What I didn’t understand was its meaning. How had it come to be in this dreadful room with its terrible flowers?

My eyes dropped back to the white plastic rectangle.

Tamela Banks stared from the lower left corner, curly black hair outlined by a red square. Across the top of the card a blue banner declaredState of North Carolina.Beside the banner, red letters on white statedDMV.

I looked up.

“Where did you find this?”

“Under the bed,” said the CSU tech.

“With enough crud to make a bioterrorist pee his shorts.” Slidel .

“Why would Tamela Banks’s driver’s license be in this house?”

“She must have come here with that hump, Tyree.”

“Why?” I repeated myself. This wasn’t making sense.

The CSU tech excused himself, returned to processing the next room.

Slidel pointed his toothpick at Rinaldi.

“Gosh, what do you think, Detective? Think it could have something to do with the two kilos of blow we found in the basement?” I looked at Rinaldi.

He nodded.

“Maybe Tamela lost the license,” I groped. “Maybe it was stolen.”

Slidel pooched out his lips and rol ed the toothpick. Looking for gonadal camaraderie, he turned to Ryan.

“What do you think, Lieutenant? Either of those theories ring true to you?”

Ryan shrugged. “If the queen invited Camil a to that Golden Jubilee concert, anything’s possible.” Slidel ’s left eye twitched as a drop of sweat rol ed into it.

“Did you run a history on this place?” I asked.

Another toothpick repositioning, then Slidel pul ed a notebook from his back pocket.

“Until recently, the property didn’t change hands that much.”

Slidel read his notes. We al waited.

“Place belonged to Sander Foote from 1956 until 1986. Sander got it from his daddy, Romulus, who got it from his daddy, Romulus, blah, blah, blah.” Slidel rotated a hand. “String of Romulus Sanderses on the tax records prior to fifty-six. Not real y relevant to current events.”

“No,” I agreed impatiently.

“When Foote died in eighty-six, the farm went to his widow, Dorothy Jessica Harrelson Oxidine Pounder Foote.” Slidel looked up. “Lady was the marrying kind.”

Back to his notes.

“Dorothy was the third Mrs. F. She and Foote married late, had no kids. He was seventy-two, she was forty-nine. But here’s where the story gets interesting.”

I wanted to shake Slidel to make him go faster.

“The widow didn’t real y inherit the farm. Foote’s wil al owed Dorothy, and her son by a previous marriage, to live on the place until her death. After that, the kid could stay until he was thirty years old.”

Slidel shook his head. “This Foote must have been some kind of fruit bat.”

“Because he wanted his wife’s son to have a home until the boy was established?” I kept my voice calm.

The wind picked up. Leaves thrashed the window screen.

“After that?” Ryan asked.

“After that, the place goes to Foote’s daughter by his first marriage.”

Something rol ed across the lawn with a hol ow, thunking sound.

“Dorothy Foote is dead?” I asked.

“Five years ago.” Slidel closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

“Has her son turned thirty?”

“No.”

“Does he live here?”

“Technical y, yes.”

“Technical y?”

“The little sleaze rents the place out to turn a few bucks.”

“Can he do that under the terms of the wil ?”

“Couple years back Foote’s daughter hired a lawyer to look into that. Guy couldn’t find any way to get the kid tossed. Kid does everything under the table, so there’s no record of money changing hands. Daughter lives in Boston, never comes to God’s little acre here. Place isn’t worth that much. Kid’s twenty-seven.” Slidel shrugged. “Guess she decided to wait it out.”

“What’s Dorothy’s son’s name?” I asked.

Slidel smiled. There was no humor in it.

“Harrison Pounder.”

Where had I heard that name?

“You remember him, Doc.”

I did. From where?

“We discussed Mr. Pounder just last week.” Toothpick. “And it wasn’t because the squirrel’s appearing on our new career leaflet for police recruits.” Pounder. Pounder.

“Harrison ‘Sonny’ Pounder,” Rinaldi supplied.

Recol ection sluiced through my brain.

“Sonny Pounder?” I asked, incredulous.

“Mama Foote’s baby boy,” Slidel said.

“Who’s Sonny Pounder?” Ryan asked.

“Sonny Pounder’s a dime-a-dozen, low-life dirtbag who’d sel his mama to the Taliban for the right price.” Slidel .

Ryan turned to me.

“Pounder’s the dealer who traded the tip about Tamela Banks’s baby.”

Thunder cracked.

“Why didn’t you know this was Pounder’s place?” I asked.

“When dealing with authorities, Mr. Pounder prefers listing his city address. Legal y, this farm is deeded to Mama,” Rinaldi said.

Another peal of thunder. A low wail from the porch.

“Tamela may have come here with Tyree, but that doesn’t mean she dealt dope or kil ed her baby.” My reasoning sounded weak, even to me.

In the yard, a door banged, banged again.

“Are you going to talk to Pounder?” I asked Slidel .

The hound-dog eyes settled on mine.

“I’m not a moron, Doc.”

Yes, you are, I thought.

At that moment, the storm broke.

Ryan, Boyd, and I sat on the porch until the squal played itself out. The wind flapped our clothes and blew warm rain across our faces. It felt wonderful.

Boyd was less enthused about the raw power of nature. He lay at my side, head thrust into the triangle of space below my crooked knees. It was a tactic on which Birdie often relied. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Ergo, I am safe.

By six the shower had dwindled to a slow, steady drizzle. Though Slidel , Rinaldi, and the CSU techs continued their search of the house, there was nothing more Ryan and I could do.

As a precaution, I trotted Boyd around every floor a couple of times. Nothing caught his interest.

I told Slidel we were taking off. He said he’d cal me in the morning.

Happy day.

When I let Boyd into the backseat, he circled, curled with his chin on his hind paws, and gave a loud sigh.

Ryan and I got in.

“Hooch is probably not looking at a career as a narcotics dog.”

“No,” I agreed.

On his first circuit Boyd had sniffed the two bags of cocaine, wagged once, and continued prancing around the basement. On his second visit, he’d ignored them.

“But he’s a pistol with carrion.”

I reached back and Boyd licked my hand.

On the way home I swung by the MCME to pick up a laptop power cord I’d left behind. While I went inside, Boyd and Ryan played the chow’s single idea of a game: Ryan stood stationary in the parking lot and Boyd ran circles around him.

As I was leaving the building, Sheila Jansen swung in, got out of her car, and crossed to me.

“You’re here late,” I said.

“Got some news, so I came by on the chance I might catch you here.” She did not comment on my appearance. I did not offer.

Boyd abandoned Ryan and shot to Jansen to try the crotch schtick. The NTSB agent cut him off with a double-handed ear scratch. Ryan ambled over and I made introductions. Boyd began orbiting the three of us.

“Looks like the drug theory’s right on,” Jansen said. “When we rol ed the Cessna, damned if the right front door hadn’t been fitted with another, smal er door inside.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A hole was cut in the right front door, then covered by a smal flap hinged at the bottom to swing down inside the plane.”

“Like a one-way doggy door?”

“Exactly. The modification wouldn’t have been obvious to a casual observer.”

“Why?”

“To al ow air drops.”

I pictured the two kilos of blow we’d just left behind.

“Of il egal drugs.”

“You’ve got it.”

“To a pickup crew waiting with a car on the ground.”

“Bingo.”

“Why go to al the trouble of modifying the plane? Why not simply open the door and shove the stuff out?”

“Stal speed for a C-210 is around sixty-four miles per hour. That’s the minimum they could fly at drop time. It’s tough to push something out at that speed.