Bones of the Lost(28)

The freezer offered one frost-covered burrito and a chicken potpie.

While the potpie heated, I logged in to Gmail.

Nothing from Katy.

Relax. She’s fine. No news is good news.

Nothing from Ryan.

Why hadn’t Katy contacted me? E-mail? Text? She knew I’d be crazy with worry. Daily communication wasn’t possible, but she’d been so good. And she’d never failed to Skype at a prearranged time.

Gran’s clock bonged eight. Though tired and anxious, I forced myself to stay busy.

The rest of the e-mails were either ads or matters of no urgency.

I ate the pie, which was heavy on legumes and light on poultry. Washed the cat dish. Paid a few bills. Watched an episode of Boardwalk Empire with Birdie purring in my lap.

Fought the urge to check Gmail every ten minutes.

At ten I showered and hit the sack.

Sleep? Who was I kidding?

No toe testing or tentative wading. My brain dove straight into a whirlpool of anxiety.

Who was the dead girl? Why was she out with no identification or keys in the middle of the night? Had someone removed the contents of her purse?

Why lift her ID but leave John-Henry Story’s club card?

That one I could answer. The card was in the purse’s lining. But why? Was the girl hiding it? Did someone take her ID but miss Story’s card? Her killer?

What value could an airport lounge card have? It was not a credit card.

Story had been dead six months. Slidell said the card hadn’t been used in that time. Couldn’t be used without Story.

Another possibility broke through.

Could John-Henry Story still be alive? If so, had he faked his own death? To gain what?

And. More disturbing. If Story hadn’t died in that warehouse, whose bones had I examined?

I turned on the light and checked my phone for an e-mail or text from Katy.

Shit.

Lights out.

Neurons in gear.

John-Henry Story was fifty-one when he died. My Jane Doe was maybe fifteen. Had Story asked the girl to travel with him? For him? Where? For what reason?

The gray cells offered no hypotheses.

Somehow Story’s card went from his possession to the girl’s purse.

The pink purse lying in the dirt by her body.

I pictured a deserted road, a sloping shoulder, headlights slashing the post-midnight darkness.

And had another thought.

Was John-Henry Story connected to the hit and run?

Had he been the driver?

Whoa. Now that was a stretch.

A stretch based on zilch. Pure dream sequence. Nothing scientific about it. Even if Story had staged his own death, the fire was in April, long before the girl’s murder.

Giving up on sleep, I threw back the covers and descended to the kitchen. Birdie padded along, confused but willing.

I heated a cup of water, dipped a peppermint tea bag, then poured the last of the milk into a saucer. Birdie lapped, unconcerned that his snack was a bit past its prime.

As I sipped tea, my thoughts took another route.

Dominick Rockett, the former soldier with the mutilated face. The importer caught with illegal antiquities. The investor in a company owned by John-Henry Story.

Where did Rockett get the funds to buy in to S&S Enterprises? Why that company? When? Before Story’s death? Supposed death? Was Story a factor in Rockett’s decision to invest?

Another coincidence?

Right.

Did Dominick Rockett know John-Henry Story? Work for him? With him? Doing what?

Was Rockett involved in the hit-and-run killing?

Suddenly the room felt chilly.

October. Winter really was coming. Soon it would be time to turn on the heat.

Placing my mug in the sink, I returned to the bedroom, my feline companion right at my heels.

I tucked under the covers, killed the light, and closed my eyes. Tried to clear my thoughts.

No Dominick Rockett. No John-Henry Story. No Jane Doe.

My higher centers began another loop.

The afternoon’s call.

Who was the woman on the phone?

Assuming the call was legit, what had frightened the dead girl?

Was the caller also afraid of this person?

Birdie leapt up, circled, and nestled into the crook of my knee. I ran my hand down his back, grateful for his unquestioning loyalty.

Flashbulb image. Charred fragments. So fragile I’d had to spray them with polyurethane before attempting to tease them from the ashy matrix in which they were embedded.

John-Henry Story?

If so, what was Story doing in that barn so late at night? Was he that hands-on involved in the business? Was he having financial difficulties? If so, might he have torched the place? Accelerants flame fast. Did he miscalculate and find himself trapped? But the arson investigators wouldn’t have missed that. There would have been evidence of accelerants, containers.

I pictured a figure backlit by fire and smoke. Panicky movements. Flames catching his clothes, his hair, his skin.

If Story didn’t die in that blaze, who did? A worker? A vagrant, asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time?