Bones of the Lost (15 page)

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Slidell didn’t budge.

“Here’s one more fact, Mr. Rockett.” My tone was glacial. “Yesterday I received a tip. The caller claimed to know the hit-and-run victim. Said the girl was scared.”

“So?”

“Something or someone frightened this child.” I waggled the flyer inches from Rockett’s nose. “I
will
find out what or who that was.”

With an angry swipe, Rockett knocked the paper from my upraised hand. I retrieved it from the floor and placed it faceup on the table.

“I will not stop until this girl is identified. Detective Slidell will not stop until her killer is caught. You lied to us about knowing Story. You must have had a reason to do so, and that ties you in.”

“And remember, asshole.” Thrusting his face into Rockett’s, Slidell hiked his brows up, then down. “I’m fucking crazy.”

Without another word we walked out and drove away.

And that was it.

For the next ten days I would learn nothing about the girl with the pink purse and barrette lying in the morgue cooler.

S
ATURDAY I WOKE WITH BED
linens wrapping me like a constrictor. If I’d been thrashing in my dreams, I remembered nothing.

Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

I pulled the clock into bleary view. 8:45.

When breakfast is late, my cat either chews my hair or rattles a silk plant I keep on the dresser. He’s good. Either ploy annoys me enough to get up.

Weird that Bird hadn’t tortured me into consciousness. Too heavy-handed with the oatmeal and eggs?

But I’d bought his favorite on my way home the previous night. Iams. He didn’t know I fed him the weight-control formula.

I rose on one elbow and looked around.

No cat.

Then I smelled coffee.

And heard muted music. “Good Day Sunshine”?

Puzzled, I pulled on sweats and headed for the stairs.

A box of donuts sat on the dining room table. Napkins. Plates and utensils. Butter and jam.

In the study, the Beatles were singing about needing to laugh.

I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Pete was at the counter, pouring juice from a carton.

“Sugarbritches.” Big Pete grin. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Is there a nonsarcastic answer to that question? My brain conjured none.

“What are you doing here?”

Then, panic.

Which must have shown on my face.

“Don’t worry.” Pete raised a calming hand. “Katy’s fine.”

“You’ve talked to her?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Pete stowed the carton in the fridge and turned back to me. A smile twitched his lips as he took in my attire and disheveled hair. Probably a bed crease denting one cheek.

“Don’t start.” I gave him my squinty-eye warning.

“What?” Boyish innocence.

“It’s much too early for a fashion critique.”

“You look terrific, sugarbritches.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Here.” Pete thrust a glass toward me. “It’s loaded with vitamins.”

“You sound like Anita Bryant.” Accepting the OJ.

“She was right.” Pete took a sip. Clarified. “About oranges. Cheers.”

Pete tapped his brim to mine. We both knocked back our juice.

“Where’s Bird?” I set my glass in the sink.

“Sleeping off the pâté.”

“You gave him pâté?”

“Relax. It was chicken liver, not goose.”

“The vet has him on a diet.”

“He didn’t mention that.”

My eyes were still rolling when the cat strolled in. Pete picked him up.

Birdie purred like a Ducati cruising at eighty. He likes my ex. Always has.

“Did you know you’ve been robbed?”

“What?” My eyes flew around the kitchen.

“Your refrigerator’s been stripped.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Seriously. It’s empty.”

“I’ve had a busy couple of days.”

“The hit and run?”

“Mm. That why you’re here? To make sure I’m eating?”

“Madam.” Sweeping an arm toward the door. “Shall we adjourn for coffee and tarts?”

“I will not get sucked into your wedding drama.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

We both filled mugs, added cream, then moved to the dining room. Pete took the chair opposite mine at the table.

“Butter and jam?” I cocked a questioning brow.

“You never know.”

“Yes. With donuts, you do.”

I helped myself to a chocolate glazed with sprinkles.

Pete took no pastry. Didn’t touch his coffee.

“Snooze you lose,” I said brightly. “Should have bought more chocolate.”

“They’re all for you.”

“What, no flowers?”

It was an old joke between us. Pete didn’t laugh.

Alrighty, then.

As I waited for my ex to get to the point, another possibility entered my mind.

“Is there a problem with the divorce? Did I do something wrong on one of the form—”

“Everything’s in order.”

“Have you filed—”

“I will.”

“The wedding is still on track?”

Jesus, Brennan. Why bring it up?

“There are some glitches. Nothing Summer can’t handle.”

Summer can’t handle stirring yogurt without instruction. I didn’t say it.

Birdie jumped onto the chair beside Pete. He ran a hand down the cat’s back. Stared at the motion, distracted. Avoiding?

My gut clenched.

“You’re not lying to me, are you? This isn’t about Katy, right?”

“Only peripherally.”

Heat flamed my cheeks.

“You said—”

“She’s fine.”

“Have you heard from her today?”

“No.”

“Then you have no idea how fine she is.” Sharp.

Pete continued stroking the cat. Continued watching his hand do it.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I said.

Pete leaned back. Changed his mind and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“There’s a way you can see Katy.”

“We were supposed to Skype—”

“In person.”

“What? She gets leave? Already?” My donut froze in midair. “Oh, God. Is she hurt?”

“No.”

“Has she been hospitalized?”

“No. Christ. Stop overreacting.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I have no reason to believe that our daughter is anything but healthy and happy.” Überpatient.

I studied Pete’s face. Saw no deception. But a boatload of doubt.

Janis Petersons? Man of glib tongue and cast-iron nerves?

“What’s going on, Pete?”

He lifted his mug. Set it down without drinking.

“You can go to her.”

“Go to her?” I’d missed a connection somewhere.

“To Bagram.”

“Bagram. Afghanistan?”

“Right.”

This was not making sense.

“I know you worry, sugarbritches. I worry, too. Especially when days pass without word. I can’t let on, of course, being manly and all.”

Another old joke unacknowledged by laughter.

Pete continued, his tone different now. Deadly serious.

“I don’t want to manipulate you. But I do want to persuade you.”

Persuasion. The lawyer’s stock in trade.

“Persuade me.” Again I parroted, totally confused.

Pete drew a deep breath. Let it out. Laced his fingers.

“Okay. You remember my friend, Hunter Gross?”

I shook my head.

“The one I mentioned at dinner on Wednesday?”

At the bar with its volume on blast. “He’s a marine,” I said. “His nephew’s a marine.”

“Yes. John Gross. I’ve known Hunter for years.”

“From your days in the Corps.” I could never keep Pete’s old marine buddies straight.

Pete nodded. “Hunter called me again. He’s truly concerned about his nephew.”

“Go on.”

“I think I told you John’s at Camp Lejeune awaiting an Article 32 hearing.”

An Article 32 is the military equivalent of a grand jury. The purpose is to determine if sufficient evidence exists to proceed to court-martial.

“John’s been accused of killing Afghan civilians.” The story was coming back to me. “Which he denies.”

“A court-martial will ruin the kid’s career. Though that’s the least of his worries. If found guilty, he could serve life in a federal penitentiary. Or worse.”

“What’s he supposed to have done?”

“According to the charge sheet, he shot two unarmed villagers during the search of a compound.”

“What’s his version?”

“It was dusk. The scene was chaos. The men came at him screaming about ‘Allah!’ One made a move as though reaching for a firearm. He claims he shot in self-defense.”

“Turned out the men had no weapons.”

“You’ve got it.”

I thought about that.

“Gross is holding, what, an M16? The victims are unarmed? Yet they rush him? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Heat of the moment? Personal jihad?” Pete shrugged. “Who knows?”

“There has to be more to the story.”

“Here’s what I know. As a lieutenant and platoon leader, John had to make a lot of difficult decisions. With serious consequences.”

Pete paused, perhaps recalling his own difficult choices while in service.

“One such decision involved a corporal named Grant Eggers. After repeated corrective interviews, John was forced to remove Eggers from his position as fire team leader. Eggers was furious, apparently bad-mouthed John at every opportunity, but never confronted him.”

“Let me guess. Eggers is the one making the accusation.” I went for a powdered-sugar frosted.

“Yes. He says the men weren’t running toward John, but away from him. He claims John shot them in the back.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Crazy ten ways to Sunday. Hunter is convinced his nephew is being railroaded.”

“Why?”

“Uncle Sam isn’t exactly beloved over there. Two unarmed civilians dead. An American marine the shooter. The locals want blood.”

“Politics.”

Pete shrugged. Who knows?

“The solution couldn’t be simpler.”

Pete reached over and brushed a thumb across my upper lip. I batted his hand away.

“Sugar mustache,” he said. “Go on.”

“The medical examiner checks the bullet entry and exit points.”

“That’s been impossible.”

“Why?”

“The men are buried in a Muslim cemetery. NCIS has repeatedly tried to get access, but the Afghan authorities have repeatedly refused to allow either an exhumation or an autopsy. After a lot of diplomatic maneuvering, they’ve now reversed their position.”

I had a sudden suspicion where this was heading.

“They’ve agreed to an exhumation,” I guessed.

“Yes. But there’s no guarantee they won’t change their minds again. So speed is of the essence. The Article 32 hearing has been recessed to allow time for the exhumation to take place.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How well preserved do you think the bodies will be?”

“What was done with them postmortem?”

“Hunter’s intel says the men were bathed, shrouded, and buried. Just laid on their right sides, heads toward Mecca.”

“A year in the ground. No caskets. I’d expect advanced decomp, if not full skeletonization.”

“U.S. experts will only get one shot at these bodies. If base personnel aren’t top-notch, John could be screwed.”

“Determining bullet trajectory is not rocket science.”

“You know that. Will they? According to Hunter, this is John’s best hope to clear himself. The defense wants a say in who will exhume and examine, and the prosecution has told them to propose someone who might be mutually acceptable.”

“You want me to go to Afghanistan.” Said with the enthusiasm I reserve for boils and sties.

“Yes. Your prosecution background will satisfy the government and the defense will go along with Hunter’s recommendation.”

Pete leaned back, eyes intense on mine. He’d presented his case. Now he waited.

Deep breath.

“Don’t get me wrong, Pete. I feel for John and his family. But military physicians have a lot of experience—too much—with traumatic injury. Any doctor in Afghanistan will have seen hundreds of gunshot wounds.”

“In fresh tissue. You just said it. The only thing left will probably be bone. That’s you. That’s your thing. You’re the best. Plus, the Article 32 hearing is in North Carolina.”