Bones of the Lost (35 page)

The doorbell rang. My fingers tightened on the handset. I was expecting no one.

The bell rang again.

Again.

“What’s that?”

“Someone’s here,” I told Slidell. “You’ve got a cruiser outside, right?”

“Once every hour. Best I could do. The department’s hamstrung for manpower.”

“Stay on the line?”

“Yeah.”

The doorbell rang again.

Again, too quickly.

Still clutching the portable, I climbed the stairs and tried to peek through the window overlooking the front steps. The porch light was off. Below the eaves I could make out part of a man’s shoulder and leg, scuffed loafers.

“You want I should dispatch a car?” Slidell asked.

I put the phone to my ear.

“Wait.”

I ran downstairs, crept to the door, and pressed my eye to the peephole.

“Oh, my God . . .”

“Yo, doc? You okay?”

Shocked, I slid back the deadbolt and opened the door.

H
IS FACE WAS A HALLOWEEN
mask, eyes shadowy recesses, cheeks hollow, jaws stubble-dark.

“Talk to me.” Slidell’s barked demand spit from the phone.

I raised the device to my ear, gaze locked with that of the man on my doorstep.

“I’m fine.”

“What the—”

“It’s a friend.” Level, camouflaging the emotion roiling inside me. “I’m good. Thank you.”

I disconnected. Stood frozen, unsure how to play it. Joyful? Angry? Indifferent?

I flipped on the porch light. In the soft yellow glow I could see red spiderwebbing the whites of his eyes.

“You look like hell.” Opting for humor.

“Thanks.” Ryan’s voice sounded gravelly and hoarse.

“Shall I to try to reboot you?”

“Doesn’t work.”

“Come in.”

He didn’t move.

“If I leave you out there, you’ll run down and terrify the villagers.”

Normally, Ryan would have hit me with a snappy retort.

“This a bad time?” No snap.

“I was about to clean lint from the dryer.” Keeping it light.

“Fire hazard if you let that go.”

I smiled.

Ryan smiled. Sort of.

I stood back.

Ryan reached down and grasped the handle of a draped cube at his feet. As he brushed past me I heard a bell jingle. Scratching. His clothes stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.

I closed the door and turned.

Ryan stood in the center of the room, unsure what to do. He’d lost weight and looked gaunt and haggard.

“He expressed a desire to go south.” Pulling the cover from the cage.

Charlie, our shared cockatiel, looked startled. But birds always look startled.

I gestured to the dining room. Ryan set the bird on the table, replaced the cover, then returned to the parlor. I dropped into an armchair and drew my feet up.

Ryan sat on the sofa but didn’t lean back. “Place looks good.”

“Been a while,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad to see both of you.”

Gran’s clock ticked off a full thirty seconds. The silence felt strained and awkward.

“How’s the birdcat?” Ryan asked.

“Still king of the lab.”

Ryan nodded, but didn’t call out or search for Birdie as he normally would.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I went to the kitchen. Ryan didn’t follow. Cranking up the Krups, I thought of the times we’d shared the task, grinding beans, measuring water, arguing the mix was too strong or too weak. What the hell had happened?

When I returned to the parlor, Ryan was sitting forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped and hanging between them.

He accepted the steaming mug, then turned his head to stare out the window. To stare away from me?

I resumed my place in the armchair, legs tucked beneath my bum. Steeled for the words I was about to hear. The final severance.

At length, Ryan’s eyes rolled my way. He set down his untouched coffee. Cleared his throat. Swallowed.

“She’s dead.”

“Who?” Totally thrown. “Who’s dead?”

“Lily.” A strangled whisper.

Saying his daughter’s name unleashed a torrent of emotions Ryan had been battling to hide. His nostrils blanched and his breathing turned ragged.

A bubble of heat formed in my chest. Tears threatened.

No!

I flew to the sofa, pulled Ryan to me, and held him close. Sobs racked his shoulders. I felt hot dampness on my shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured again and again, feeling helpless in the face of such devastating grief. “I’m so, so sorry.”

At length, Ryan tensed. He pushed from me, sat back, and ran his palms down his cheeks.

“Captain America, reporting for duty.” He smiled, clearly embarrassed.

“Crying is good, Ryan.” I took his hand.

“Man tears.”

“Yes.”

He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I thought you should know.”

“Of course.”

Ryan yanked a hanky from a jeans pocket and blew his nose.

“When?” I asked softly.

“Ten days ago.”

No wonder he’d returned none of my calls. Remorse overwhelmed me. But with undertones of pain. Why hadn’t he reached out for my support?

“What happened?” I asked.

I was certain of the answer. Ryan had shared his daughter’s recent history. The drug escalation, culminating in heroin addiction. The dealer boyfriend. The arrest for shoplifting. I was one of the few in whom he’d confided.

The past year, Lily had appeared to be turning a corner. She’d seemed happy, was attending rehab.

What do we really know about others?

“Overdose.” Ryan patted a pocket. Remembered where he was. Dropped his hand to his lap.

“It’s okay to smoke.” It wasn’t. I hate the smell, hate what cigarettes do to the carpets and drapes. To people. But Ryan needed a crutch to steady his nerves.

I went to the kitchen for an ashtray, knowing I had none. Returned with a saucer.

Ryan shook a Camel from its pack. As he lit up, I noticed a tremor in his hand.

“Guess we each choose our own poison,” he said.

I watched Ryan inhale hard, hold the smoke deep in his lungs, let it out slowly through his nose.

“They found her in an abandoned duplex being used as a shooting gallery.”

I’d been to a heroin den once, as part of a team to collect a corpse. I could still picture the horror. Stained mattress. Used needles. Bugs. The reek of urine and feces.

“She was wearing a T-shirt we bought in Honolulu. She loved it, made me memorize the proverb.” His voice again sounded husky. “Hele me kahau ‘oli.”

I reached out and stroked his face.

“Go with joy,” he translated.

“You did everything you could, Ryan.”

A tear broke free and rolled down his cheek. He backhanded it roughly. Took another drag of his Camel.

“Guess it wasn’t enough.” Bitter.

What could I say?

When Ryan learned of Lily’s existence, she was already in her teens. He’d never cradled her as an infant, never shared her joys or comforted her fears as a child. I knew he regretted his absence from her life. Knew he felt responsible for her addictions. Her death.

Under the law, Lily was an adult. Ryan couldn’t tell her how to live or what to do. Still. I could imagine my own sorrow and self-recrimination should something happen to Katy.

Parenting transcends rationality. Always you think you could have done more. Always you blame yourself when things go wrong.

“I should have concentrated more on Lily and less on the job, on
strangers who don’t even know my name. I should have focused on
her
. My own daughter.”

Ryan’s pain was a raw wound. There was nothing I could do but listen.

“Funny. The things that come back. Meaningless moments. One night she came into my bedroom to play a song she’d downloaded from iTunes. I remember exactly what it was. Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole’s ‘Over the Rainbow/Wonderful World.’ ”

Ryan’s haunted eyes searched my face. “Is that all we had, Tempe? All I ever gave her? One lousy vacation in Hawaii?”

I placed my hand on his. “Of course not.”

“Then why is every memory tied to that trip?”

“It’s still too soon.”

He snorted softly. Shook his head.

“You should stay here,” I said. “As long as you like.”

“I have to go.” He drew deeply, then stubbed out the Camel.

“Now?” Disbelieving.

“I’m sorry.” He shot a hand through his unwashed hair. A gesture so familiar it tore my heart.

“Go where?” I asked.

“Away.”

I looked a question at him.

“I need to move. Move and keep moving.”

“Ryan—”

“I’m sorry.” He rose and started for the door.

“Please.” Imploring. “Stay.”

“I’m not fit to be around people.”

“Where are you headed?”

He hesitated. “South.”

“You can have the study. I’m busy with a case. You’ll hardly see me.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He read my expression to mean something it wasn’t.

“You’re right. This was a mistake. I just . . .”

“A mistake?” Masking the anger and hurt.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Stay, Andy.”

“There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

With that, he left.

I hurried to the door and watched him recede into shadow, tears hot on my cheeks.

Halfway down the walk he paused, turned, and slowly walked back toward the porch.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I wish you’d let me help.”

“You have.”

He spread his arms. I ran into them. They closed around me. I molded my body to his.

He hugged me hard. I smelled stale smoke, leather, and a hint of cologne.

As we embraced, headlights curved the drive and lit our bodies. Blinded, I couldn’t tell if the car belonged to Slidell’s surveillance team.

The vehicle accelerated, blew past us, and turned right onto Queens.

Flashbulb images. A box. A severed tongue. A bloated, bloody face.

Mistaking my sudden stiffness for dismissal, Ryan pulled away.

“I’ll miss you.” Kissing his fingertips and pressing them to my cheek.

“Don’t go.” I may have spoken the words, may only have thought them.

Ryan strode down the walk and rounded the corner. A car door slammed. An engine kicked to life.

I shut and bolted the door. Leaned against it, struggling to process. He hadn’t asked about Katy. About my travels. I’d been to a war and he didn’t give a damn.

In his time of suffering, Ryan had shut me out. The rejection felt like a knife to my heart.

Seriously? The man’s daughter is dead and you’re miffed he didn’t call or query your recent concerns? Have you become that self-centered?

I pushed from the door, ashamed of my pettiness. I had one foot on the stairs when the phone rang.

Excited, I snatched up the handset.

It wasn’t Ryan.

“Yo, doc.”

“What is it, detective?”

“That sounds as enthused as a dead trout.”

“Why are you phoning?”

“Got a shocker for you.”

It was.

“R
EMEMBER ARCHER STORY?”

“The younger brother of John-Henry, the man who died in the flea market fire.” Maybe. “What about him?”

“Archer and John-Henry were partners in S&S Enterprises.”

“Right.” Drawn out and ending high. A question. I had no idea where this was going.

“S&S. Story and Story. They owned John-Henry’s Tavern, a string of convenience stores, a whack of storage centers, and a bunch of other shit. Nice little money machine. But they were tanking on other investments.”

“The Saturn dealerships and the pizzerias.”

“You got it. But the bros weren’t exactly circling the drain. They’d diversified. And buried their investments in layers and layers of umbrella LPs and LLPs and other legal bullshit.”

“What does this have to do with Candy and Rosalie?” Ryan’s visit had left me drained. I wanted to curl up and sleep until the pain receded.

No. What I wanted was a drink. Cabernet or pinot noir until euphoria, then oblivion. But I knew how a binge would end. Knew the self-loathing that would follow. I’d been down that road. Wouldn’t travel it again.