Swamp Bones (7 page)

“Rough measurements suggest a medium-size male.”

“Goddammit.” Yellen sounded furious, as though somehow I were the root of his problem.

“I’ll know more once I can get back in.” For clarification, I added, “When they’ve finished autopsying the little girl.”

“I have body parts poppin’ up in the bellies of every critter in the swamp, and I’ve got to cool my heels until who the hell knows when?”

“Any new intel on Buck Cypress?” I asked, mostly to distract him.

Yellen sighed. “Still MIA. We hauled Deuce into district. Genius managed to cough up a name. If there’s nothing going on here, you might as well come along while I follow up.”

We cut through the throng outside, heads lowered, eyes down. A few journalists
recognized Yellen and shouted questions. A few cameras and mikes swung his way. He ignored them. Being a stranger, I drew no attention at all.

“Where to?” I asked, buckling my seat belt.

“Every woman’s dream. Shopping.”

“Hilarious.”

A short ten blocks brought us to Miami’s Design District. Art galleries and overpriced lofts jockeyed for square footage with designer boutiques and Korean clothing shops. Women’s apparel, jewelry, and handbags sparkled in every other store window.

“Ritzy,” I observed.

“Didn’t used to be,” Yellen said. “Until the Koreans worked their magic this district was nothing but vacant warehouses, boarded-up buildings, and thugs. Drop by back in the eighties, you’d get jacked. Now it’s the swankiest five-block stretch along I-95.”

Most of the merchandise looked light-years beyond my price range.

“What neighborhood is this?”

“Wynwood. Real estate’s way upmarket.” Yellen depressed his turn indicator. “District’s half fashion, half artsy-fartsy. There’s a minute of industry over along Fifth Avenue, textile and fashion. But it’s mostly boutiques.”

Yellen made a left, then a right. I waited for him to elaborate.

“Deuce Cypress fingered someone he says buys from the poachers. It’s a label run by four sisters. Esther, Eun, Edie, and Evette Eugene. Name on their birth certificates is actually Yoo-Jin, pronounced the same. Some kind of reality TV wannabes with a fashion line specializing in skins. We’ve got an appointment with Esther at their fancy-pants boutique.”

Yellen winged onto Second Avenue and pulled to the curb in front of a cool, modern storefront composed almost entirely of smoky glass. E
UGENE
was emblazoned on the window in sleek white letters.

The sleek and white theme continued inside with white mannequin busts, carpet, walls, and trim. The only contrast was provided by huge black-and-white photos. In each, four AsianAmerican women pouted affectedly.

To the right of the entrance, a half dozen safari-chic dresses hung like works of art in a gallery. Facing them, on the left, was menswear in understated tans and taupes. A discreet sign designated the clothes as C
OLLECTION
A
RTISANAL FOR
W
OMEN AND
M
EN
. Front and center,
exquisitely tailored snakeskin and alligator-skin bags, belts, and shoes lay on pedestals arranged on white acrylic tables. I discreetly checked a tag or two. Yep. Way out of my range.

No matter. The merchandise left me cold. I’ve never felt right about putting on the hide of another creature. And my recent close encounters with pythons and gators made wearing reptiles feel especially distasteful.

“Good morning?” The woman was anorexically slim, her tone more question than greeting. Middle-aged paunchy sheriffs were probably not her typical clientele.

Yellen badged her. “Got an appointment with Esther Eugene.”

“This way.” Cool and gracious, devoid of emotion.

The woman, I assumed a salesclerk, led us through a door at the rear of the showroom. The photos continued down a narrow hallway, dark-haired, dark-eyed beauties pouting or flirting every ten feet.

The clerk stopped at an open doorway and gestured for us to proceed.

The office was, you guessed it, uniformly white, providing maximum contrast for the woman in the tight snakeskin print dress. She had porcelain skin and short black hair bobbed to her jawline. Fake lashes looked like centipedes crawling her upper lids.

The woman sat behind a creamy French secretary desk, chin resting on one upraised palm. The elegant pose suggested someone interrupted while deep in thought.

“You must be Sheriff Yellen,” she purred. “Esther Eugene. Please come in.” Tipping her head ever so slightly and elevating one perfect brow. “And you are?”

“Tempe Brennan.” I kept it short.

“May I offer you tea?”

Seriously? Sheriff Crotchety looked like the chamomile and biscuit type?

“I’ve got a witness says you buy illegally harvested animal skins.” Yellen arrowed straight to the point.

Esther placed a delicate hand on her chest. The nails were long and painted fire-engine red. “Oh my goodness! That’s totally untrue.” Every move seemed rehearsed. Artificial. “My sisters and I would never engage in unlawful activity. We pride ourselves on maintaining the very highest of ethical standards. We are absolutely committed to the concept of sustainable fashion.”

I recognized the buzz phrase for what it was. Doubted she understood the concept.
Doubted she understood the concept of concept.

Yellen cut off Esther’s melodramatics. “I’m not here to arrest you for buying poached skins. I’m investigating a homicide.”

Esther’s brows rose as far on her forehead as the Botox allowed.

“You know a young woman named Kiley James?”

Esther’s gasp was off the stage and out the theater door. “Kiley is dead?” The hand fluttered to the perfectly matched crimson mouth. I noticed that it trembled.

“What do you know about her?” Yellen stayed on point.

Esther plucked a tissue from a flower-shaped holder on her desk and ran it carefully under each eye. Back to character, mascara intact. “We recently signed Kiley to be the face of our brand. We’re launching a huge advertising campaign for the python line, centered around her. An enormously expensive one.”

“First I heard of Kiley being a model.” Yellen was skeptical.

“That was the thing!” Esther clapped her hands, grief momentarily forgotten. “We wanted a real wrangler, not a model. When we saw Kiley at last year’s hunt award ceremony, we had to have her. Kiley was so real! Pretty face, and a figure that could wear clothing.” Coy tip of the head. “If you catch my meaning?”

Yellen waited for Esther to continue.

“We were just about to sign a male wrangler when we found her. But not one single applicant had a story like Kiley—little woman wrestling snakes bigger than herself, better than men? We didn’t let up until we’d convinced her to be the face of Eugene.” Self-satisfied look. “When the price is right, everyone eventually says yes.”

“So what’s this ad campaign?” Yellen asked.

“The theme is extraordinary.” Esther ran her free hand horizontally through the air, as if mimicking a theater marquee. “Ugliness into beauty. Isn’t that brilliant? Turning the greatest threat the Everglades has ever known into something positive and beautiful.”

“Shoes?” Blurted before I could stop myself.

Esther drew a juddery little breath, then straightened her shoulders and eyed me with distaste. “Making people feel good about themselves puts positive energy into the universe.”

“How ’bout you put some positive energy into this interview and tell me the last time you saw Kiley James?” Yellen’s tone was sharp enough to chisel granite.

Esther considered. Or made a show of doing so. “It would have been two weeks ago. We were going over the shooting schedule. She said she’d be out of pocket for a while.” A red-tipped finger rose in the air. “But, you know, come to think of it, she did seem distracted.”

“How so?”

“I’m not sure. I just sensed she wasn’t paying attention.” Hiccupy little laugh. “Kiley was always a moral little spitfire, refusing to wear certain items, but she was particularly … challenging at our last meeting.” Spoken with synthetic warmth.

“Challenging?” Yellen bounced Esther’s word back to her.

She paused. Then, “Kiley had a strong sense of justice. She was highly principled. And extremely particular.”

“Do you think that could have gotten her killed?”

Esther didn’t hesitate. “I suppose. If she angered the wrong person.”

“Any wrong person you have in mind?”

“No. I mean, competition for the modeling contract was fierce. Some applicants were very unhappy when we went with Kiley out of the blue. People want to be connected to we Eugenes.” She preened. “It didn’t sit well that she swooped in at the last minute and got the job. But I can’t imagine anyone becoming violent because they weren’t chosen.”

“I’ll need a list of names,” Yellen said.

“Of course. Will there be anything else?” The woman was now eager to see us gone.

“We’ll let you know.”

Esther rose. “This is just so distressing. What will we do?”

“Reopen auditions.” Mean, but I found the woman repugnant.

Esther maintained a carefully grieved expression as we walked through the door.

Outside, the mid-morning temperature was already in the high eighties. And the humidity was going for a personal best. Even for Florida.

Yellen started the car and cranked the AC. “You get any message from—”

“No.” I cut him off. “With a child homicide, Barconi’s going to take her time.”

Lips pursed, the sheriff shifted into gear. He knew, was just impatient.

“Where now?” I asked.

“Your favorite place on earth.”

He pointed the cruiser south toward Everglades National Park.

“Please don’t tell me there’s another foot,” I said as we drove.

Yellen’s look said he wasn’t in the mood for humor.

“I’ve got a deputy working to find Kiley James’s journal. We’ve searched her house and her car. No luck. Lundberg says she had a locker at the rangers’ station. I want to check it out.”

We were retracing the now-familiar drive south through Homestead. We’d turned right on Ingraham Highway toward the park entrance when Yellen’s mobile rang.

“Sheriff Yellen.” As he listened his mouth bunched even tighter than before. “I’ll head over there now. Get me Scott Pierce.”

He disconnected. Seconds later his phone rang again.

“Thanks for getting right back to me. Listen, I’m on my way to search Kiley James’s locker at the rangers’ station.”

I could hear a tinny voice on the other end of the line. Couldn’t make out the words.

“Yeah, she had a locker. Brain Trust Lundberg just told me last night. I have a warrant, but I’ve gotta get back to district. If Doc Brennan brings the paper, can you toss the thing then get her home afterward?”

The buzzy staccato sounded again.

“I owe you one.” Yellen ended the call.

To me, “Change of plans. Dawn raid on a Florida City meth lab spat out a tweaker that’s my favorite for a series of arsons. I’ll drop you. Scott Pierce will get you home.”

“My car’s at the morgue.”

“Just tell Pierce where you want to go.”

A few minutes later we pulled up to the main entrance of Everglades National Park. Yellen drove past the visitors’ center, and down a road behind a sign that warned P
ARK
R
ANGERS
O
NLY
B
EYOND
T
HIS
P
OINT
. The squat frame building at the end served as a rangers’ station. The flag out front looked as limp as I felt.

As I got out, Yellen lowered his window. I circled to his side of the cruiser.

“You’ll get to that foot ASAP?” he asked.

“As soon as I can.” I meant it. No one was more eager to finish this than I was.

The window rose with a hum and Yellen was gone.

I climbed the steps and entered the rangers’ station.

Unlike the visitors’ center, the place was stark and functional. Desks and filing cabinets dotted the room, chosen for function over form. A collection of rescue equipment was stacked to my left, and a handful of park radios were propped in chargers to my right. At the back of the room, a stuffed alligator wore clown-size sunglasses and a University of Florida cap.

A green-uniformed woman occupied a desk near the door. Her name tag said H. F
LORES
. Dark brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck. Harry Potter glasses. A face that was neither friendly nor unfriendly.

“I’m looking for Scott Pierce,” I said.

“And you are?”

“Temperance Brennan.”

Flores made a call, listened, disconnected. “Sorry. No answer.”

“He must be on his way,” I said.

“You can cop a squat over there.” Flores pointed to a collection of plastic chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable. They were.

Five minutes passed.

I read the warrant. Kiley James had been assigned locker 53.

I drummed impatient fingers on the unyielding armrest. Eyed a wall clock that told me three more minutes had passed. I told myself I’d wait fifteen. Inspected my nails. Studied the park maps and pictures of local wildlife adorning the walls.

At fourteen minutes fifty-five seconds I popped to my feet and crossed to Flores.

“I have a warrant.” I held up the judge’s paper. “If you could point me to the lockers, I’ll get out of your hair.”

She looked at the paper and nodded. “Okay, locker room’s down that hall, fourth door on your left.”

“Tell Pierce where I’ve gone when he gets here.”

“Will do.”

I turned the knob and entered. The room was square, with linoleum underfoot and fluorescents overhead. Beige metal lockers lined three walls.

Movement to my right startled me.

Scott Pierce seemed equally surprised at my entrance. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, frowning.

Odd. Pierce had gotten a heads-up from Yellen. He should have been expecting me. “I’ve got the warrant for Kiley James’s locker.” I produced the document again.

“Great. I’ll take that,” Reaching out. “You can wait up front.”

A tiny alarm pinged in my head.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick around.” Tucking the warrant back into my pocket.