Bone Hunter (38 page)

Authors: Sarah Andrews

BOOK: Bone Hunter

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“And you know this how?”

“They look alike. Same nose, same narrow face. At least fifty percent Scandinavian blood; they stay baby-faced and fit past ninety, but his thatch is gray. She craves emotional intimacy, but because she hasn’t known him all these years and because she’s deep down extremely pissed at being abandoned, she throws it all in his face by offering it on a channel most daughters don’t use on their fathers. Ha-ha daddy, I’m all grown up and you missed it. I talk about sex right to your face. He’s stunned that he’s even in the same room with her, and hasn’t a clue how to behave, except to be about as available as he ever has been, which is not at all.”

The FBI agent grinned. “Like I said, you’re a natural.”

I threw him a sideways glance. Ray had reached the door and was holding it open, his lips drawn into a straight line. I said, “Why do you ask?”

He replied, “Because it bears on the case. The only thing you missed is the possible connection between the boyfriend and daddy, but I haven’t yet proven there is one.”

“Oh, sure,” I said sarcastically. “We’re in a restaurant, and the people you want to observe just happen to sit at the next table. How’d you do that, Houdini?”

He gave my elbow a squeeze and smiled more broadly. “Prior planning and agreeable maitre d’s. If you want to avoid suspicion, you find out where and when your quarry’s eating,
and make your reservation just ahead of them. The man who’s now sitting in your chair listening intently to their conversation, looking ever-so-casually like some big witless slob ordering creme brulee and another cup of coffee, works with me. Cheap tricks. You’ll pick them up quickly.”

I could hear Ray tapping his ring against the handle of the door. The ring his deceased wife had placed on his finger. Tap, tap, tap. Hurry up, Em.

I wanted to spit. “My truck’s in the shop,” I said. “I’d need—”

“I know,” said the agent. “I’ll pick you up about a quarter to six tomorrow morning. Don’t worry about breakfast. I’ll have doughnuts and coffee with me. You take yours black.”

I glanced at Ray. He was glaring at me. “I’m particularly fond of those cream-filled guys with the chocolate on top,” I said.

“A good choice. Wear hard-toed boots,” the FBI agent replied. “Where we’re going, the Mining Safety and Health Administration rules the road. And tell Ray to calm down. I’ll have you back in time for dinner.”

PAT GILMORE SAT at her computer, her fingertips lightly tapping at the keys, so lightly that no letters appeared on the screen. This was her habit, her nervous tic, a world of energy drawn up tight and idling.
What am I going to do?
she was wondering, as her fingers failed to jitter away her nervous charge.
I can’t just let this happen. It’s not right. The data’s right here in front of me. He’s lying and I know it
.

She jumped up from her desk and marched back and forth across the tiny office, stumbling into the overflowing wastebasket in her haste. Grace had never been one of her attributes. Pat was a tall, large-boned person, the kind of heavy-muscled woman men call a “big girl.” The men’s work chinos and short-sleeved shirts she wore did nothing to ameliorate that image. To say she didn’t care how she looked would have
been inaccurate; it was more that other things in her life took priority over grooming; and while painful, other peoples’ opinions were not quite important enough to motivate her to consult a fashion advisor, or change her haircut to something softer and more feminine, or, God forbid, mess around with makeup. There were simply too many things to be done.

Right now pacing topped that list. She moved like a penned bull, crossing the small trailer that housed her office in three long strides, her hands balled into fists, striding again until the opposite wall fetched her up with a thud. She knew the wall was there and could have avoided it, but such physical reference planes held little meaning for her at the moment. Forcing her breath out with a roar, she slammed both fists into the tack board in front of her, tearing a photocopied announcement regarding employee rights. She yanked a push-pin from elsewhere on the bulletin board and jammed it ferociously into the center of the memorandum, turned, then stalked again toward the opposite wall.

The telephone on her desk rang, a loud jangling that jostled her already over-tight nerves. She snatched up the receiver in one large hand. “Well?” she roared into the instrument. Her eyes went huge with rage as she listened to the voice at the other end of the line. “Bullshit!” she shouted. “No
way
I’m going to keep this quiet!” Without saying goodbye, she slammed the phone back into its cradle.

Growling in frustration, she bent over her desk and yanked a hidden group of papers from underneath the blotter, then rummaged violently through the wastebasket for a reuseable manila envelope large enough to hold the pages. Finding one that would serve, she jammed the pages into it and raised it to her lips to lick the unspent shreds of adhesive that remained along the flap. It would not stick. She cursed the fact, and got after it with a wad of package tape. Turning to the front, she grabbed a marking pen, crossed out the old return address,
wrote “from” next to her address—Patricia Gilmore, Staff Biologist, Intermontane Biological Consultants, c/o Gloriana Mine, Winnemucca, Nevada—and then in big letters below it wrote, “To KREN News, Reno,” then added, in the lower left corner, “John Howell, eyes only.” She allowed herself a bitter laugh over the paltry likelihood that she could get her way in even this one small request, but kept moving. There was no time to be wasted fussing over the unfairness of life, the universe, and newsrooms. She had to keep trying, that was all. Yes, try. End this distortion of everything she by God dressed in chinos to protect.

With these thoughts firmly in mind, she snatched her jacket off its hook, flicked out the overhead lights, and headed outside into the rumbling drone of the mill, the setting sun, and the scent of sage. As she rushed across the fresh smooth blacktop toward her ancient pickup truck, she for once cursed how quickly this ostentatious armoring of asphalt would give way to the miles of graded dirt that lay ahead. It would slow her transit, and tonight she wanted speed.

AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR

S.J. ROZAN

As winner of the Shamus Award and Anthony Award, S.J. Rozan has joined the company of Sue Grafton, Jonathan Kellerman, and Patricia Cornwell.
Booklist
has deemed Rozan “a major figure in contemporary mystery fiction.” Now it’s your turn to discover one of fiction’s major voices and to fall in love with mysteries of evocative atmosphere, engaging characters, and exquisite writing.

NO COLDER PLACE

WINNER OF THE ANTHONY AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL

With the help of his Chinese-American partner, Lydia Chin, Bill Smith goes undercover again to investigate the suspicious murder of a construction foreman’s death. It’s a mystery that will lead him on a trail of twisted loyalties, old-fashioned greed, and organized crime to its heart-stopping conclusion.

“A mystery gem … taut and beautifully written.”

—
Detroit Free Press

A BITTER FEAST

With backup from her partner Bill Smith, Lydia goes undercover as a dim sum waitress to investigate the disappearance of four restaurant workers and a union organizer. Slinging steamed dumplings while dodging a lethal conflict between the old and the new orders, Lydia must search for the missing waiters and uncover their deadly secret—before someone serves them their last supper.

“Smart, crisp writing … a sumptuous feast for jaded palates.”

—The New York Times Book Review

AVAILABLE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD
FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS

SJR 11/00

A CONVENTIONAL CORPSE

A CLAIRE MALLOY MYSTERY

JOAN HESS

Farberville, Arkansas, is playing host to its first-ever mystery convention with five major mystery writers——each representing a different subgenre of the mystery world—making the trek to the local college for “Murder Comes to Campus.” Bookseller Claire Malloy is looking forward to meeting some of her favorite writers. But when one of the conference attendees dies in a car accident, it’s evident that in Farberville the murder mystery is more than a literary genre.

“Hess goes about things in a lively style. Her heroine, Claire Malloy, has a sharp eye and an irreverent way of describing what she sees.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

“Blends humor, eccentric characters, familiar emotions, and plot twists into an enjoyable lark.”
—
Nashville Banner

AVAILABLE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS

CC 01/01

BONE HUNTER

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

eISBN 9781466819719

First eBook Edition : April 2012

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-23850

ISBN: 0-312-97317-9
EAN: 80312-97317-9

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / September 1999
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 2000