Authors: Sarah Andrews
Bone Hunter (5 page)
SGT. CARLOS ORTEGA ANSWERED THE PHONE AT HIS mother’s house, where I caught him in the middle of dinner. “Em,” he murmured, “Mama has made
menudo.
Can I call you back?”
menudo.
Can I call you back?”
My heart sank. “Sure,” I said, in a voice that must have sounded like a condemned prisoner acquiescing from the top step of the gallows.
I heard his sigh in return.
“Momentito, amiga,
while I stretch the phone cord to the table here. Okay. That’s good.” To his littlest brother, he said,
“Oye,
Salvador,
pasame las tortillas, por favor,”
and then back to me: “Okay. Okay. So what is wrong in your life, my friend?”
“Momentito, amiga,
while I stretch the phone cord to the table here. Okay. That’s good.” To his littlest brother, he said,
“Oye,
Salvador,
pasame las tortillas, por favor,”
and then back to me: “Okay. Okay. So what is wrong in your life, my friend?”
“Is it that obvious something’s wrong?”
With an ironic tone, Ortega said, “These many years I know you,
amiga.
You think yourself awkward, but in fact you consider my feelings at most times,
como una señora muy fina.
But here you are calling at my dinner hour. I am a detective, no? It is my job to notice things.” He took a noisy slurp of his stew, pacing out this dissertation. “And you have many ways you express yourself. Tonight, it is what you are
not
saying. You are not saying that you are calling
larga distancia,
something you have done only when your heart has
found trouble. But no, this is not even deduction. I know you are not home because I saw your landlady today, and she informs me you are out of town.
¿Verdad?”
amiga.
You think yourself awkward, but in fact you consider my feelings at most times,
como una señora muy fina.
But here you are calling at my dinner hour. I am a detective, no? It is my job to notice things.” He took a noisy slurp of his stew, pacing out this dissertation. “And you have many ways you express yourself. Tonight, it is what you are
not
saying. You are not saying that you are calling
larga distancia,
something you have done only when your heart has
found trouble. But no, this is not even deduction. I know you are not home because I saw your landlady today, and she informs me you are out of town.
¿Verdad?”
“Verdad.”
In the four years I had known Carlos Ortega, our conversation had developed its own pattern and pace and had increasingly become studded with Spanish. Moreover, he was within the bliss of his mother’s cooking, and at such times he reverted to the mannerly, elegant language of his childhood. My landlady Betty would have been his source of lunch. Much to my growing discomfort, she and Carlos had become … ah, friends. “Yes, I am calling from Salt Lake City.”
In the four years I had known Carlos Ortega, our conversation had developed its own pattern and pace and had increasingly become studded with Spanish. Moreover, he was within the bliss of his mother’s cooking, and at such times he reverted to the mannerly, elegant language of his childhood. My landlady Betty would have been his source of lunch. Much to my growing discomfort, she and Carlos had become … ah, friends. “Yes, I am calling from Salt Lake City.”
“And the weather is nice?”
“Lovely.”
“But you are sad.” His voice wrapped me in sympathy.
My vision began to swim. I fought to hold back the tears that wanted to flow. “Yes,” I whispered.
Yes, I am sad. And it’s not just what’s happened today. It’s whom I’ve met.
Yes, I am sad. And it’s not just what’s happened today. It’s whom I’ve met.
“So speak to me. Tell me what makes
tu corazon
to ache.”
tu corazon
to ache.”
A drop rolled down my cheek. Another. To stanch the downpour, I said something that would raise my anger. “I’ve been arrested.”
I heard his spoon hit the table.
“¿Que? iAmiga! ¿Por qué!”
“¿Que? iAmiga! ¿Por qué!”
“Well, I don’t mean arrested, exactly; they didn’t have enough to hold me on. No, that’s not right. I’m saying this all wrong, but I’m their prime suspect. I mean—
they didn’t call you?”
It hit me all at once: This was news to him. Now I really
was
angry.
they didn’t call you?”
It hit me all at once: This was news to him. Now I really
was
angry.
“iPare! iPare! ¿Por qué es su—”
With an effort, he shook himself back out of Spanish. “What were the charges?”
With an effort, he shook himself back out of Spanish. “What were the charges?”
“Um. Ah. Murder.”
“iAy, caramba!
No, this a joke.
¿Verdad?”
No, this a joke.
¿Verdad?”
“No. I was staying at this guy’s house and now he’s dead, and they caught me—well …” I took a deep breath and told
him the whole weird story about locking myself out of the house.
him the whole weird story about locking myself out of the house.
Carlos hammered me with questions, rapid-fire, until he was satisfied that he had the essentials. “Name of the deceased.”
“George Dishey.”
“How did you know him?”
“I didn’t. I’d just met him. Well, you see, he’d heard about me. About the work I—you and I—had done together. About me helping your police investigations with my geology. I don’t know who told him, but I begin to be known, you know? I mean, petroleum geologists are a dime a dozen, but forensic geologists are really something—or that’s what he said. And I wanted to hear that. So I’m just a bachelor’s degree with only a few years’ experience. So I’m no one from nowhere. I thought it would be nice just once—”
Carlos interrupted.
“No es importante, querida.
Just tell me how he contacted you.”
“No es importante, querida.
Just tell me how he contacted you.”
“He just called me up out of a clear blue sky one day and told me about this conference, and of course I knew who he was, and at first I thought it must be someone playing a prank, because he’s like on TV and in the magazines and all.”
“But it was him, and you were honored.”
“Flattered,” I said bitterly. How easily I had let George convince me to come. I knew that big names don’t necessarily mean big hearts, but by the time I’d arrived in Salt Lake, I’d built George up into a secretly nice guy whom no one but me could really understand. Hah. And now here I was deciding that this cop was the next solution to all my longings. When was I going to learn?
Carlos smacked his lips over another spoonful of his
menudo.
“Continue.”
menudo.
“Continue.”
“So he told me about how he was going to have a session on forensic geology at this conference, because part of what a
paleontologist does is he figures out how the fossil died. Because you see, they’re all dead. The animals a paleontologist works with. And plants. That’s what distinguishes paleontologists from biologists, I guess.” I had seen Carlos only last Wednesday but hadn’t told him about the conference, or the talk. Why had I held out on him? Had I on some level smelled a rat?
paleontologist does is he figures out how the fossil died. Because you see, they’re all dead. The animals a paleontologist works with. And plants. That’s what distinguishes paleontologists from biologists, I guess.” I had seen Carlos only last Wednesday but hadn’t told him about the conference, or the talk. Why had I held out on him? Had I on some level smelled a rat?
“So you hadn’t met him before you arrived for the conference.
“Right.”
“You saw the body?”
“No. And thank God. It must have been a mess.”
“How do you know this?”
“The cops are really upset. These guys are taking this one personally.”
“Ayii,”
Carlos whined, signifying the depth of trouble I was in. Then, finally calming down enough to start eating again, he asked, “Where are you now?”
Carlos whined, signifying the depth of trouble I was in. Then, finally calming down enough to start eating again, he asked, “Where are you now?”
“At his house.”
“This dead person’s?”
“
Sí.”
Sí.”
“This George Dishey’s?”
“Corecto.”
“Aiyii. No es bueno. Aiyii.”
“Aiyii
what?”
what?”
Carlos muttered under his breath for a moment. “Forget I said anything. You go and have a good life.”
“Carlos, what kind of
mierda—”
mierda—”
“No! I offer no advice! Each time I try to help you, you do the opposite! I take no responsibility!”
“Yes, but this time—”
“You don’t know who killed this man. What if—”
“Don’t worry, Carlos. If you were trying to get away with murder, would you drop by your victim’s house to make sure you got noticed? No. It’s probably the safest place I could be.
No te preocupe.
Besides, the police are all over me. They even assigned a guy to take me up to the conference.” I was overstating this, I knew, but I wanted to convince myself as well as Carlos. “He and two or ten of his pals are probably down the block right now, waiting for me to make a move, sitting there in their unmarked cars, drinking Postum.”
No te preocupe.
Besides, the police are all over me. They even assigned a guy to take me up to the conference.” I was overstating this, I knew, but I wanted to convince myself as well as Carlos. “He and two or ten of his pals are probably down the block right now, waiting for me to make a move, sitting there in their unmarked cars, drinking Postum.”
“Postum?”
“Yeah, this is a Mormon town. Try getting a decent cup of coffee around here. Most places it’s no caffeine, no smokes, no liquor harder than three-two beer.”
Carlos slurped his
cerveza
obnoxiously.
cerveza
obnoxiously.
I said, “This prime suspect thing totally sucks.”
“Wash your mouth.”
“You try getting arrested sometime! So nobody called you. That’s interesting.”
“¿Por qué?”
“Pos qué
something made them decide to let me go about my business. I had assumed it was talking to you.” I laughed mirthlessly. “You know, like I thought you’d vouched for me and they’d taken your word for it, or at least that your word was good enough to get them to take the handcuffs off, but here you say this conversation never occurred. So why’d they let me go?”
something made them decide to let me go about my business. I had assumed it was talking to you.” I laughed mirthlessly. “You know, like I thought you’d vouched for me and they’d taken your word for it, or at least that your word was good enough to get them to take the handcuffs off, but here you say this conversation never occurred. So why’d they let me go?”
ORTEGA WAS RIGHT, of course. Prudence would have dictated that I find myself another place to stay, but fatigue, frugality, and fatheadedness made me dig in my heels and stay put. I told myself that it could be a week or weeks before I was cleared of any suspicion in this investigation, and that by then I’d be out of a job and wouldn’t have the means to pay off the plane flight out here that I’d jacked onto my credit card, let alone cover an extended stay at a hotel. I agreed to call Carlos if anything else happened. He agreed to phone the Salt
Lake City Homicide Squad and find out what he could. I hung up the phone no more comforted than when I’d dialed it.
Lake City Homicide Squad and find out what he could. I hung up the phone no more comforted than when I’d dialed it.
I sat staring numbly around George Dishey’s living room. It was more library than living room, chockablock with bookshelf after bookshelf, each crammed to the gills with academic tomes and scholarly texts on matters paleontological. I spotted the titles of a few popular books, like Crichton’s
Jurassic Park
and Bakker’s
Dinosaur Heresies.
Some of the more technical books were old, original monographs. These had to be worth a mint, and George must have known it, as some were turned cover out and proudly displayed on little holders that kept their spines from cracking. George’s writings—almost all of which gleamed from the glossy pages of popular books and magazines, rather than from scholarly texts—were also on display, some even with little spotlights trained on them, the banality of their hyped-up titles and illustrations standing in stark contrast to the more staid productions of the monographs. His covers were brightly colored, even lurid, and there he was on the dust jacket of the latest, flourishing that bronze jawbone, grinning into the camera. “As seen on TV,” the jacket blurb read. I marveled at his cheek, using a bullshit award as a trademark to impress the masses.
Jurassic Park
and Bakker’s
Dinosaur Heresies.
Some of the more technical books were old, original monographs. These had to be worth a mint, and George must have known it, as some were turned cover out and proudly displayed on little holders that kept their spines from cracking. George’s writings—almost all of which gleamed from the glossy pages of popular books and magazines, rather than from scholarly texts—were also on display, some even with little spotlights trained on them, the banality of their hyped-up titles and illustrations standing in stark contrast to the more staid productions of the monographs. His covers were brightly colored, even lurid, and there he was on the dust jacket of the latest, flourishing that bronze jawbone, grinning into the camera. “As seen on TV,” the jacket blurb read. I marveled at his cheek, using a bullshit award as a trademark to impress the masses.
I examined it closely. It really was a showpiece, a good eighteen inches long and laden with teeth. He gripped it by the posterior end and had planted it flat across his chest, his other arm bent at the elbow and fist rammed against his hip, like a pirate brandishing his knife.
In one corner of the room stood a four-drawer filing cabinet. The drawers were labeled EENY, MEENY, MINEY, and MOE. I smiled at the thought of Detective Bert trying to make sense of them. Next to the filing cabinet stood a hollow-core door turned horizontally and set up on cinder blocks to serve as a desk. The hole through which a doorknob would have reached held a glass jar full of pens and pencils. A swanky ergonomic
chair faced George’s computer, which was a gutsy state-of-the-art job from which the police detectives had extracted the hard drive. The rest of the surface of the desk was stacked high with papers that threatened to advance on the room like so many glaciers. The evidence team had gone through these too; I had seen a man working them when I returned. I glanced at the couch and the overstuffed chairs, a grubby grotto of garage-sale modern furnishings in which the police had taken no interest. George had been at heart an academic, placing his love and value in his books and the tools of his trade.
chair faced George’s computer, which was a gutsy state-of-the-art job from which the police detectives had extracted the hard drive. The rest of the surface of the desk was stacked high with papers that threatened to advance on the room like so many glaciers. The evidence team had gone through these too; I had seen a man working them when I returned. I glanced at the couch and the overstuffed chairs, a grubby grotto of garage-sale modern furnishings in which the police had taken no interest. George had been at heart an academic, placing his love and value in his books and the tools of his trade.
Speaking of his tools,
I thought,
where’s his field equipment?
I assayed the room again, looking for the obligatory Brunton compass, field notebooks, and rock hammer any geologist would own, and the fine collection of brushes, dental picks, and pry bars one specializing in paleontology would have amassed. They were not in evidence. I wandered over to the basement door, opened it, and took a look. There was nothing down there but house guts and the scent of mildew; a wet basement even in this dry climate. I meandered into the kitchen and surveyed the backyard in hopes of a garage or storage shed. Nothing but the carport in which he had parked his truck, which now stood near wherever it was he had gone in such a hurry.
I thought,
where’s his field equipment?
I assayed the room again, looking for the obligatory Brunton compass, field notebooks, and rock hammer any geologist would own, and the fine collection of brushes, dental picks, and pry bars one specializing in paleontology would have amassed. They were not in evidence. I wandered over to the basement door, opened it, and took a look. There was nothing down there but house guts and the scent of mildew; a wet basement even in this dry climate. I meandered into the kitchen and surveyed the backyard in hopes of a garage or storage shed. Nothing but the carport in which he had parked his truck, which now stood near wherever it was he had gone in such a hurry.
Confused by this lack of field equipment, I wandered back into the living room and got to studying a collection of framed photographs on the wall above George’s desk, the ego wall of which Earthworm Magritte had spoken. They hung interspersed with George’s Yale sheepskin, a thank-you plaque from a public television station, something from the Cub Scouts of America, a very dear childish drawing from “Mrs. Gearhart’s Second Grade Class, thank you Dr. Dishey,” and the empty walnut Golden Jawbone plaque. There were two snaps of George in younger days. One was of George as a young boy, precociously posed in front of the
Tyrannosaurus
rex
mount at some cavernous museum,
his hands up in predatory claw-creature mode, his lips retracted to display dentition made comical by the lack of one front tooth and the oversized appearance of one new one. Another showed George in Vietnam-issue jungle fatigues, lounging against a helicopter with several of his mates, all grinning and making obscene gestures except the pilot, a weirdly handsome young man who gave me the shivers. He had jutting cheekbones and regarded the camera with eyes as dark and menacing as a crypt. I wondered what the war had done to him, wondered for that matter how George Dishey and all the others in the photograph had fared.
Tyrannosaurus
rex
mount at some cavernous museum,
his hands up in predatory claw-creature mode, his lips retracted to display dentition made comical by the lack of one front tooth and the oversized appearance of one new one. Another showed George in Vietnam-issue jungle fatigues, lounging against a helicopter with several of his mates, all grinning and making obscene gestures except the pilot, a weirdly handsome young man who gave me the shivers. He had jutting cheekbones and regarded the camera with eyes as dark and menacing as a crypt. I wondered what the war had done to him, wondered for that matter how George Dishey and all the others in the photograph had fared.
The other photographs were publicity photos, the kind some photographer with a big-format camera snaps to publicize one event or another. Here, the dedication of a new museum display; there, a group of Cub Scouts visiting dino land; down here, a pose with a big find in the prep room of a museum, everyone in lab coats but him. From the middle of each picture, George Dishey mugged shamelessly toward the camera. No matter how formal or casual the occasion, he wore a T-shirt, baggy pants, and a bandanna around his neck and sported a ponytail so big and bushy that it had to be a parody of those I had just seen at the conference. He was a plain-looking man with a lumpy nose, lively eyes, a quick smile, and an unkempt beard. Just the sort of man to play the hokey prospector in the amateur theatrical of some gold rush play. In several shots, he wielded the Golden Jawbone in a corny impression of the run-amok madman from a horror flick. The sight of that awful prop reminded me of meat, which in turn reminded me of dinner.
Other books
Why Now? by Carey Heywood
Intimate Caresses (The Love and Danger Series) by Elizabeth Lennox
The Perfect Husband by Chris Taylor
How to Learn a Foreign Language by Graham E. Fuller
The Jazz Palace by Mary Morris
A Deep Deceit by Hilary Bonner
The Paris Connection by Cerella Sechrist
On Lone Star Trail by Amanda Cabot
The Dragon's Mistress (Dragon Erotica) by Tessa Black
Gossip by Joseph Epstein