Page 117 of Fire and Bones
“Just comply,” Ronan whined. “I have things to do.”
Eyes rolling like synchronized pinballs, Roy sat.
“Have you an objection to my recording this conversation? For accuracy. For your protection as well as mine.”
“Of course not,” Ronan said.
Roy looked dubious but didn’t object.
While Deery set up his phone, I assessed my surroundings.
The room was tinted blue by the neon beer sign, giving it a watery, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea vibe. The air smelled of fried food. I guessed the takeout Roy had been carrying in the bag.
The unit was larger than its humble exterior suggested, probably occupying the building’s entire footprint. A narrow hall ran backward from the man cave to end in a kitchen at the rear. Checkerboard linoleum and harvest gold appliances suggested a love of sixties design. Or a lack of updating.
I counted five doors along the corridor, assumed they led to bedrooms and baths. Maybe closets. A study or library seemed unlikely.
The walls were hung with what I guessed were family photos. From where I sat, I could only see those on the left. One was a professional portrait. Three were amateur shots, enlarged, matted, and framed.
The portrait resembled those for which Gran had posed in her youth. Sepia-toned, it showed a woman seated in a high-backed chair, hair in a complicated updo, hands placed one atop the other in her lap.
The Kodak moments were in color and had a theme. Each showed the same woman at varying ages, with two identical boys at her sides. In the nearest photo, the boys were seven or eight and had on matching sweaters and bow ties. In the next, they were preteens wearing plaid open-collared shirts. In the third, they were young men, probably in their twenties, and finally dressing themselves. One had long hair and wore a Foo Fighters tee. The other was in a buzz-cut and Izod polo.
“May I ask about the lady?”
Roy’s voice brought me back.
“Accompanying me is Dr. Temperance Brennan,” Deery replied, giving zero reason for my presence.
“A dick and a doc. Catchy. You should pitch it to one of those true crime shows.”
Apparently, Roy considered himself quite the humorist.
“Do you feel my presence here is related to a crime, Mr. Stoll?” Deery’s face showed not the slightest trace of amusement.
“You’re a policeman.”
“Omygod!” Ronan angled forward, spine arced, a red patch spreading across each of his cheeks. “Is this about the break-in at Joyce and Clive Zamzow’s condo? We heard that their home was totally trashed. I was terrified. What if we’d been targeted instead? We could have been killed!”
“Their condo was not totally trashed.” Roy’s mocking tone was clearly meant to deride his brother. “And the detective who interviewed us said the Zamzows were burglarized because they were out of town. We were not out of town.”
“You aren’t always right, you know.” Ronan slumped back in his chair, all cocked chin and affronted scowl.
The brothers weren’t always in sync, I thought. Made sense. Even twins must disagree at times.
Deery waited out the bickering, then, “I’m engaged in an arson investigation.” Calculatedly offering no further detail.
“Can’t help you with that. There’s been no scuttlebutt about a fire around here,” Roy said. Then to Ronan, “Have you heard anything?”
“What am I, gossip central?”
“There’s no call to be snappy,” Roy snapped.
“The fire was in Foggy Bottom,” Deery offered, watching carefully for a reaction. As did I.
The brothers exchanged puzzled looks.
“Foggy Bottom is way out of our—”