Page 145 of Fire and Bones
Zanetti nodded.
“Someplace nice?”
Zanetti snorted. “Flintstone, a toad’s turd of a place crapped between the Tussey and Warrior Mountains.”
“You must have finished earlier than you expected.” Hoping the fine citizens of Flintstone never learned of Zanetti’s crude remark.
“Yeah.”
“A big sale?”
“Big enough.”
“Good for you.”
Blotting butter from his lips, Zanetti switched the focus to me. “I hear there were developments in your case while I was incommunicado in Hooterville.”
“Sorry?” I hadn’t a clue what he meant.
“More arson in Foggy Bottom.”
“Right.” Surprised. Thacker said there was a blackout on coverage until the DOA’s next of kin had been notified. Had some go-getter journalist ignored the agreement and reported on the blaze anyway? Or had word spread via the net? It was impossible to keep a gag on social media.
“Super-weird MO like that. All three blazes have to be linked.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s just a crazy-ass way to start a fire. Anyone die in this new one?”
“I can’t discuss an open investigation.” Cool as frost in February.
Zanetti gave me a vaguely offended look, like maybe I’d failed to reciprocate in the sharing of confidences.
When we’d devoured the last crab, I helped clean up the mess. Zanetti watched as I made myself a mug of chamomile tea and walked from the room, fervently hoping he’d complete his online business quickly and leave.
Upstairs, I cleaned Chuck’s cage, then filled his water and food dispensers. Thinking he might like to bathe, I filled a shallow tray with chinchilla dust, a product recommended to me by a clerk at the Petco.
The chinch regarded me with what I took to be appreciation.
“You’re on your own with the bath, little guy,” I said. “I’m not going to groom you.” The packaging stated that brushing was recommended post-toilette.
Three-fifty-five.
Feeling jittery and trapped, I debated what to do with the rest of the afternoon.
Rain was falling with gusto now, and the sky had darkened to an even more pessimistic gray. Unable to bear the thought of my already damp boots, and not wanting to slog through the downpour in sneakers or sandals, I decided to hunker in and spend more time with Ivy’s photocopies.
Not a sound drifted in from elsewhere in the house.
Still, I couldn’t concentrate.
It wasn’t just the feeling of being corralled. Something else was bugging me. What? Why were my nerves on edge? Thacker’s call? The third fire? The Zanetti-bimbo sighting? Maybe Zanetti. The two anonymous texts? My failure to tell Derry about them?
Focus, Brennan. Find some crumb that will shed light on the subcellar lady.
A couple of hours later I was taking a break from skimming newsprint, checking email, when the sound of movement caused me to look up. Not really a sound, more a change in the air.
Zanetti was standing at my open door, a steaming mug in his right hand, tea bag label hanging over one side.