Page 32 of Fire and Bones

“That maggoty cheese from Sardinia.”

Brennan!

The quip earned me another questioning squint. And a stab of guilt for the attitude.

“Would you like to follow me to my place?”

“Thanks, but I can find it. And please excuse my prickliness. It’s the fatigue talking.”

“I totally understand.”

“I really do appreciate your generosity.”

“Not a problem.”

Doyle gave me her address and I entered it into my phone.

As I peeled off my coveralls, the evening air felt warm and moist on my skin. A gentle breeze lifted clumps of damp hair off my sweat-slicked forehead and neck.

The sky was velvety gray, the overhead leaves, branches, and wires black shapes lifting and falling against it. In the distance, through a confusion of buildings and utility poles, the sun was a fuzzy orange ball hovering low over the horizon.

Free of my PPE, I settled behind the wheel and dialed Ryan. Glad he could neither see nor smell me. He answered quickly.

“Bonsoir, ma chère.”

“Hey.”

“You sound tired.”

“Does a dog have three— Never mind.”

“Rough day?”

“It wasn’t my favorite.”

“Tell the tale.”

I described the house in Foggy Bottom, the four fire victims, the fifth body from the subcellar. Thacker. Burgos. Hickey. Doyle.

Ryan listened without interrupting, as was his style. It’s one of the things I like about him.

“What’s your take on the burlap body?”

“Nice alliteration.”

“Thanks. Your take?”

“No idea.”

“Sound thinking.”

“That way I can’t possibly be wrong.”

“Be of happy heart, my lovely. A hot sudsy shower and room service await.”

“Hah!”

I explained the hotel debacle, Ivy Doyle and her background, and the young woman’s gracious offer to host me.