Page 36 of Fire and Bones

No shockers on either.

The last page showed the basement.

A behemoth coal-burning furnace stood center stage in the open area at the foot of the stairs. Several small chambers circled the periphery, perhaps a pantry, a room for coal storage, another for tools.

“Odd,” I said.

“What?”

“There’s nothing to indicate the presence of a subcellar. The entrance should be there.” I pointed to the spot where Hickey had so ungracefully disappeared.

“Also added later?”

“Why?”

“Good question.”

“Did you find anything else pertaining to this address?”

“There’s nothing on file but the original plans.”

We were pondering that when Doyle’s mobile rang.

“I should take this,” she said after checking her screen.

“Of course.”

As she moved toward the hall, I returned my gaze to the plans. Pretended not to do the very thing I’d suspected Doyle of doing earlier. Strained to listen.

Fruitlessly.

What I could hear of Doyle’s side of the conversation consisted mostly of monosyllabic questions. When? Where? Often?

After thanking the caller, Doyle reappeared and crossed to the table.

She looked at me. I looked at her. The aquamarine eyes suggested conflict raging behind them. Share with me? Hold back? Order the snakeskin or the red leather pumps?

I waited.

Apparently, the battle resolved in my favor.

“I have a confidential informant who provides me with intel from time to time. That was him phoning.” Realizing her mistake: “I use the gender-based term as a generic, not to imply sex.”

“Of course,” I said, not caring a wit about the identity of Doyle’s CI.

“Ironically, this tip had to do with the Foggy Bottom property.” Waggling her phone. “Well, not so ironic. I had sent out a bazillion feelers.”

Again, I waited.

“It seems the house was used off and on as a meth lab.”

“By whom?”

“The caller didn’t have… that information.”

“Or wouldn’t share it.”

Doyle shrugged one shoulder, conceding agreement.