Page 92 of Fire and Bones

My purse strap was going over my shoulder when the desk phone shrilled, startling me.

I figured the system had been rolled to auto for the weekend. And that the caller was probably Deery, having forgotten some detail and hoping I was still here.

“Brennan,” I answered.

“Is this the bone doctor?” The voice was female, and so low I thought the conversation might need subtitles.

“Who’s calling?”

“I saw you on TV with Ivy Doyle.”

Dear God. How often would that interview come back to bite me in the ass?

“I trust Ivy Doyle. She’s an honorable person. I sense you are, too.”

“Your name please?”

“No. Not this way.”

“You phoned me, ma’am.”

“Yes. I did. Wait.” The connection muffled, as though the caller were pressing the handset or mobile to her chest. Then,

“You’re the expert examining the people who burned to death in Foggy Bottom?” Even more whispery, lips close to the mouthpiece.

“How can I help you?”

The woman’s next words sent electricity sizzling through me.

“I know who set those fires.”

“What?”

“The two buildings. I know who destroyed them.”

“Who?” Too strident. Stupid.

I heard a sharp intake of breath followed by the thud of complete silence.

“I’m sorry,” I said, more gently. “I can tell this is hard for you.”

The woman uttered a spindly little sound that might have meant yes.

“Would you prefer we meet in person?”

“That would be better.”

“Tell me when and where.”

“Three this afternoon.” Slight hitch in her breathing. “The Einstein Memorial.”

“I’ll be there.” I’d never heard of it and hadn’t a clue to its location.

“You cannot tell anyone.”

“What about Ivy?”

“Absolutely no one. Promise?”