Page 136 of The Bone Code
“I will never stop looking.”
30
Tuesday, November 16
Claudel phoned at eight the next morning. He’d wasted no time. And was his usual surly self.
“My first sweep is suggesting that Arlo Murray is as clean as a urinal in a convent.”
“No arrests?”
“I dislike repeating myself.”
“What kind of car does he drive?”
“A Lexus LC 500.”
“What do they look like?” Automotive detail is not my thing.
“The one that ran you down.”
“Does it have fog lights?”
“All cars have fog lights. In case of fog.”
Easy, Brennan.
“Is Murray’s right fog light broken?” Enunciating each word.
“I’ll be checking that out. And I’ll be canvassing body shops to see if any Lexus 500 was brought in recently for repairs.”
“Find out everything you can about him.”
“I intend to know the nature of the gentleman’s polyps. But one question,s’il vous plâit. Why are you so certain Murray is dirty?”
“He and Melanie started working at InovoVax at the same time, both having come from the States. Two witnesses say there was friction between them, yet Murray lied about knowing Melanie. Years later, when Melanie’s daughter Lena showed up asking questions about her mother, Murray refused to help her.”
“Ouis, mai—”
“Think about this. The day after Ryan phoned to request an interview, Melanie’s file is deleted from the InovoVax system.”
“Murray would have had access, but undoubtedly others as well.”
“I have a bad feeling about this guy. He should be under surveillance.”
“Couldn’t do my job without you, Dr. Brennan.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ryan was gone, as usual. How could a human being be that stealthy that early? Most mornings, I scrabbled around like a squirrel in a feeder.
Ryan had made coffee. Without clanging a cup or banging a cabinet door.
After filling a mug, I took Melanie’s file to the dining-room table. I was spending so much time there lately that Birdie hopped up, Pavlovian, and curled beside me.
The file’s contents were disappointingly meager. Six sheets of paper. I skimmed the first. It seemed to be a schedule, but out of context, the dates, abbreviations, and series of numbers were meaningless.
The rest of the pages, all blue-lined and torn from a spiral notebook, were written in some sort of shorthand or code. I began culling recognizable words and phrases and entering them into a Word document.
