Page 50 of The Bone Code
I fed Birdie, something from a can involving chicken. He sniffed the brown glump and walked away in protest.
Note to self: stock up on the cat’s preferred brand.
Quick teeth and hair. Different brushes, same level of effort. Whom would I see that I needed to impress?
After throwing on jeans and a sweater, I scooped up my mobile. Anne had phoned. And texted. Twice.
Though anxious to be off, I returned her call. Got voice mail. Left a message.
Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. By the time I’d parked and walked to the lab, it was well past eight. Leaving my purse in one of my desk drawers and my jacket on the coat tree, I hurried downstairs.
Lisa was suited up and ready to go. I threw on scrubs, and we spent the next hour and a half rechecking the bones, the body bags, and the debris from the screen. Found six stray hairs. All from the mouse.
Lisa packaged a femur from each victim while I changed. Then I rode the elevator back upstairs.
Claire Willoughby was the DNA tech doing intake. In her late twenties, tall and willowy, Willoughby carried herself like a woman who knew she was beautiful. She wasn’t, due largely to her taste in makeup.
Willoughby skimmed the request form, one overplucked brow arched high above one emerald lid. Then she listened to my account.
“I’ll be straight with you.” British accent so strong it should have been waving a photo of the queen. “I’m not optimistic.”
“Give it your best shot,” I said.
We both did the thumbs-up thing.
Back in my office, I checked my contacts, then entered a number. A voice answered, perky and friendly as the Sugar Plum Fairy.
“DNA Analysis International. How may I direct you?”
“Dr. Griesser, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Temperance Brennan.”
“One moment, please. You have a blessed day.”
A Muzak rendering of “Brown Skin Girl”—definitely not Beyoncé—was mercifully truncated by another voice, this one cigarette-rough and tinged with concern.
“Tempe. How’s haps, girl?”
“Haps be good. Sorry to phone during working hours.”
“Is something wrong with Mom?”
Lizzie Griesser is a molecular biologist employed by DAI, a private DNA lab headquartered in Virginia. We’d met while working the same cases in Charlotte, Lizzie for the CMPD crime lab, me for the MCME. Eventually, collegiality had morphed into friendship.
Several years after Lizzie was head-hunted away to Richmond, her mother developed dementia and required assisted living. Since the facility isn’t far from my place, I promised Lizzie to visit as often as possible. I’d kept that promise for almost eight years.
“I saw her last week,” I said. “She’s fine.”
“Thanks for looking in on her.” Relief evident. “So. I hear there’s a new sheriff in town.”
“Samantha Nguyen.”
“And?”
“I like her.”
