Page 84 of The Bone Code
It took me another few seconds on Google.
“Charleston.”
Ryan and I looked at each other.
“Looks like Sullie may be a Carolina boy.”
“Time to call Vislosky?” Ryan asked.
“Past time,” I said.
Before dialing, I sat a moment studying one of the many images the World Wide Web had happily supplied. In the shot, Huger sat at a microscope, test tube held high in his gloved left hand. A blue lanyard looped his neck, its ID badge tucked into a lab-coat pocket, unreadable.
Huger looked like half the fifty-something men in Dixie, with standard-issue gray hair sweeping his forehead and curling behind his ears. A trim build suggesting hours in a gym. A deep tan suggesting days on beaches, ski slopes, or golf courses.
Bottom line. Huger resembled a gracefully aging tennis coach rather than a lab rat.
I hit speed dial. Vislosky answered in her usual brusque manner.
“Vislosky.”
“It’s Temp—”
“I know.”
I told her about Lizzie’s call.
“Bando Slug?”
“That’s his name. And Aubrey Sullivan Huger.”
“Gimme a few.”
The line went dead.
An hour and a half later, Vislosky called back.
“Other than traffic tickets, Huger’s clean. He’s involved in some philanthropy, donates to about a half dozen charities.”
“Does Huger live in Charleston?”
“I found an address on James Island. A local number, possibly a mobile.”
“Where does he work?”
“He’s self-employed, runs his own internet companies.”
“GeneFree?”
“Yeah, that’s one. And others. One’s some sort of bullshit holistic food operation.”
“What now?”
“I’ll drive out there, ask about the kid.”
“I have a better idea. Invite him to the station.”
“Why?”
