Page 164 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Tú eres mi sol. Andrea-Louisa’s wee baubles.”
“Inside one of the buses?” I asked, incredulous.
“Outside. I can’t believe—”
“Didn’t CSU check the surrounding area, the trash—”
“They were in a plastic sack tucked under a rock in the woods. That’s probably why CSU missed them. Did I mention that a friendly forest creature had fortuitously clawed the bag out into plain sight? And that I have the eyes of an eagle?”
“Have you told Slidell?”
“Yes, ma’am. Doc.”
“This burns Kramden’s story.”
“To the ground.”
“Good work, Detective.”
“Thanks.” Henry turned toward the door, reversed, a frown creasing the over-tanned face. “Sorry, I should’ve asked. How’s it going with your kid? She back in the loop?”
“Katy is hardly a kid.” Keeping my voice absolutely neutral, I added, “She’ll get in contact when she’s ready.”
“Damn straight.”
After Henry left, I pondered her news, wondering at the gumbo of emotions vying for attention. I felt elation, sure. Henry had found physical evidence linking Kramden to a copycat victim. But the happiness was tempered by something else.
Uncertainty?
Why?
And why the edginess every time I encountered the woman? Was it chemistry? Was my sister Harry right? Are there some folks your gut is simply predisposed to dislike?
Gnarly.
I turned back to Florence’s bones.
The big shocker came the next day.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY24
“Yo.” Slidell’s greeting was almost a growl.
“Detective.” The screen on my iPhone gave the time as seven forty-four a.m. Birdie and I were still in bed.
“Kramden’s alibi checks out.”
“What alibi?”
“Him being out of town.”
My groggy mind slogged back to the interview room. To Kramden’s interrogation.
“He claimed he was away doing some sort of field training,” I said.
“Yeah. The squirrel was making prepper whoopee up in Nags Head.”
“When Hunt and Soto were killed?”
