Page 63 of Cold, Cold Bones
“She died last year.”
My phone rang. I ignored it.
“You say Smith’s a nutjob. Do you think he could have dropped the eyeball on my porch?”
“That seems a stretch. What’s his connection to you?”
“He clipped and saved articles about murder. I often work murder cases. Those cases often make the news.”
A moment of very tense silence crammed the small office. Then I posed the same question my subconscious had been forcing on me.
“Do you see any connection among Sanchez, Kwalwasser, and Boldonado?”
“Yeah. They’re all dead.”
“Shrewd.”
“You got any idea who this prick eyeball fairy could be?”
“I’m confused. Is Smith the cocksucker and the eyeball fairy is the jackass-prick?” I knew better than to goad when Slidell was in outrage mode. But his blasé attitude was pissing me off.
Slidell pushed to his feet.
“You’re going through the pics you took inside the buses?” I asked.
“Me and Henry. Keeps the dimwit outta my hair.”
“Would you like help?”
“I got it covered.” Slidell strode toward the door. Turned. “And I better not get word you’ve gone cowboy and—”
“Hee-haw,” I said.
“Jesus Christ. How about you stick to what you do and let me catch the bad guys?”
“Is Smith?” I asked.
“Is Smith what?”
“A bad guy.”
Slidell stormed out grumbling comments I was mercifully spared.
I sat a moment, head throbbing, ants crawling under my skin. Knowing Skinny was right about the stupidity of me chasing a stranger into the woods.
As usual, when frustrated, I couldn’t sit still.
I glanced at the request form on my screen. The bucket on my counter.
I pictured the hanging man. Boldonado?
Screw it.
Dropping into my chair, I dialed a Montreal area code.
“Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale,” a robotic voice said.
“Célia Quintal,s’il vous plaît.”
