Page 67 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Any news on Frank Boldonado?” I asked.
“When I leave here, I’ll run the hanging dude’s prints. If Boldonado’s in the system, easy peasy. If not, I’ll pay Cougar Piccitelli a visit to see what else he knows about Smith or the B-man.”
I raised both brows.
“Boldonado. For what it’s worth, my gut says these guys are just two more creepoid preppers.”
“Why would Smith run from Slidell and me?”
“Preppers aren’t fond of unannounced company.”
“Have you seen Slidell’s pics from inside the buses?”
Henry nodded. “Mondo beyondo.”
“I visited the first two. What’s in the others?”
“The third is outfitted as a kitchen. The fourth has tables and chairs, probably a dining area. The last two hold rows of bunk beds. I’m guessing any future additions will also provide sleeping space. Nothing to get crunked up about. But Detective Slidell is giving the images a deeper stroll.”
“Will you be able to trace the buses’ point of purchase?”
“I’m working on it, but not optimistic. Retired school buses aren’t exactly a rare commodity. They’re available through classifieds, government auction sites, school systems, Craigslist, eBay, the Facebook Marketplace, govdeals.com, publicsurplus.com. Did you know there’s a whole world of fruitcakes who buy and convert old school buses? Call themselves Skoolies.”
Henry stood. Rolled her shoulders while absently adjusting her weapon. The Glock on her belt. The others would have been awkward.
“Keep me posted,” I said.
“Will do.”
When Henry left, I went to the kitchen and downed a carton of yogurt and a banana, drank a can of LaCroix sparkling grapefruit as a chaser. While eating I considered phoning Katy again. Would calling two days in a row piss her off? Maybe. What didn’t these days. I took the chance and dialed. Still no answer.
Twenty minutes later I was back at my desk, trying to concentrate on my report on Stokely’s cremains. The ants were again partying under my skin, so I was having minimal success. Unlike Henry, theFormicidaewere “crunked.” Every time a phone sounded anywhere along the hall, I reached for mine. It was never my line ringing.
At two I dialed Slidell.
“Yo.”
I briefed him on what I’d learned about knots.
“So?”
Unsure myself of the significance of Quintal’s comments, I switched gears. “Anything on Smith?”
Slidell snorted. “Right. Smith.”
“You don’t think that’s his real name?”
“If that’s his real name, I’m Frank Sinatra.”
“Henry was here.”
“Ms. Left Coast have some case-cracking epiphany?”
“No. But she thinks Boldonado—the one who fits the hanging-man profile—and Smith are probably harmless, albeit creepy, preppers.”
“Based on her vast experience working domestic violence.” I could picture him rolling his eyes.
“Did you spot anything tying Boldonado to the buses?”
