Page 29 of Evil Bones
I introduced myself and answered in the affirmative. Mitsuki-Astrid smiled and ran a lacquered nail down a list. Frowned.
“I’m so sorry. Could the booking be under another name?”
“Try Kumar.”
“Of course. How lovely. The lady is already seated.”
Entering the main dining area, which held maybe twelve tables and a row of booths along one wall, I spotted a woman waving from a far corner. I wove my way through the room to join her.
“Dr. Temperance Brennan,” she said with a playful sing-song cadence.
“Dr. Adina Kumar,” I sing-songed back while sliding onto the bench seat opposite hers.
What to say about my dinner companion?
Adina Kumar isn’t exactly beautiful. Her nose is a bit large, her eyes deeply shadowed and set too close together. But I’ve noticed that men straighten and stand taller in her presence. Maybe it’s her five-foot-eleven height. Maybe her soldier-on-parade posture.
More important than her appearance is Adina’s brain. Her work has appeared in every major periodical in her field.The American Journal of Psychology. The Journal of Applied Psychology. Frontiers in Psychology.Though these publications don’t exactly fly off the bookstore shelves at the mall, her inclusion in their pages is a testimonial to her brilliance.
Adi and I were Best Friends Forever in high school. Went our separate ways in college, married, divorced. Well, she did. Neither Pete nor I ever bothered with paperwork. Several years back she and I discovered that we’d both ended up in Charlotte. One coffee, and the friendship had rekindled as though uninterrupted.
The two of us met monthly now, for lunch or dinner depending on our schedules. Sometimes we discussed our professional lives. A patient that worried her. Bones that troubled me. We’d each listen to the other, on rare occasions offer input. Some was useful. Most wasn’t. It was the airing of concerns, not the advice, that helped keep us both sane.
More often, we talked about mundane matters. Our kids—she hadtwo, both doctors living out of state. Movies, books, clothes, hair disasters. Now and then, sex. Some of Adina’s anecdotes were as funny as anything in the history of comedy.
“So. What’s up in the world of putrefied flesh?” she asked after we’d ordered drinks and edamame and exchanged some small talk.
“My job involves more than decomposed bodies,” I responded, feigning offense.
“Right. I forgot the incinerated.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do we really want to go there?”
“I plan to share the story of a man who eats his wife’s feces.”
“What’s wrong with his own?” I asked.
“He prefers hers.”
“Revolting, but not exactly evil.”
“Ah, evil. Whatisevil?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s talk about that. How do psychologists define evil?”
“An evil act or an evil person?”
“You pick.”
“The former is easier.”
“Go with that.”
Adina shelled, then popped another bean into her mouth. Chewed, taking time to organize her thoughts.
“First—remember these are justmyviews.”
“Jesus, Adi. You’re not on the stand.”
