Page 61 of Evil Bones
“Oh?”
“Eleanor Godric.”
“What’s the bio-profile?”
“White female, age forty-seven, short, maybe five-two.”
“That fits.”
Slidell turned from East 4th Street onto Queens Road.
“Cause of death?” I asked.
“Don’t really matter.”
“What? Why?”
“Godric died of natural causes. Something to do with her liver.”
“When?” I queried. Jesus. I felt like I was playing twenty questions.
“Eighteen months ago.”
I understood where this was going. “Her remains were stolen from a cemetery?” I ventured. I’d suspected as much when first eyeballing the corpse.
“Give the lady a—”
“Which one?” I asked. Just curious. The grave’s location didn’t really matter.
“I got people looking into that.”
“How does someone pull that off? Don’t graveyards have cameras?”
“Either our doer’s real crafty, or their security is shit.”
“Do you think—”
“I said I got someone working it.”
Alrighty then.
I glanced at my phone, still on silent mode.
Four calls. All from Ruthie.
Digits on the screen indicated the time was five twenty-nine.
“Crap! I’ve got to pick up my niece.”
“Don’t streak your undies. The kid won’t mind waiting a few minutes.”
My ex, Janis “Pete” Petersons, still lives in the home we purchased early in our marriage, a two-story frame affair in an unrelentingly family-friendly hood in southeast Charlotte. Over the years, he hasn’t done a thing to change the layout or appearance of the house. Same Williamsburg-themed siding, shutters, and front door. Same double-car garage. Same overgrown half acre of fenced backyard.
I find the setup an odd choice for an attractive, single man closing out half a century of life. But then my ex is an odd guy. Witty. Sexy. Generous. Pete is a rockstar father, but made a lousy husband. Too much of the “sexy” generously shared with others.
Pete claims he stays put because of his dog. Boyd is an enormous Chow with spikey red-brown fur, scary teeth, and the gentleness and patience of a Sunday school teacher.
Rush-hour traffic was brutal. It was going on six when I finally pulled onto Pete’s drive.
