Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Four

As it turned out, my interview with the ATF was not a formality. The inspector, a newly-minted devotee of all things bureaucratic, kept using the word “irregularities” to describe Dexter’s previous application. He kept quoting Statute 478.44 at me. It took all my self-control not to bean him with the ledger book, especially when he used the dreaded A-word—audit. In four weeks.

After he’d gone, I looked at the list of upgrades I needed to reach even minimum compliance, and the list of penalties waiting for me if I didn’t. The words “possible jail time” floated amongst the dollar signs. I took a deep breath. Then I poured a quart of dark roast into my travel mug, slapped on a new nicotine patch, and made my way to Last Chance Tattoos and Cigar Emporium. There I found John getting a fill-in on his upper shoulder, sitting shirtless while the artist worked behind him, squinting in concentration, her spiked purple hair luminous in the smoky light. The air buzzed with the sound of needles.

I pulled over a stool and sat in front of him. He eyed my pantsuit.

“What’s with the get-up?”

“Interview with the ATF.”

John put a beat-up coffee mug to his lips. “Bummer. Those guys can ream you from every direction.”

“I know. So don’t start with me this morning.” I pulled a pen from my tote bag and used it to fasten my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. “I decided to take your job.”

“Good to hear.”

“On one condition.”

“Shoot.”

“You are hiring me to locate a particular artifact, nothing more. My job is to find your Bible and present whoever has it with your terms for its return.”

“That sounds fair.”

“And if said person refuses, the ball’s in your court. Call the police, come get it, whatever. Plus you’ll owe me any expenses.”

“Also fair.” He stuck his hand out. “Shake on it.”

I shook. “So we start with backstory. Tell me about the box of stuff Hope took.”

“What’s to tell? It was mostly junk—old books, pens, pencils. Scraps of paper. Dusty, like the guy hadn’t cleaned out his desk since the fifties.”

“What guy?”

“The uncle.”

“What uncle?”

“The one who died.”

I stared at him, a chill creeping down my spine. “What do you mean, died?”

John chuckled and sipped his coffee. “Damn, Tai, why else do you think his niece was having an estate sale?”

I smelled bourbon in his coffee. The tattoo artist eyed me, the sunlight setting her piercings aflame.

I stood up. “Sorry. I don’t do dead people.”

John’s jaw dropped. “But this isn’t about the dead guy!”

I shook my head more firmly.

“Come on, Tai! It’s not like he was murdered. He had a heart attack or something.”

“Or something.”

He glared at me. “So you’re going back on the deal, that it?”

“It wasn’t a fair deal. You didn’t mention the corpse.”

“Corpse!”

“That’s what you call a dead person!”

He took a drag on his cigarette. I massaged my bicep, willing the nicotine patch to kick in before I snatched the butt out of his hand and sucked it dry.

“Fine,” he said. “I knew it was too much to ask. Considering.”

“Don’t try that. This has nothing to do with me and you.”

“Of course not. There is no me and you.” He blew out a thin line of smoke. “Unless you want there to be.”

“I don’t.”

“You sure?”

“Dead sure.”

He grinned. I glared. The needles whined. And I was two seconds from turning my back on him when I remembered the upcoming audit and all the expensive upgrades I’d need to implement. But I also I remembered my promise to Trey, to drop it if it got complicated. And then I remembered Garrity, who was two blocks down in his office at Atlanta PD headquarters. With any luck, he was at his desk and looking for lunch.

I did a quick calculation. “Here’s the deal. I’ve got a source at the police station. I’m gonna ask him to make some calls. And if I learn there was the slightest hint of suspicion about that old man’s death, I’m done. No deal. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Now here.” I shoved a yellow pad at him. “Write down everything you know about the old man, his relatives, what was in that desk. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

He took the notepad. “You want to take the chair? Stevie here would be glad to let me borrow her equipment, touch up that critter of yours, isn’t that right, Stevie?”

Stevie grinned. She had red lips and a single gold incisor with a rhinestone.

“My critter is fine.” I handed him a pen. “Now write.”

***

Inside the APD headquarters, chaos reigned—phones ringing, uniforms huddling, the smell of burnt coffee. I saw Garrity at his desk, phone to his ear. He was a kinetic knot of energy, red-headed and sharp-featured. The laugh lines at his eyes and the corners of his mouth told me he used to smile a lot, once upon a time.

“No comment,” he said into the phone.

He spotted me and waved me over. I dropped into the chair in front of his desk, the only horizontal space not sporting a skyscraper of paperwork. He kept the phone to his ear. Reporter, he mouthed.

I placed the take-out bag on his desk. Thai-German fusion—pad thai schnitzel for him, bratwurst curry for me—and two sweet teas. Garrity responded well to bribes, and I needed all the leverage I could muster.

He slammed the receiver down. “Would you believe we’re having a rash of hair weave thefts? Seriously.” He scrunched his eyes at me. “What’s with the purple?”

“Long story involving the ATF and Dexter’s lack of organizational skills.”

“You’re not getting audited, are you?”

I nodded.

Garrity winced. “Crap. You got a lawyer?”

I felt that rippled of apprehension again. “I need a lawyer?”

“Hell yes. Get Trey to recommend somebody from work. Phoenix is lousy with lawyers.”

“I can’t afford a lawyer.”

“That doesn’t matter. Get one.”

I tried to cross my legs and accidentally kicked an empty soda cup under the desk. Across the room, a woman in a nun’s habit lay on the floor, refusing to budge, while two detectives stood at her feet, pleading with her to get up.

“Is it always this bad?” I said.

“Full moon coming. Usually starts three days before the peak then tapers. This is worse than usual.” He sat back, tapping his pen on his coffee mug. “So I got your message. Another suspicious dead guy?”

“Actually, not suspicious at all.”

“Then why are you asking me to chat up the authorities down in…where was this again?”

“Jacksonville.”

“Uh huh.” He reached inside the takeout bag and removed a Styrofoam container. “Explain.”

I explained. Garrity forked up a mouthful of noodles and shoved them into one cheek, like a chipmunk. “So this guy just dropped dead?”

“Apparently. I’m trying to decide if there’s a crime involving said dead guy, because if there is, I’m dumping it. I don’t want any part of any adventure that begins with a body. Been there, done that, got the official warning.”

“So you want me to call some stranger—”

“Fellow law enforcement officer.”

“—to ask if there was anything suspicious about this old guy’s death, so that you can then decide whether or not to chase one of his possessions all over Savannah?”

“That’s about it.”

A long uncomfortable pause followed. “Let me get back to you on that.”

“Please do. Trey and I are leaving for the Expo Monday morning, and I’d like to be able to reassure him one more time that I’m being sensible.”

“Uh huh.” More chewing. “So what’s he have to say about this?”

The question was casual on the surface, but heavy with subtext. Trey and Garrity had been partners during their uniformed days on the APD, friends afterwards. Trey’s car accident and subsequent brain injury changed all that, fraying and twisting those bonds—Garrity rejected and angry, Trey confused and distant, neither of them knowing what to do about it. I didn’t have a clue either.

“So far, Trey has no complaints.” I pulled the lid off my tea, fished around for the lemon. “Which is strange. Usually he has very logical points to make about why I’m being an idiot. Usually you do too.”

“Yeah, but this is the kind of thing you deal with all the time, right? Finding specific antiques for specific people, usually with a dead relative attached?”

He was right. I was no stranger to runner work. Most of my reenactor clients had wish lists as long as their forearms, plus customers were forever bringing in relics for me to identify or sell, usually from some long-dead ancestor’s attic. Of course none of those people were my ex-boyfriend.

“Yeah, but I’m feeling extra-cautious on this job. So will you call the nice policeman down in Duval County for me?”

He went back to his noodles. “Leave me the info.”

A voice came from across the room. “Hey, Garrity, call coming through.”

“Send it to Hawkins.”

“It’s the FBI.”

Garrity paled. “Shit. I didn’t expect it to be that fast.”

He started cleaning up his desk, as if the mysterious caller could see the clutter through the phone line.

“Expect what?” I said.

“Nothing. Now go, I have to take this.”

“Since when does the FBI concern itself with hair thieves?”

“It doesn’t. Go.”

He grabbed my elbow and propelled me out of the room, barely giving me enough time to grab my food before he shut the door behind me. I leaned my ear against it and heard him pick up the phone, his voice deliberately casual. “Garrity here.”

I scooched closer. The officer in an adjoining cubicle cleared his throat. When I looked his way, he pointed toward the exit. Pointedly. I took the hint.

Back in the car, my phone chirped at me. It was a text from Trey—his connection to Audrina Harrington had paid off, in spades. She was inviting me for tea at her estate. In thirty minutes.

I pulled down the rearview mirror and checked my reflection. My makeshift hairpin wasn’t working to contain the blond frizzle, but the make-up was acceptable. I removed a splotch of basil from between my front teeth and twisted the key in the ignition.

My purple pantsuit and I had one more assignment.