Bones Never Lie by Kathy Reichs
ABOUT THE BOOK
When forensic anthropologist Dr Temperance Brennan is unexpectedly called in to the Charlotte Police Department’s Cold Case Unit, she wonders why she’s been asked to meet with a homicide cop – especially one who’s a long way from his own jurisdiction.
The shocking answer: Two child murders, separated by thousands of miles, have one thing in common – the killer.
Years ago, Anique Pomerleau kidnapped and murdered a string of girls in Canada, then narrowly eluded capture. It was a devastating defeat for her pursuers, Tempe and police detective Andrew Ryan.
Now, as if summoned from their nightmares, Pomerleau has resurfaced in the United States, linked to victims in Vermont and North Carolina.
When another child is snatched, the reign of terror promises to continue – unless Tempe can rise to the challenge and make good on her second chance to stop a psychopath.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATHY REICHS is the author of sixteen Sunday Times and New York Times bestselling novels featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Like her protagonist, Reichs is a forensic anthropologist—one of fewer than one hundred ever certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology. A professor in the department of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, she is the former vice president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and serves on the National Police Services Advisory Council in Canada. Reichs’s own life, as much as her novels, are the basis for the TV show Bones, one of the longest-running series in the history of the Fox network.
For
Alice Taylor Reichs
born August 3, 2012
and
Miles Aivars Mixon
born August 11, 2012
PART I
CHAPTER 1
I RECEIVED THE message first thing Monday morning. Honor Barrow needed me at an unscheduled meeting.
Not what I wanted, with cold germs rolling up their sleeves in my head.
Nevertheless, coming off a weekend of Sudafed, Afrin, and lemon-honey tea, instead of finishing a report on a putrefied biker, I joined a billion others slogging uptown in rush-hour traffic.
By seven-forty-five, I was parked at the back of the Law Enforcement Center. The air was cool and smelled of sun-dried leaves—I assumed. My nose was so clogged, I couldn’t sniff out the difference between a tulip and a trash can.
The Democrats had held their quadrennial soirée in Charlotte in 2012. Tens of thousands came to praise or protest and to nominate a candidate. The city had spent $50 million on security, and as a result, the ground floor of the Law Enforcement Center, once an open lobby, now looked like the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Circular wooden barrier. Bulletproof glass. Monitors displaying the building’s every scar and pimple, inside and out.
After signing the register, I swiped my security card and rode to the second floor.
Barrow was passing as the elevator hummed to a stop and opened. Beyond him, through the door he was entering, arrows on a green background directed Crimes Against Property to the left, Crimes Against Persons to the right. Above the arrows, the hornet’s-nest symbol of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department.
“Thanks for coming in.” Barrow barely broke stride.
“No problem.” Except for the kettledrums in my head and the fire in my throat.
I followed Barrow through the door, and we both turned right.
Detectives crowded the corridor in both directions, most in shirtsleeves and ties, one in khaki pants and a navy golf shirt featuring the intrepid wasp logo. Each carried coffee and a whole lot of firepower.
Barrow disappeared into a room on the left marked by a second green sign: 2220: Violent Crimes Division. Homicide and assault with a deadly.
I continued straight, past a trio of interview rooms. From the nearest, a baritone bellowed indignation in strikingly inharmonious terms.