Книга Monday Mourning — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

“Art, could you explain this when we discuss results? If I want these specimens to go out with today’s FedEx pickup, I have to get back to the skeletons and pull the teeth within the next thirty minutes.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. We’ll talk then. Tempe, this may go nowhere, but, well, you never know.”

Disconnecting, I descended to the morgue, cut another plug of bone from the femur of each set of remains, replaced the bone, removed the jaw, returned to my lab, photographed the jaw, removed the right second molar from each, repacked everything, and returned the parcel to the mound of uncollected mail, thankful that I’d already had dental X-rays made.

By four-thirty, I’d resettled in my office.

Crossing my ankles on the window ledge, I sipped diet soda, nibbled my first doughnut, and forced my thoughts to subjects other than the pizza basement girls.

Katy.

What about Katy? I had no idea what my daughter was doing at that moment. Or even her specific whereabouts. Call? I looked at my watch. She was probably out, studying at the library or in class.

Presumably, Katy was diligently attending classes and planning her future beyond university. I was not being kept advised. Had my little girl slipped into an adulthood in which I would play only minor walk-ons?

That smiley-face thought cranked my mind back to the girls who were now skeletons.

Why no single shred of clothing? Had I missed something? Should I have used a finer mesh screen? Had the owner gathered more than buttons? What could explain three girls buried naked in a basement?

Diet Coke.

Anne.

Why the unexpected visit? What was behind the funny sound in her voice?

With the second doughnut, my mind took another go at the skeletons.

If all three girls died at the same time, why adipocere only with the third set of remains? OK. The wrapping. But why just that one burial?

Nope. New topic.

A sweater I’d seen in Ogilvy’s window. A ratchety noise in my car’s engine. An odd brown spot on my right shoulder.

At the end of the second doughnut, my mind made another hard run at the skeletons.

The bodies had been less than six inches down. Why so close to the surface? Native burials typically lie much deeper. So do historic graves.

What if Art really could tell me where each of the girls had been born? Would that be helpful? Or would his analysis merely indicate that they were locals?

Maybe LaManche had a point. Maybe I was becoming obsessed. I was jumpy and defensive.