"Do me a favor, Carmichael. Give Bob Weston a call and fill him in on the details." '
"You sure you wanna do that?"
"The archbishop says he doesn't want us to bring in the FBI. Yeah, maybe I might check with the FBI to see why that is."
CHAPTER 7
Newburgh Heights (Just outside of Washington, D.C.)
Maggie had just gotten home when her cell phone began to ring. She and Harvey were in the middle of their "welcome home" routine even though she had seen him several hours ago. Ever since she had rescued the beautiful white Lab, he treated each of her arrivals as if it was a pleasant surprise, those sad brown eyes so grateful she hadn't abandoned him like his previous owner. Rather than cut short his slobberfest, she sat down in the foyer and pulled out her phone.
"Maggie O'Dell," she answered, trying to convince Harvey to keep his licks confined to her other hand. Now on the floor with her face within his reach, Harvey decided it, too, was fair game.
"O'Dell, it's Racine. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
Maggie wondered if Racine could hear the sloppy kisses and was referring to the sound or the time of night.
"I just got home. What's up?"
"I know it's late. You sure this isn't a bad time?"
Maggie smiled. No doubt Racine could hear the wet licks. She patted Harvey's head rather than push him away. Maybe it was time there were some scandalous rumors about her nonexistent sex life.
"No, this is fine. Go ahead."
"The cell phone turned out to be a dead end."
"Stolen?" Maggie guessed, continuing to rub Harvey behind the ears.
"Yup. Reagan National. Last week. At least that's the last time the owner says he saw it. He seems to be on the level. Reported it missing to Sprint. It hadn't been used until this morning."
"Any way to track where it was when the call was made?"
"Only that it was in the D.C. area. It's probably been tossed in some Dumpster by now."
Maggie wasn't sure why Racine was calling her after midnight to tell her what they both already suspected. She couldn't be expecting a profile before the autopsy. But there was something more and Racine's sudden quiet telegraphed it. Maggie waited her out.
"I talked to Chief Henderson about the other two. Both he and Stan agree that we need a forensic anthropologist to take a look."
That was it? Racine had actually taken her advice. "That will definitely help," Maggie said, but something in Racine's voice told Maggie it wasn't quite that simple.
"Stan said he could get someone late next week, but I'm headed up to my dad's on Sunday. We're supposed to go fishing. I figured I'd leave before sunrise, maybe around five. Oh, by the way, Stan said he'd do the autopsy first thing tomorrow."
Racine paused as if expecting Maggie to complain, but instead she was trying to imagine Racine keeping still and quiet long enough to fish. The image didn't fit.
"Anyway," Racine continued, "I suggested I take the other two heads up to Professor Bonzado. He and my dad have become big buds ever since… well, you know." Racine left it there and it was just as well. Maggie did know. Ever since Professor Bonzado and Luc Racine rescued her from a madman's freezer. It wasn't your ordinary male-bonding ritual, but she wasn't surprised that the two men had continued to grow close.
"Are you sure there isn't someone in the District Stan might recommend?" Maggie found herself asking, which was ridiculous because earlier she had found herself thinking she would suggest Bonzado to Racine. No sense in letting Racine think she was anxious to see him again.
"I'm sure there is, but not on a holiday weekend." Racine paused. "Look, O'Dell, I'll be honest with you. I've got reporters chomping at my ass. Now that there are three victims I need some answers and I need them quick. I already talked to Bonzado. He promised he'd take a look Sunday afternoon and since I was driving up anyway, I'll take them with me. I know it's not exactly the ideal mode of transport, but Stan didn't seem to mind a personal escort for his precious cargo. Besides, I usually drive. I can do the trip in about four hours." Now it was almost as if Racine was rambling. Why did she feel she owed Maggie any explanation?
Maggie pushed up and sat on the first step of her staircase. Harvey lay beside her and now he rested his head on her feet.
"It'd be impossible to get a flight with it being a holiday weekend," Racine kept explaining. "Besides, can you imagine dying to get two decapitated heads through airport security?" Racine's laugh had a nervous edge to it. There was something else, something more. Maggie wanted to tell her to spit it out already. Again, she waited out the silence.
"So I was wondering if you wanted to ride along."
And there it was. Racine had been working her way up to extending an invitation.
"Adam said he might have some basic information for us before we left. It'd just be for the day. I know that makes a long day." Now Maggie noticed it was Adam instead of Professor Bonzado. "I'm sure my dad would love to see you. He asks about you all the time. Well, when he remembers. He's actually been having some good periods. Though they say you can't count on those lasting long."
"It would be good to see your dad again," Maggie said, thinking she had more connections than perhaps she had bargained for in Connecticut. In fact, she had seriously considered contacting her new stepbrother, Patrick, to suggest they get together for the holiday weekend. Then she immediately chastised herself for thinking instant family meant instant holiday get-togethers. He surely had his own plans and they wouldn't include a sister he had found out about less than a year ago. No, she had decided Patrick would need some time. She'd need to let him come to her when he was ready.
Why kid herself? Patrick wasn't the only reason for her wanting to suggest a family reunion. She did want to see Adam Bonzado again. Here Racine was handing her a perfect excuse. And yet at the same time, she couldn't help thinking that four, no, eight, hours in a car with Julia Racine might be eight hours too many.
CHAPTER 8
Venezuela
He turned up Vivaldi on his cheap boom box and swatted at yet another mosquito. This one had gotten him good, splattering more blood, his own blood, and adding one more bump, reducing his overly sensitive skin to that of a blister-riddled leper. Father Michael Keller had learned a long time ago to ignore the constant itch, just as he had learned to deal with his body being sweat-drenched even after his evening shower. Instead, he concentrated on the simple things, the few pleasures he counted on, like Vivaldi, and he closed his eyes, letting the strings stroke him and calm him. It was all mind over matter. And he had discovered that his mind could convince him of anything, if he only let it.
He continued his evening ritual. He lit several citronella candles and checked the kettle of water on his hot plate. His white shirt, made fresh and crisp by one of the village women, was already sticking to his back. He could feel the sweat trickling down his chest, but still he looked forward to his evening cup of scorching hot tea. Tonight he selected chamomile from the package his Internet friend had sent him. What a treat it had been to receive the box with a variety of loose-leaf teas, jelly-filled cookies and shortbreads. He had been saving it, rationing it, wanting to savor it as well as savor the idea mat someone he had never met would send him such a wonderful gift, such a perfect gift.
He scooped just the right amount into his mesh-ball infuser then dunked it into the hot water, covering the mug and letting it steep. He lifted the cover, letting the steam rise into his face, breathing in the delicious aroma. He pulled out the infuser, tapping it against the lip of the mug, making it surrender every last drop.