advice. A long-distance relationship with a man I couldn’t get on the phone. Given my record, I was hardly in a position to counsel others.
I did listen, however. But this morning Harry would have to wait.
Wrong. The phone rang as I was heading for the back door.
“How’re those styling stilettos we scored?”
“I wore them to court.” Then threw them out.
“Bet you wowed the lovin’ shorts off that jury.”
“Mm. Listen, Harry. I’ve got to get to work—”
Undeterred, baby sister launched into a tale of woe involving a broken pool pump, algae, and back-ordered parts. Barely pausing to draw breath, she segued into a rant about a guy named Thorny.
“I thought you were dating an astronaut.” Orange Curtain. First time I saw the name I assumed it was a typo. “Or a guy named Bruce.”
“Orange had the brains of a budgie. Wait. That’s being unfair to birds.”
Shoulder-cradling the phone, I slipped outside and turned to lock the door. Bad move. The thing popped free and dropped to the stoop.
“—merchandise right there in my living room. What makes men so bloody proud of their genitals?”
“So Orange is out.”
“Seven carats wouldn’t get that bonehead back through my door.”
“Have you made plans to visit Tory?”
Silence greeted my question.
The previous summer, Harry had learned that her son, Kit, had a now-teenage daughter, conceived when he was just sixteen. And I’d learned that I had a grandniece. Father and daughter now lived together in Charleston, South Carolina. Harry hadn’t taken the news of grandparenthood well.
“Harry?”
“Remember what an assclown Kit was in high school? How the hell’s he going to parent a fourteen-year-old girl?”
“I’m sure he’s matured. And Tory’s a bright kid.”
“You’ve said that.”
“You’re her grandmother.”
“You’ve said that, too.”
• • •
At the MCME, my phone was flashing like a strobe on speed.
I punched the code for my mailbox, thinking Slidell.
I got Capote.
Dr. Brennan. Could we please speak at your earliest convenience?
I’d felt upbeat following my conversation with Harry. Calm.
That tranquillity popped like a bubble in sunlight.
Why this negative reaction to Dew? Federal agents are renowned for their disdain of local law enforcement. But he’d exhibited no condescension toward me.
Yes, Dew had withheld information. Yes, he’d refused to help with my Jane Doe. But I believed he truly felt he was doing his job.
So why did I distrust the guy?
Did I suspect he was playing me?
Because I’d tried to play him?
I dialed the ICE office, asked for Dew, was placed on hold by a weary-sounding receptionist.
A full minute later, Dew answered.
“I’m very sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor Brennan.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“S&S Enterprises.”
“The privately held company.”
“I hate a closed door.”
“Don’t we all.”
“This one wasn’t locked as tightly as the partners might have wished.”
I waited.
“The entity is a holding company for a number of properties and other holding companies. Fast-food restaurants. Convenience stores. A bar called John-Henry’s Tavern.”
I heard paper rustle, then Dew continued in his prissy, high voice.
“S&S is owned in large part by John-Henry Story and his younger brother, Archer Story. Lesser partners include Harold Millkin, Grover Pharr, and Dominick Rockett.”
“So Rockett was one of a handful of players holding pretty big cards.”
“Apparently. Whether he bought or earned his way into the partnership remains unclear. What is clear is that, at the time of his death, John-Henry Story was suffering some serious financial reversals.”
Wasn’t everyone these days? I thought. “Was S&S in trouble?” I asked.
“No. But Story wanted to infuse more capital for expansion, and he himself had no available cash. In addition to S&S, Story owned a pizza chain and four auto dealerships which were costing him a lot of
I did listen, however. But this morning Harry would have to wait.
Wrong. The phone rang as I was heading for the back door.
“How’re those styling stilettos we scored?”
“I wore them to court.” Then threw them out.
“Bet you wowed the lovin’ shorts off that jury.”
“Mm. Listen, Harry. I’ve got to get to work—”
Undeterred, baby sister launched into a tale of woe involving a broken pool pump, algae, and back-ordered parts. Barely pausing to draw breath, she segued into a rant about a guy named Thorny.
“I thought you were dating an astronaut.” Orange Curtain. First time I saw the name I assumed it was a typo. “Or a guy named Bruce.”
“Orange had the brains of a budgie. Wait. That’s being unfair to birds.”
Shoulder-cradling the phone, I slipped outside and turned to lock the door. Bad move. The thing popped free and dropped to the stoop.
“—merchandise right there in my living room. What makes men so bloody proud of their genitals?”
“So Orange is out.”
“Seven carats wouldn’t get that bonehead back through my door.”
“Have you made plans to visit Tory?”
Silence greeted my question.
The previous summer, Harry had learned that her son, Kit, had a now-teenage daughter, conceived when he was just sixteen. And I’d learned that I had a grandniece. Father and daughter now lived together in Charleston, South Carolina. Harry hadn’t taken the news of grandparenthood well.
“Harry?”
“Remember what an assclown Kit was in high school? How the hell’s he going to parent a fourteen-year-old girl?”
“I’m sure he’s matured. And Tory’s a bright kid.”
“You’ve said that.”
“You’re her grandmother.”
“You’ve said that, too.”
• • •
At the MCME, my phone was flashing like a strobe on speed.
I punched the code for my mailbox, thinking Slidell.
I got Capote.
Dr. Brennan. Could we please speak at your earliest convenience?
I’d felt upbeat following my conversation with Harry. Calm.
That tranquillity popped like a bubble in sunlight.
Why this negative reaction to Dew? Federal agents are renowned for their disdain of local law enforcement. But he’d exhibited no condescension toward me.
Yes, Dew had withheld information. Yes, he’d refused to help with my Jane Doe. But I believed he truly felt he was doing his job.
So why did I distrust the guy?
Did I suspect he was playing me?
Because I’d tried to play him?
I dialed the ICE office, asked for Dew, was placed on hold by a weary-sounding receptionist.
A full minute later, Dew answered.
“I’m very sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor Brennan.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“S&S Enterprises.”
“The privately held company.”
“I hate a closed door.”
“Don’t we all.”
“This one wasn’t locked as tightly as the partners might have wished.”
I waited.
“The entity is a holding company for a number of properties and other holding companies. Fast-food restaurants. Convenience stores. A bar called John-Henry’s Tavern.”
I heard paper rustle, then Dew continued in his prissy, high voice.
“S&S is owned in large part by John-Henry Story and his younger brother, Archer Story. Lesser partners include Harold Millkin, Grover Pharr, and Dominick Rockett.”
“So Rockett was one of a handful of players holding pretty big cards.”
“Apparently. Whether he bought or earned his way into the partnership remains unclear. What is clear is that, at the time of his death, John-Henry Story was suffering some serious financial reversals.”
Wasn’t everyone these days? I thought. “Was S&S in trouble?” I asked.
“No. But Story wanted to infuse more capital for expansion, and he himself had no available cash. In addition to S&S, Story owned a pizza chain and four auto dealerships which were costing him a lot of
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