Bones: Buried Deep Read online

  “This whole… omniscience thing. Where you’re Superman?”

  He stopped and grinned at her. “Was that a joke, Bones? I didn’t think you did jokes. And a pop cultural reference yet!”

  He couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a frown she was suppressing as she said, “I don’t spend all my time in the lab.”

  He just stared at her, raising one eyebrow.

  Her chin crinkled in near laughter; so it had been a smile, after all….

  “All right,” she admitted. “I didn’t used to spend all my time in the lab. I had a childhood, for instance. An actual life. I do know some things.”

  He began to walk again and she fell in at his side.

  “I wasn’t brooding — if you don’t mind me saying, I was finding it kind of pleasant, walking along, not arguing with you.”

  Another chuckle. “Well, that didn’t last long.”

  “You’re not all wrong, though — I am frustrated, having to spend all my time on this Skel serial deal…. No offense…”

  Brennan said, “None taken.”

  “…and after months on that one case? Right now I feel like the Gianellis are slipping through my damn fingers and there’s not a frickin’ thing I can do to stop it.”

  She said, “You have my permission to say ‘fucking’ in front of me, Booth. I won’t wither and die like a frail, fragile flower.”

  That got a genuine laugh out of him. “You know, Bones — you’re just the right medicine for me tonight. You up for a Starbucks?”

  She was.

  After they somehow negotiated their way into two no-nonsense black coffees — which seemed to confuse the barista, who’d apparently never filled such an outlandish order — they sat in the cafe’s plush chairs and talked some more.

  She said, “I certainly get why this Musetti matter is still on your mind. Where were you on the investigation, when our serial killer so rudely interrupted?”

  He shook his head. “Nowhere with the Gianellis, really — several of us interviewed them, but they’re not giving up word one.”

  Her clear blue eyes were thoughtful yet alert. “What about the agents you said were guarding Musetti?”

  “We went over everything with them — sounds from when they were traveling, voices they might have heard, smells, everything. Bupkus.”

  “What other avenues are there?”

  Booth sipped his coffee. “Still haven’t found the escape vehicle.”

  “Prints at that house, where your witness was grabbed?”

  “None… none but those of the guys guarding him and Musetti himself, anyway.”

  She said nothing.

  Booth grunted a sort of laugh. “A print woulda been a miracle at that crime scene. Hell, there was no evidence at all — like ghosts grabbed him.”

  She frowned. “You don’t have any other ways to track your witness down? I mean, it’s not my field, forgive my ignorance; but you FBI agents do have resources.”

  Booth shook his head again. “We’re working on it, but things are moving slowly. We talked to Musetti’s girlfriend three or four times.”

  “There’s a girlfriend?”

  “Lisa Vitto. Works at a restaurant called Siracusa in Oak Brook. Owned by the Gianellis, by the way.”

  “Not real conducive for getting her to talk, huh?”

  “Not really. But we didn’t talk to her at the restaurant — we’re not entirely stupid. We did our questioning at her apartment. Still, nada.”

  “Did you try a female agent?”

  Booth’s brow knit. “No — you really think that’d make a difference? That’s a little sexist, coming from you, Bones.”

  “Not sexist, or reverse sexist, either. Realist.” She sat back in her chair. “Some women are just more comfortable talking to other women.”

  He waved that off. “Maybe, but I don’t think Ms. Vitto knows anything, anyway. She didn’t know where Musetti’s safe house was, so she couldn’t have set him up, unintentionally or otherwise.”

  “Are you sure Musetti didn’t tell her?”

  “Nothing’s certain in this world, but the guy was under our thumb, 24/7.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Well, he was till they snatched him.”

  “That was cold, Bones — but accurate. Still, it would’ve been tough for Musetti to set this up himself to disappear… and, if he did, Ms. Vitto hasn’t gone to meet him yet…. Nah, there’s no way she could know anything. We’re just fishing.”

  “I have a suggestion.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “If we concentrate on the case at hand, we can get you back on that mob inquiry, sooner than later.”

  Booth didn’t want to hear this, but he knew Brennan was right.

  One thing at a time.

  Finish the Skel case, then back to Musetti. Other agents were taking up his slack on that investigation, anyway — and he’d been getting daily written reports.

  Amounting to zip.

  They eventually exited the Starbucks and meandered back to the car, then drove to the nearest twenty-four-hour Kinko’s/FedEx, and sent the first skeleton’s worth of bones to the Jeffersonian.

  * * *

  At night, the hallways of the Jeffersonian Museum could seem spooky to Angela Montenegro.

  Tall, with curly dark hair falling to her shoulders, Angela — a scientist with the Jeffersonian’s anthropology department — had the heart of an artist.

  The work here with Dr. Temperance Brennan and the rest creeped her out at times, and more than once she’d considered tendering her resignation.

  But in the end, her loyalty to Brennan won out.

  Tonight, Angela — in dark slacks and a short-sleeved black blouse beneath her blue lab coat — walked the corridor toward the lab with soft drink in one hand, package of Twinkies in the other, not noticing anything even remotely spooky.

  The rest of the team was in the lab — except for their fearless leader, of course, who was in Chicago with Booth and doing God only knew what. That thought caused a sneaky smile to cross her lips and she dismissed it just as quickly.

  Actually, with the workload getting heavier by the day, Angela was wishing her best friend was at her side and not in the Windy City.

  She opened the door into the lab and stood for a second, taking in the familiar but impressive surroundings. Unlike the staid, academic quality of the rest of the museum, the lab had an otherworldly air.

  The Medico-Legal Laboratory — which had the ability to seal itself in airtight Plexiglas in case of a biohazard emergency — gave off a science-fiction vibe with its stainless-steel framing, Plexiglas backlit worktables, and translucent storage units consuming several walls.

  On the other hand, the higher you looked, the more the place seemed like an old-time European railroad station; she’d seen a number of these on trips to the continent with her musician father.

  The open-beamed ceiling consisted of translucent panels letting in light by day and giving the sensation of the beams melting into the dark sky at night. Somehow, that made the chamber appear even brighter under its harsh fluorescent lighting.

  Brennan’s assistant, the oh-so-young Zach Addy, leaned over a table to her left, bones laid out in their basic anatomic position, the chalky array maintaining a hypnotic hold on his bespectacled eyes. To her right, gaze glued to a microscope, curly-haired Jack Hodgins studied some bug or other.

  They were a disparate bunch, thrown together in this lab by their gathered talents and fate, each with his or her own set of foibles, habits, and annoyances (both given and taken).

  Brennan, their queen bee, hovered over the hive and, despite her occasional lack of social graces, the anthropologist had somehow overseen their growth from hodgepodge of “squints,” as Booth called them, to the family they now were.

  On her belt, her cell phone chirped. She jammed the Twinkies into the pocket of her lab coat, hiding the evidence.

  The cell rang again and both Zach and Hodgins’s he
ads popped up, frowning at the interruption, each looking around like a prairie dog sensing imminent danger.

  Snatching the phone off her belt, Angela answered on the third ring.

  “It’s me,” Brennan said, sounding tired.

  “What’s up, sweetie?” Angela asked right away. “You and Booth up to no good?”

  “No, this is something else.”

  Angela grinned. “Should I ask? Is it dirty?”

  “…When I get back, you and I need to talk.”

  “What?” Angela asked, almost offended. “I can’t be concerned about your social life? What kind of friend would I be if I ignored—”

  “A great friend,” Brennan said cheerfully, then pushed on: “I’ve sent you a package at the museum. I need you, Zach, and Jack to run all the tests you can, and tell me everything there is to know about what’s inside.”

  “What is inside?”

  “An entire skeleton… only it’s not just one body.”

  “I know it’s your line, honey, but — I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means there’s enough bones to make a skeleton, but multiple bodies provided them. Somebody assembled a sort of… fake skeleton, real though the individual parts may be.”

  “Parts is parts, huh?”

  “I don’t know what that means, Angela.”

  “Are you making fun of me, sweetie?”

  “Possibly — but for sure I need you to identify how many people comprise this one skeleton; and, if possible, ID them.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “And I need it an hour ago.”

  Angela glanced toward Zach and Hodgins.

  They must have realized she was talking to Brennan and now were moving slowly toward her, friendly stalkers.

  Into the phone she said, “You are making fun of me… and the sick part is, you’re even starting to sound like Booth. Y’know, I’m not sure you two should be spending so much time together.”

  “Well, you can think about that till my package arrives; then get right on it.”

  “You know we will, sweetie.” Angela closed her phone.

  “We will… what?” Hodgins asked, suspicious.

  Hodgins thought everything from the government to television to his breakfast cereal was part of some conspiracy or other to keep the regular people from finding out the truth — whatever that might be.

  Generally, Angela considered her colleague just a little off center; but when his conspiracy theories sounded especially plausible, as they sometimes did, he scared her a little.

  “We’re going to test the skeleton that Temperance is FedExing to us.”

  “Hmm,” Hodgins said, skepticism in his voice but the hint of a smile at a corner of his mouth. He did love his work. “That’s it?” he asked.

  “We do that all the time,” Zach piped in, in a no biggie manner.

  “This one’s a little different,” she said, popping the top on her soda.

  “Different?” they asked together. “How?”

  “One skeleton,” she said. “Multiple donors….”

  * * *

  Booth parked the Crown Vic under the hotel’s portico. He got the door for Brennan, then helped her get her bag out of the trunk.

  “Are you coming to the museum with me tomorrow?” Brennan asked him.

  He nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Pick me up early. I want to be there first thing.”

  “You got it, Boss.”

  “…Booth, that wasn’t an order.”

  “Kinda sounded like one.”

  She tried again: “Pick me up early, please.”

  “No problem,” he said, and offered a smile.

  She gave him a crooked smile in return, then grabbed her bag and rolled it through the revolving door into the lobby.

  Booth turned the key in the ignition and, without even thinking about it, turned the Crown Vic toward the office.

  End of the day was his only chance to check up on the Musetti/Gianelli case.

  * * *

  The next morning, Booth was (as requested) early.

  Brennan waited inside the lobby until he pulled up, then walked out and got into the car.

  She wore a brown blouse with tan slacks and a clunky wooden necklace, with a brown velvet jacket to keep off the autumn chill.

  When she had her seat belt on, he handed her a coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid — as established at Starbucks last night, hot and black.

  “Did you have breakfast?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He pointed to a paper bag on the floor of the passenger side.

  Brennan picked it up and opened it. “Bagels — perfect.”

  He drove, she ate, and little conversation ensued on their half-hour journey — Booth felt awkward, for some strange reason. Last night had been friendly, but this new day would require a professional tone that he (and for that matter she) didn’t feel like establishing.

  Once again, Dr. Jane Wu was waiting for them in the Field Museum lobby, but this time Lieutenant Greene was there, too, holding a box marked POLICE EVIDENCE.

  As he and Brennan approached, the doctor and the cop did not at first notice the visitors, caught up in their own conversation.

  Greene was saying, “How can you be a football fan in Chicago and not be a Bears fan!”

  Dr. Wu grimaced. “I went to school in Boston. Patriots rule. Bears lose.”

  Shaking his head, Greene said, “Kicked your butt in ’85, though.”

  “Ancient history. Who won three of the last four Super Bowls?”

  Greene had no answer for that.

  Brennan whispered to Booth, “Looks like you’ve been replaced.”

  Booth whispered back, “Well, you don’t have to sound so pleased about it….”

  Dr. Wu waved. “Morning, you two! I’ve got the room all ready.”

  Booth and Brennan exchanged greetings with Lieutenant Greene, while Dr. Wu pointed out redundantly, “The lieutenant here was nice enough to bring the evidence, so we’re good to go.”

  Brennan nodded. “Let’s get at it, then.”

  The tables in the basement chamber were empty now, and Dr. Wu had Lt. Greene place the box on the one farthest from the door, after which she and Brennan would work at the middle station.

  While the two doctors began, Booth and Greene found a coffee machine in a break room down the hall. The FBI agent bought, and the two men sat down at a small round table.

  The room was empty this early in the day and neither man seemed to mind the quiet. Booth nursed the coffee — already his second of the day — not wanting to blast off on a caffeine high.

  Booth asked the Chicago detective, “Did you get anything else from our homeless witness? Pete?”

  Greene shook his head. “No. But I gotta say, ol’ Pete was pretty cool, as homeless guys go. Led me to the parking place used by our skeleton transporter.”

  “Your crime scene unit get anything?”

  Greene grunted a frustrated laugh. “Nothing.”

  “What about the neighborhood?”

  “Got a team checking that.”

  “Cold cases in that part of town?”

  Greene sipped his coffee. “My partner’s checking missing persons cases going back forty years. Your people find anything?”

  “Nothing yet. But my partner, Woolfolk, is on it.”

  “I thought the girl was your partner.”

  Booth’s eyebrows hiked. “Don’t let her hear you calling her a ‘girl,’ Lieutenant Greene… but she’s sort of my partner on this, too — on the skeleton side of it, anyway.”

  Greene tilted his head. “Something you should know — I’ve got a call into a guy I know… about a possible suspect.”

  “A suspect?”

  “Don’t get fired up. This is from years ago.”

  “So’s part of our first skel. Hey, I don’t care if it’s from a hundred years ago — spill.”

  Greene sighed and looked down
at his coffee. “It was in that neighborhood. Guy lived on that same street — Orchard, I mean. This was, oh, twenty years ago easy…. I was a fresh-faced kid hardly out of the academy. Detectives were working some missing person cases… gay guys — several had gone missing from that neighborhood.”

  Booth twitched with irritation. “And you didn’t say anything last night?”

  Greene patted the air with one palm. “I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it…. Anyway, our guys had no real evidence, but there was this one suspect who looked good for it. Looked good to me, I mean — but who was I? Just a wet-behind-the-ears recruit fresh out of the academy.”

  “Nobody else went for your theory?”

  “Not really…. The suspect in question… a guy named Bill Jorgensen… was fifty then. These kids, the young men, the victims, they were all in good health, some even worked out, and none of the guys at the precinct would take my ideas seriously. Just couldn’t get them to believe that this fifty-year-old cat could take down strapping youths like these M.I.A. gays. Plus, back then even more than now, gay men were on the move — not transient exactly, but it was no shock if a gay man picked up and left. ’Cause of problems at work, say, or just the desire for fresh pastures. Lots of reasons.”

  Booth nodded. “Sure. But get to why you thought this older guy could’ve taken down young dudes.”

  Greene crumpled his coffee cup and made a good shot at a trash can half-a-room away. Then he turned to Booth with a steady gaze.

  “This guy Jorgensen was in real good shape, especially for a guy of fifty. He hung out at gyms — he even worked at a few. Real physical fitness type.”

  “Makes sense. Anything else?”

  Greene shook his head. “No real dead solid evidence against the guy… but he didn’t have an alibi for the times a couple of the guys disappeared, plus he’d been seen in the bars where they disappeared from… though no one could put him with any of the guys.”

  “I see.”

  Greene shrugged. “Lot of circumstantial stuff, but nothing solid, and not enough to get a warrant. And as a newbie on the force, I could only push so hard.”

  Booth considered that for a long moment. “You didn’t bring it up last night — why?”

  “Two reasons. First, I hounded the guy so bad the first time, he got a restraining order against me…. Don’t look at me like that, Booth — I was a kid, enthusiastic, and I thought I smelled a serial killer.”