Page 113 of Fire and Bones
Deery didn’t acknowledge my witticism. I soldiered on.
“The Stoll brothers must do well enou—”
“They live in a cellar.”
“Yes, but—”
A silencing hand lifted.
I glanced at Deery. His eyes were narrowed, his attention focused on the rearview mirror.
I quelled the urge to swivel my head.
A beat.
Two.
A car passed close to the Durango.
Electricity slammed through me.
The car was a piss-yellow Toyota Camry.
I could tell little about the silhouette at the wheel. Tall, probably male. Wearing a brimmed cap. The passenger seat was empty.
Barely breathing, I followed the Camry’s progress.
The car crawled the block, its taillights flashing fitfully. Suddenly the driver shot forward and braked. A six-point maneuver got him into the space vacated by the Mini Cooper.
A man climbed out.
Sunglasses covered his eyes—standard drugstore issue. A Washington Nationals cap covered his head.
After locking the Camry, the man walked in our direction, a grease-stained brown bag cradled in his left arm.
“That’s one of the Stolls?” I asked.
Either Deery didn’t know, or he didn’t bother to answer.
I put Possibly Stoll’s height at six feet, his weight at slightly less than Birdie’s. His tee—perhaps the ugliest I’d ever seen—was plum with two chartreuse parrots wing-draping each other. Below the tee, neatly pressed khaki shorts, sandals, and white socks pulled up to mid-calf.
As expected, Possibly Stoll headed for the yellow building. A series of muted metallic thuds came through my window as he clumped down the stairs.
A door opened. Slammed.
I waited for a signal from Deery. A directive. An admonition to remain silent. Got the usual nothing.
Somewhere out of sight, a dog yapped, high and whiny. A car engine turned over.
Another five minutes passed.
Just as I feared my eyes might bleed from the tedium, Deery spoke.
“You say nothing.”
“Got it.”
“We do this by—”
