Page 10 of Fire and Bones

“What can I do for you, Dr. Thacker?”

“I just watched the interview you did for WTTG. I got your contact information from Ivy Doyle. The reporter. I hope that’s all right.”

“Uh. Huh.” It wasn’t.

“I’ll come straight to the point. Based on witness accounts, we believe people perished in this fire. I’m the interim medical examiner for the District of Columbia, so handling those deaths is my responsibility. As you so brilliantly pointed out in your responses to Ms. Doyle, proper processing of a fire scene requires a very specific skill set. A skill set no member of my staff possesses.”

Nope. No way.

“My techs are capable of basic recovery, of course. Most have worked fire scenes. But they’ll need expert direction and oversight for this one. Guidance from someone with extraordinary knowledge and vast experience.”

“Isn’t there a board-certified anthropologist in the DC area?” I asked, ignoring that Thacker was laying it on thick.

“Normally I’d rely on Gene Raynor. But Dr. Raynor is in Portugal and unavailable.”

“Aren’t there others?”

“I want you.”

I braced. Anticipating that for the second time in twenty-four hours a forceful young woman was about to try to sell me a line.

“I need your help, Dr. Brennan. I owe it to these victims and to their families to get the job done right.”

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Thacker. I have plans that will tie me up for the next few days. But I’d be happy to refer you to—”

“I’m going to share some intel. What I say must remain strictly between us.”

Confidential info was the last thing I wanted.

“The authorities suspect that the property was being used as an illegal Airbnb.”

“It was unlicensed?”

“Yes. According to witness statements, the second and third floors were subdivided into a warren of rooms, many without windows, none with fire escapes. One long-term renter claims there were at least four people sleeping on the upper levels when the fire broke out.”

“Why wasn’t the place shut down?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that the poor souls inside that building didn’t stand a chance.”

A new collage of images strobed in my brain, vivid as the day it happened. To me. The old row house in Pointe-Saint-Charles. The acrid smoke. The reeking gasoline-soaked rug. The hungry flames devouring the ancient wood.

Thacker’s voice snapped me back to the present.

“—obtained some names. One of those feared dead is a nineteen-year-old Canadian named Skylar Reese Hill. I’ve heard a recording of Hill’s nine-one-one call. The terror in the girl’s voice is heart-wrenching.”

“Hill is among the missing?”

“Yes. And her husband is demanding answers and not bothering with polite.”

I really didn’t give a damn about the husband who is suddenly greatly concerned, perhaps because he senses the possibility of money. But I was touched by the death of a nineteen-year-old struggling to stay alive.

Thacker allowed a moment of silence to emphasize the gravity of her next words.

“I’m begging you, Dr. Brennan. Please find it in your heart to help me. To help them.”

My gaze dropped to the half-filled suitcase. To the sundresses and sandals stacked beside it. While I’d been thinking about juleps and pecan pie, innocent victims had been perishing in an inferno.

Damnitdamnitdamnit!

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