“You know,” Abel said, “we’re still finding all kinds of…remnants stirred up by the storm. That’s going to go on for years. We didn’t always bury aboveground here, and there are plenty of old family plots along the river. Down in Slidell, there was a woman who had three coffins in her yard for months after the storm. No one knew where they belonged, and she couldn’t get any agency to come get them, so she just called them Tom, Dick and Harry, and said hello to them every time she came and went.” Jon Abel was a tall, thin man of about forty-five who looked more like a mad scientist than what he really was: one of the most respected medical examiners in the state. He looked out at the brown water. And sighed. “Hell, that river has seen more bodies than you and I could ever begin to guess, and it would take a dozen lifetimes to sort them all out.”
“That’s it?” Aidan asked him. “No investigation? You’re just going to dismiss it out of hand?” As he spoke, the sky darkened. Storm clouds, only hinted at earlier in the day, were boiling into great menacing shadows across the heavens. He pointed at the bone. “Looks to me like there’s still some tissue on it, which means it’s fresh and there might be more body parts somewhere nearby to go with it. If I thought I’d stumbled on something old, I’d have called in an anthropologist.”
Jon Abel sighed again. “Right. I don’t get enough people with bullet holes in them. Slashed to ribbons. Mangled in car accidents. Dead under a bridge somewhere. Sure. I’ll just take this thighbone that might have a bit of tissue on it and get right on it.”
“Jon,” Hal Vincent said quietly. “There might be something to this. I know your office is busy and you’ve got a lot of pressing cases, but do what you can, huh?”
“Male or female?” Aidan asked.
“It’s just a bone right now.”
“Male or female?—your best guess,” Aidan insisted.
The medical examiner shot him an aggravated look.
“Female,” he said. The man had been at it a long time. Unwilling participant in today’s proceedings or not, he was tops in his field. He adjusted his glasses and shook his head. “Offhand, I’d say she stood about five-six.” He looked closer. “Probably between twenty and thirty. I can’t tell you anything else. Not even guessing.”
“I’m guessing she’s dead,” Hal said dryly.
Jonas stepped in, trying to keep things civil. Jonas was a definite “suit.” At forty, he was tall and hard-bodied, with slick tawny hair and attractive features. Even in the muck, he looked impeccable and unflappable. “We’d deeply appreciate it, Dr. Abel, if you can tell us more as soon as your schedule will allow. Look, Jon, we know you’re busy. We also know you’re the best.”
Jon Abel grunted in acknowledgment of the compliment, but he cast Aidan a look of irritation. As far as he was concerned, Flynn was an outsider. He came to New Orleans often to see friends here, but he was still an outsider—at least to Jon Abel.
Aidan had been in the area this time because of a missing persons case. Runaway teens had taken to camping out in the swampy bayou area off the river here. He’d found the subject of his search, and she’d been dirty enough, wet enough, hungry enough and miserable enough to be grateful that her parents wanted her home.
And Aidan had been grateful that he’d found her alive. That wasn’t always the case with runaways. And maybe not for the woman whose bone he’d found nearby, either.
Jonas and Flynn went back a long way. They’d gone through the FBI Academy together. Jonas had stayed with the Bureau.
After a few years, Aidan hadn’t.
It was mainly Jon’s friendship with Jonas that had brought him out here today.
“I’ll do what I can,” Jon said. He lifted a hand to his assistant, Lee Wong, who had been listening attentively to everything going on. He meant to go places, and working with Jon Abel was the way to do it.
The thighbone was duly tagged and bagged; then, grumbling to himself, Jon headed for his car, Lee trailing behind. Jon waved goodbye and spoke without turning back to them. “I’ll get back to you when I know something.”
When he was gone, Hal Vincent spoke again. “I’ll get a few men out here to search the area.” He was a tall man, a good six-four or five, and thin, but every inch of him was muscled. His skin was copper and his eyes were green; his hair had gone white, and he wore it cropped close to his head. His age was indeterminate, and Aidan thought that when he was a hundred years old, he wouldn’t look much different. Born in Algiers, Louisiana—right across the river—he knew the area like the back of his hand. He was a good man, solid, no bullshit.
“Thanks, Hal,” Jonas told him. He looked at Aidan and shrugged. “You know…that might actually be…an old bone.”
“Yeah, it might be,” Aidan agreed. “But then again,” he pointed out, “it might not.” He tried to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his voice.
“We’ll search, and let you know.” Hal looked at his watch. “I’m off duty as of now, and I could use a beer. Anyone want to join me?”
“Sounds good to me,” Jonas said. He’d wanted to be assigned out west, but he’d drawn New Orleans instead, then surprised himself by falling in love with the place. He’d ended up marrying a local girl and moving to the French Quarter. “Aidan?”
Aidan shook his head. “Sorry. I’m late already. I have to meet my brothers downriver.”
“I heard you boys inherited the old place out on the Mississippi,” Hal asked.