Bones 19.3 - Swamp Bones by Kathy Reichs

Author:Kathy Reichs [Reichs, Kathy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780553395181
Published: 2014-08-11T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

“The foot does not belong to Kiley James,” I repeated.

“You’re sure?” Yellen asked for the third time, as if hoping my answer might change.

“Unless she had one size five, one size twelve, and they were both left feet, yes.”

“What the blazes?” The sheriff’s mutter was to himself.

“That’s all I can tell you for now.”

Yellen pinched the bridge of his nose. “And why can’t you go back at it?”

“We got bumped.” More repetition. “A fisherman found what the cops think is a child missing since last week. In a lagoon. The media’s going berserk. That postmortem takes priority.”

We’d been hustled out of autopsy room two by the chief medical examiner himself. Jane Barconi had caught the case. Her taut expression had made yesterday’s seem downright relaxed.

I was delivering the news to Yellen in a corner of the staff kitchen. The lobby and parking lot were swarming with press.

“They needed the decomp room. Our snake exam got pushed to the bottom of the totem pole,” I said. Again.

“What can you tell me now?”

Very little. I’d realized what I was seeing only minutes before the mêlée broke out.

“Rough measurements suggest a medium-size male.”

“Goddammit.” Yellen sounded furious, as though somehow I were the root of his problem.

“I’ll know more once I can get back in.” For clarification, I added, “When they’ve finished autopsying the little girl.”

“I have body parts poppin’ up in the bellies of every critter in the swamp, and I’ve got to cool my heels until who the hell knows when?”

“Any new intel on Buck Cypress?” I asked, mostly to distract him.

Yellen sighed. “Still MIA. We hauled Deuce into district. Genius managed to cough up a name. If there’s nothing going on here, you might as well come along while I follow up.”

We cut through the throng outside, heads lowered, eyes down. A few journalists recognized Yellen and shouted questions. A few cameras and mikes swung his way. He ignored them. Being a stranger, I drew no attention at all.

“Where to?” I asked, buckling my seat belt.

“Every woman’s dream. Shopping.”

“Hilarious.”

A short ten blocks brought us to Miami’s Design District. Art galleries and overpriced lofts jockeyed for square footage with designer boutiques and Korean clothing shops. Women’s apparel, jewelry, and handbags sparkled in every other store window.

“Ritzy,” I observed.

“Didn’t used to be,” Yellen said. “Until the Koreans worked their magic this district was nothing but vacant warehouses, boarded-up buildings, and thugs. Drop by back in the eighties, you’d get jacked. Now it’s the swankiest five-block stretch along I-95.”

Most of the merchandise looked light-years beyond my price range.

“What neighborhood is this?”

“Wynwood. Real estate’s way upmarket.” Yellen depressed his turn indicator. “District’s half fashion, half artsy-fartsy. There’s a minute of industry over along Fifth Avenue, textile and fashion. But it’s mostly boutiques.”

Yellen made a left, then a right. I waited for him to elaborate.

“Deuce Cypress fingered someone he says buys from the poachers. It’s a label run by four sisters. Esther, Eun, Edie, and Evette Eugene. Name on their birth certificates is actually Yoo-Jin, pronounced the same.

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