The Bone Hacker by Kathy Reichs

Author:Kathy Reichs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2023-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

19

Familiar with the address Benjamin had provided, Monck passed on navigational guidance and set out on his own. While driving, he contacted headquarters and asked for a run on the name Uri Stribbe.

While he did that, I made one more call to the hospital.

Nope. Scope still tied up. Maybe tomorrow.

Crapshitshittingcrapballs!

“So.” Unvented frustration curdled my voice. “Is this dickhead in the system?”

Monck turned and raked me with his eyes. “Who bit you on the ass?”

“Is he?”

A beat, then, “No. Stribbe is not in the system.”

After that surly exchange we opted for silence.

Traffic was light and, in minutes, we were idling outside a condo complex a short distance off Grace Bay Road, the island’s main thoroughfare. A sign identified it as Villa Juba.

Would the place qualify as oceanfront? Technically, yes. Beachfront? Not without a long, hard scrabble down a whole lot of rock.

Villa Juba was built on a hilltop high above the Atlantic Ocean. Composed of putty-colored cubes arranged in two levels, the place made me think of a child’s blocks stacked haphazardly, then forgotten.

It also reminded me of Habitat 67, the architectural icon designed by Moshe Safdie for Expo 67. Which reminded me of Ryan, since he’d lived there for years. Which reminded me that I was homesick for Montreal.

Suck it up, Brennan. You owe it to Musgrove to see this through.

For a moment, we both assessed. Then Monck circled to the rear and parked.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Two-D.”

We got out, found a not so obvious staircase, and climbed to the second level.

A stone walkway wound us to Stribbe’s unit.

Monck pressed the Ring doorbell.

We waited.

Monck rang again.

We waited.

Stribbe’s condo was at a point where the building’s upper level made a right-angle turn. Craning around the corner wall, I could see that his, like those of his neighbors, had a shore-facing terrace and acres of glass.

Which brought to mind the home Ryan and I shared on rue Sherbrooke.

Jesus! Focus.

I could also see the roof and back patio of a single-story rectangular building spanning the hillside at a lower elevation. Similarities in color and design made me wonder if the two structures were somehow connected.

Monck’s irritation was now at a level matching my own. Using the knuckles of his prosthetic hand, he hammered the door.

I looked a question at him.

“Titanium,” he said.

The ploy worked.

“Go away. I don’t want any.”

“Police.” Monck made zero attempt at masking his annoyance. “We need to speak to Uri Stribbe. Now.”

“You cannot come to my door—”

“Open up or I’ll break it down.” A bluff. Apparently convincing.

Locks clicked. A lot of them. The door swung in.

Monck and I stared in surprise.

The woman wore an ankle-length black skirt, baggy green top, and long-sleeved red cardigan that hung to mid-thigh. Her papery skin was wrinkled and splotchy, her eyes the pale gray of a winter dawn.

White hairs wisped from a turquoise scarf wrapping the woman’s head. Despite being elderly, her posture was that of a Buckingham Palace guard.

“I do not appreciate your meshuggeneh threats. Police or not, you are a very rude young man.

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