Bones in Her Pocket: A Tempe Brennan E-Short Read Online Free PDF Page B

on the same page.
    Our food had just arrived when Slidell’s phone rang. He listened, said “yeah” a lot. I watched him scribble an address on a paper napkin.
    “Olsen finishes class at two, usually heads straight home.” Shoving the phone back into his jacket. Which was maroon polyester, a good choice given the sauce he was dribbling. “I’m thinking we drop by for a little chat.”
    I checked my watch. Just past noon. “That works.”
    “You know this jackass?”
    “Only by reputation. We’ve never met.”
    Slidell wiped grease from his chin. Chins.
    “Living-thing departments don’t mingle with dead-thing departments?”
    “Only when there’s free food.”
    Slidell’s understanding of academia is limited at best. I wasn’t in the mood to explain the complexities of a major university.
    “So what’s the campus scuttlebutt on this guy?”
    “Earnest type. Go-getter. No rumors about sex with students, if that’s what you mean.”
    “How’s this track? He and Blankenship get it on. She threatens to dime the wife, he caps her.”
    “Other than Doris Kramer’s statement, we have no proof Edith and Olsen were involved.”
    Slidell made an indeterminate noise in his throat.
    “Strangling’s not like shooting a bullet or stirring poison into your boss’s tea,” I said. “It’s hands-on, up-close and personal. So I agree. We could be looking at a crime of passion. Still, I like Blount.”
    “If Blount and Blankenship were birding pals, why kill her?”
    “She has a change of heart, threatens to expose him for something he’s done? Maybe it’s an accident? Who knows?”
    But with homicide you have to know. Murder’s not like B&E, extortion, or rape. With other crimes the endgame is clear. A murder investigation is always about motive.
    Slidell’s next comment suggested he was reading my mind.
    “Killing’s simple. Sex or money.”
    “Maybe their passion for birds bound their hearts in love.”
    “Who the hell you talking about, Blount or Olsen?”
    Good point, Skinny. I’d tossed the comment out in jest.
    “In my view, the easy answer is usually the right one.”
    Another good point. Though he couldn’t have named it, Slidell was summarizing Occam’s razor, a principle stating that the cleanest hypothesis is usually the correct one.
    “And that would be?” I finished the dregs of my lemonade.
    “Married guy enjoys a little poontang with young honey. Honey wants more. Honey ends up in a bag in a lake.”
    Though I agree with ol’ Occam, Skinny’s tunnel vision irked me.
    I didn’t doubt a fellow faculty member could kill. But Blount made my skin crawl. Something menacing lurked behind those cobalt eyes.
    We paid our checks and rolled back toward Charlotte. Instead of continuing toward uptown, Slidell cut north onto I-85, toward the university, and navigated to a neat brick bungalow on a tree-shaded street lined with neat brick bungalows.
    In the driveway, a tall, pale man with round horn-rims and thinning brown hair was retrieving a briefcase from a Volvo that looked older than me. He glanced our way when we got out of the Taurus.
    “Jack Olsen?” Three feet out, Slidell badged him. “Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD.”
    Olsen’s face pinched with a mixture of fear and relief. Anxious, but glad the waiting was over.
    “Have you found Edith?” Shifting slightly, perhaps to block sight line to his front windows. Or from them.
    “Edith is dead.” Skinny tried the shock approach. “We dragged her body outta Mountain Island Lake.”
    Olsen’s knuckles went white on the briefcase he was pressing to his chest. “She drowned?”
    “She was strangled then stuffed in a bag.”
    Olsen’s long, thin fingers went tight on the leather. I noticed they were trembling.
    “Blankenship was your student?” More statement than question.
    Olsen nodded. Swallowed.
    “You seem pretty shook up, just being her prof,” Slidell hammered away.
    The owlish lenses turned to me. “Who’s