Bones on Ice: A Novella Read Online Free PDF Page B

hostess, a twentysomething in tight top and black jeans, whispered “Hallis” to her cohort, another twentysomething in tight top and black jeans. Smiling broadly, a mistake given the calamity that was her dentition, Black Jeans Two led me to one of a row of booths lining the back wall.
    A man and woman sat shoulder to shoulder on one bench. Neither looked on speaking terms with thirty. Hearing my approach, they exchanged slicing sideways glances before facing me, expressionless. I took the woman to be Dara Steele. Him, I wasn’t sure.
    “Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Thrusting a hand forward and flashing my most disarming smile.
    Steele’s grip was as limp as her straggly ponytail. Dropping her hand to her lap, she recoiled as though trying to mold her skinny frame into her companion’s negative spaces.
    “Cash Reynolds.” The guy shook with more snap, but zero friendliness.
    “May I?” Cocking my chin toward the empty bench.
    Reynolds nodded, making as little eye contact as possible.
    I slid into the booth, discreetly assessing the pair. Reynolds was big and muscular, probably used to being told he was good-looking. Dark brown eyes. Walnut hair carefully arranged to look carelessly disarranged. Toned forearms bulging from rolled chambray cuffs. Steele looked like a colorless scarecrow burrowing into his leftover air.
    “Mrs. Hallis said I’d be meeting with three members of Brighton’s team?” Inflection implying the question.
    “Damon’s late.” Reynolds, one thumb working condensation on the side of his mug.
    “As usual.” Steele’s pitch suggested she wasn’t amused.
    A waitress appeared at our booth. Yep. Tight top and black jeans. Hers were draped with a little apron tied at the waist.
    “Who knows with Damon. We should order.” Without querying my readiness, Reynolds asked for burgers and fries for himself and Steele, refills on their ginger ales. Showing he was a take-charge guy? Anxious to be gone? A self-focused prick?
    Reserving judgment for the moment, I went with fried chicken, fried zucchini, and Diet Coke. What the hell? It was Sunday. And I hadn’t had time to read the menu.
    “Thanks for meeting with me.” As though we’d gathered by choice. “I’d like to learn as much as possible about what happened on Everest the day Brighton died.”
    Again, the flicking eyes, the closed faces. And a whole lot of silence.
    Seconds ticked past. A full minute. Another.
    Alrighty, then. New approach. Side door. “How did you all meet?”
    “SheClimbs Charlotte.” Steele sounded, well, steely. “It’s a woman’s climbing group.”
    Reynolds looked uncomfortable. And silent. Red burned high on each of his cheeks.
    “Go on, Cash.” Steele prodded. When Reynolds didn’t comment, she did. “Brighton and Cash used to date.”
    “Christ, Dara. Let it go!”
    Steele’s eyes dropped and her body drew inward, like that of a chastened puppy.
    “You and Brighton were a couple?” Directed to Reynolds.
    “Briefly.”
    “On Everest?”
    More silence.
    “Depends who you ask,” Steele answered cryptically. Reynolds studied his fork.
    I was about to follow up when our waitress delivered enough food to feed a ninth grade. We took a moment with seasonings and condiments and dipping sauces. Then Iasked, “Who else was on your Everest team?”
    “Damon James was Bright’s business partner,” Steele answered, after a glance at Reynolds, who ignored her. “She knew Elon Gass from college. Bright began pulling together an Everest team, like, eons before the contest.”
    “Contest?”
    “Reality show,” Reynolds corrected. “
The Heights
. Like Anthony Bourdain’s
Parts Unknown
, but about mountaineering. The production company was looking for a host. The climbing community was going apeshit.”
    “Brighton wanted to be cast?” To Steele.
    “Who didn’t? Get paid to wear cool gear, travel to amazing places, test out hotels and commercial guide groups, be a celebrity? Everyone was wetting their