Speaking in Bones Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the line. Then the same voice came through the phone’s little square holes.
    “Deputy Ferris is unavailable. Would you like to provide contact information?”
    I gave her both the MCME main line and my mobile number. And pointed out that the former was a medical examiner facility. Brusquely.
    The woman wished me a good day and was gone.
    I jabbed the disconnect button. A pointless attempt at maintaining control.
    The world beyond my door had grown quiet. The death investigators were either out bagging bodies or doing “paperwork” in their cubicles. The pathologists had retreated to their offices or departed for other tasks.
    My eyes dropped to the file on my blotter. Shifted to my watch. 3:55 P.M.
    I wanted to go home, share dinner with my cat, Birdie, spend time chatting with Ryan. Appeasing?
    I pictured Larabee’s face. The slow, concerned-but-unconcerned look I’d get for snubbing the mummy.
    “Fine.”
    I scooped up the folder, intending to return to the stinky room. I was swiveling my chair when my iPhone rang. Thinking it might be Opal Ferris, I picked up.
    It wasn’t.
    The call kicked the headache into overdrive.

“I t’s Allan.” The voice was Carolina with an undertone of the Bronx.
    Crap. Crap. Crap.
    “Hey, Allan.” With an enthusiasm I reserve for slugs in my garden.
    “I’m sure you know why I’m calling.”
    “I’m working on it.” Untrue. I hated the thought of “it.” Had been avoiding “it” for months.
    “Today is March thirtieth.”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sure you know what that means.”
    My upper and lower molars reached for each other. That was twice. Allan Fink used the phrase repeatedly in each conversation .
    “I’m sure I do.” Perky as Tinker Bell’s toes.
    “This is serious.”
    “Lighten up, Allan. We have more than two weeks until the filing deadline.”
    “Tempe.” Faux patient sigh. “I need those materials to calculate the total owed.”
    “I’ll get everything to you by Friday.”
    “Tomorrow.”

    “I’m really slammed at the lab.”
    “I’m a tax accountant. This is my slammy season.”
    “I understand.”
    “I’ve been asking since November.”
    “I’ll do my best.”
    “You are not my only client.”
    In my head I added, “I’m sure you know.” He’d reminded me at least a zillion times.
    “Charity donations, business and travel expenses, 1099s for any honoraria or fees I was paid. Anything else?”
    Censorious pause, then, “I will resend the list of items I’m lacking.”
    “I know I saved the receipts.” Somewhere.
    “That would be good.”
    “Is it really so important?”
    “The IRS tends to believe that it is.”
    “I make less than a circus chimp.”
    “What do performing primates earn these days?”
    “Peanuts.”
    “Must irritate the elephants.” Allan hung up.
    —
    It was past eight by the time I finished. As I rolled Recliner Man back to the cooler, the MCME hummed with that exaggerated quiet unique to buildings abandoned after an all-day buzz.
    Based on skeletal and dental indicators, the mummified remains were those of the elderly tenant in question. I found nothing on his bones or X-rays to suggest foul play. The old gent had kicked while OD’ing on The Sopranos or soaps.
    Though Larabee might be annoyed with the tardiness of my preliminary report, he’d be pleased with the content. The rest was now his show.
    Outside, the air was warm and very damp, the horizon fading from ginger to gray. Serpentine clouds stretched sinewy dark above the telephone wires lining both sides of Queens Road.

    Allan’s call had me edgy and cross. The last thing I wanted was to spend the night digging for old restaurant receipts and boarding passes. Every year I vow to be more organized. Every year I fail. Recognizing that the problem was self-created only irritated me further.
    I made one stop for takeout sushi and arrived home as dusk was yielding the last of its sway. The manor house looked like a hulking black bunker in the