Page 2 of The Bone Code

“Who is she?” A glance at the phone showed the message signal flashing red.

“I’ve no idea. Or why she ventured out in this weather.”

“I’ll talk to her.” Feeling a flicker of guilt for disregarding Mrs. Flowers’s calls.

“Don’t linger too long,” Nguyen warned.

“No worries.” Moving the cursor to close the X-ray file. “My cat is probably dialing a rescue hotline as we speak.”

“I’m certain Charlotte is safe.” Lacking conviction. “We’re much too far from the coast.”

I said nothing, recalling similar thinking back in ’89. And Hurricane Hugo.

Though it was only 3:20 p.m., little light filtered in through the lobby doors or windows. All was quiet inside the building. Save for the security guard, not in evidence but undoubtedly present, I seemed to be the only person left on the premises.

The woman sat in the chair opposite Mrs. Flowers’s command post. Her feet, shod in sensible oxfords, rested primly side by side on the carpet. She appeared to be studying the laces.

My first thought: the woman was the dowdy aunt from Peoria. A ratty shawl wrapped her from shoulder to calf, and a floral print scarf, tied babushka style, covered her hair. A curved-handled umbrella hung from one wrist, and a frayed tweed tote sat centered on her lap.

My second thought: why the cold-weather gear when the thermometer that day had registered an unseasonable eighty degrees?

Upon hearing my footfalls, the woman lifted her chin, and her babushka’d head rotated slowly, tracking my approach. The rest of her body seemed clenched in a knot.

Drawing close, I noted that the woman’s eyes were pale—notthe usual blue or green but a shade closer to that of honey in a jar. I estimated her age at sixty-five minimum. Mostly based on the attire. The scarf hid much of her face.

“I’m Temperance Brennan. I apologize for your wait.”

One hand rose to clutch mine. Though blue-veined and knobby, the intensity of its grip took me by surprise.

“Thank you so much. Thank you. I understand. Yes, of course. I’ve waited a long time. I don’t mind a bit more.”

Using the umbrella for support, the woman started to push to her feet. I gestured her back down. “Please. Don’t get up.”

I placed my briefcase on the floor and perched on the adjacent chair, pointedly not settling back.

“So, then. You are…?”

“Oh, dear me. Excuse my rudeness. I should have introduced myself at the outset. My name is Polly Susanne Beecroft.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Beecroft. I—”

“It’s Miss. Don’t give a patoot about titles.” The breathy “p” fluttered the silk framing her face. “If one never married, what’s the harm in saying so? Don’t you agree?”

“Mm.”

“But please, call me Polly.”

“How can I help you, Polly?” I asked, wanting to wrap this up quickly.

“I hope you will excuse my rather cheeky approach.” The honey eyes locked onto mine. “I’ve come to implore your help.”

“I am a forensic anthrop—”

“Yes, yes, of course. That’s why I believe you’re the person I need.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s a bit of a tale.”