Park.
Chapter Eight
“Please don’t tell me there’s another foot,” I said as we drove.
Yellen’s look said he wasn’t in the mood for humor.
“I’ve got a deputy working to find Kiley James’s journal. We’ve searched her house and her car. No luck. Lundberg says she had a locker at the rangers’ station. I want to check it out.”
We were retracing the now-familiar drive south through Homestead. We’d turned right on Ingraham Highway toward the park entrance when Yellen’s mobile rang.
“Sheriff Yellen.” As he listened his mouth bunched even tighter than before. “I’ll head over there now. Get me Scott Pierce.”
He disconnected. Seconds later his phone rang again.
“Thanks for getting right back to me. Listen, I’m on my way to search Kiley James’s locker at the rangers’ station.”
I could hear a tinny voice on the other end of the line. Couldn’t make out the words.
“Yeah, she had a locker. Brain Trust Lundberg just told me last night. I have a warrant, but I’ve gotta get back to district. If Doc Brennan brings the paper, can you toss the thing then get her home afterward?”
The buzzy staccato sounded again.
“I owe you one.” Yellen ended the call.
To me, “Change of plans. Dawn raid on a Florida City meth lab spat out a tweaker that’s my favorite for a series of arsons. I’ll drop you. Scott Pierce will get you home.”
“My car’s at the morgue.”
“Just tell Pierce where you want to go.”
A few minutes later we pulled up to the main entrance of Everglades National Park. Yellen drove past the visitors’ center, and down a road behind a sign that warned P ARK R ANGERS O NLY B EYOND T HIS P OINT . The squat frame building at the end served as a rangers’ station. The flag out front looked as limp as I felt.
As I got out, Yellen lowered his window. I circled to his side of the cruiser.
“You’ll get to that foot ASAP?” he asked.
“As soon as I can.” I meant it. No one was more eager to finish this than I was.
The window rose with a hum and Yellen was gone.
I climbed the steps and entered the rangers’ station.
Unlike the visitors’ center, the place was stark and functional. Desks and filing cabinets dotted the room, chosen for function over form. A collection of rescue equipment was stacked to my left, and a handful of park radios were propped in chargers to my right. At the back of the room, a stuffed alligator wore clown-size sunglasses and a University of Florida cap.
A green-uniformed woman occupied a desk near the door. Her name tag said H. F LORES . Dark brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck. Harry Potter glasses. A face that was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
“I’m looking for Scott Pierce,” I said.
“And you are?”
“Temperance Brennan.”
Flores made a call, listened, disconnected. “Sorry. No answer.”
“He must be on his way,” I said.
“You can cop a squat over there.” Flores pointed to a collection of plastic chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable. They were.
Five minutes passed.
I read the warrant. Kiley James had been assigned locker 53.
I drummed impatient fingers on the unyielding armrest. Eyed a wall clock that told me three more minutes had passed. I told myself I’d wait fifteen. Inspected my nails. Studied the park maps and pictures of local wildlife adorning the walls.
At fourteen minutes fifty-five seconds I popped to my feet and crossed to Flores.
“I have a warrant.” I held up the judge’s paper. “If you could point me to the lockers, I’ll get out of your hair.”
She looked at the paper and nodded. “Okay, locker room’s down that hall, fourth door on your left.”
“Tell Pierce where I’ve gone when he gets here.”
“Will do.”
I turned the knob and entered. The room was square, with linoleum underfoot and fluorescents overhead. Beige metal lockers lined three walls.
Movement to my right startled me.
Scott Pierce seemed equally surprised at my entrance.
Chapter Eight
“Please don’t tell me there’s another foot,” I said as we drove.
Yellen’s look said he wasn’t in the mood for humor.
“I’ve got a deputy working to find Kiley James’s journal. We’ve searched her house and her car. No luck. Lundberg says she had a locker at the rangers’ station. I want to check it out.”
We were retracing the now-familiar drive south through Homestead. We’d turned right on Ingraham Highway toward the park entrance when Yellen’s mobile rang.
“Sheriff Yellen.” As he listened his mouth bunched even tighter than before. “I’ll head over there now. Get me Scott Pierce.”
He disconnected. Seconds later his phone rang again.
“Thanks for getting right back to me. Listen, I’m on my way to search Kiley James’s locker at the rangers’ station.”
I could hear a tinny voice on the other end of the line. Couldn’t make out the words.
“Yeah, she had a locker. Brain Trust Lundberg just told me last night. I have a warrant, but I’ve gotta get back to district. If Doc Brennan brings the paper, can you toss the thing then get her home afterward?”
The buzzy staccato sounded again.
“I owe you one.” Yellen ended the call.
To me, “Change of plans. Dawn raid on a Florida City meth lab spat out a tweaker that’s my favorite for a series of arsons. I’ll drop you. Scott Pierce will get you home.”
“My car’s at the morgue.”
“Just tell Pierce where you want to go.”
A few minutes later we pulled up to the main entrance of Everglades National Park. Yellen drove past the visitors’ center, and down a road behind a sign that warned P ARK R ANGERS O NLY B EYOND T HIS P OINT . The squat frame building at the end served as a rangers’ station. The flag out front looked as limp as I felt.
As I got out, Yellen lowered his window. I circled to his side of the cruiser.
“You’ll get to that foot ASAP?” he asked.
“As soon as I can.” I meant it. No one was more eager to finish this than I was.
The window rose with a hum and Yellen was gone.
I climbed the steps and entered the rangers’ station.
Unlike the visitors’ center, the place was stark and functional. Desks and filing cabinets dotted the room, chosen for function over form. A collection of rescue equipment was stacked to my left, and a handful of park radios were propped in chargers to my right. At the back of the room, a stuffed alligator wore clown-size sunglasses and a University of Florida cap.
A green-uniformed woman occupied a desk near the door. Her name tag said H. F LORES . Dark brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck. Harry Potter glasses. A face that was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
“I’m looking for Scott Pierce,” I said.
“And you are?”
“Temperance Brennan.”
Flores made a call, listened, disconnected. “Sorry. No answer.”
“He must be on his way,” I said.
“You can cop a squat over there.” Flores pointed to a collection of plastic chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable. They were.
Five minutes passed.
I read the warrant. Kiley James had been assigned locker 53.
I drummed impatient fingers on the unyielding armrest. Eyed a wall clock that told me three more minutes had passed. I told myself I’d wait fifteen. Inspected my nails. Studied the park maps and pictures of local wildlife adorning the walls.
At fourteen minutes fifty-five seconds I popped to my feet and crossed to Flores.
“I have a warrant.” I held up the judge’s paper. “If you could point me to the lockers, I’ll get out of your hair.”
She looked at the paper and nodded. “Okay, locker room’s down that hall, fourth door on your left.”
“Tell Pierce where I’ve gone when he gets here.”
“Will do.”
I turned the knob and entered. The room was square, with linoleum underfoot and fluorescents overhead. Beige metal lockers lined three walls.
Movement to my right startled me.
Scott Pierce seemed equally surprised at my entrance.
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