Break No Bones by Kathy Reich Read Free Book Online

going to court.
    Today Pete wore an argyle Rosasen golf shirt, knee-length khakis, loafers, no socks.
    "Think you bought enough groceries?" I asked, extracting a carton of eggs from a bag.
    "So much food. So little time."
    "You're doing your best."
    "I am." Big Janis "Pete" Petersons grin. "I figured you might not be expecting me for breakfast."
    I'd been expecting him in the evening.
    "Almost kept motoring when I saw the other car." Big Janis "Pete" Petersons wink.
    I stopped cracking eggs and turned. "What other car?"
    "Parked out front. Puled away, so I came on in."
    "What kind of car?"
    Pete shrugged. "Dark. Large. Four-door. Where do you want the Birdster?"
    I flapped an arm toward the utility room. Pete disappeared with the cat pan.
    Puzzled, I started scrambling the eggs. Who would have been here so early on a Sunday morning?
    "Probably some tourist looking for his beach house." Pete was back and ladling ground coffee. "A lot of places rent Sunday to Sunday."
    "But check-in is never before noon." I removed bread from the toaster, put two more in.
    "OK. Someone leaving. Stopped to program his OnStar before motoring to Toledo."
    I handed Pete mats and utensils. He distributed them, then settled at the table.
    Boyd walked over and laid his chin on Pete's knee. Pete reached down and scratched the chow's ear.
    "So the field school's history. Planning to hit the beach today?"
    I told him about the Dewees skeleton.
    "No shit."
    I filed coffee mugs, handed Pete a plate, and took the chair opposite his. Boyd switched from Pete's knee to mine.
    "White male in his forties. No signs of foul play."
    "Except that the guy was in a clandestine grave."
    "Except for that. You remember Emma Rousseau?"
    Pete's chewing slowed. He raised a fork. "Long brown hair. Tits that could—"
    "She's the Charleston County coroner. A dentist is going to chart the unknown's teeth on Monday, then Emma wil send the descriptors through NCIC."
    Boyd snorted, chin-tapped my knee to let me know he was stil there. And interested in eggs.
    "How long are you staying down here?" Pete asked.
    "As long as it takes to help Emma out with these bones. The local forensic anthropologist is away. Tel me about this Herron thing."
    "Client came in Wednesday. Patrick Bertolds Flynn. Friends cal him Buck."
    Pete finished his eggs.
    "Tight-assed little wanker. I offer coffee, Flynn tels me he doesn't use stimulants. Acts as though I've suggested we snort a few lines."
    Pete pushed his plate away. Hearing the scrape, Boyd recircled the table. Pete gave the chow a triangle of toast.
    "Posture to make a dril sergeant proud, though. Good eye contact."
    "Impressive character analysis. Is Flynn an old client?"
    Pete shook his head. "Wasn't before now. Flynn's mother is Latvian. Dagnija Kalnins. He picked me because I'm one of the tribe."
    "What did he want?"
    "Took forever to get to the point. Went on and on about the Bible and the less fortunate and Christian responsibility. I actualy started making hash marks on my tablet every time I heard the word 'obligation' or 'duty.' Gave up when I hit a milion."
    There seemed nowhere to go with that, so I said nothing. Pete took my silence as reproach.
    "Flynn thought I was taking notes. More coffee?"
    I nodded. Pete refiled our mugs, sat down, and tipped back his chair.
    "To make the story short, Flynn and a gaggle of Biblemates have been funding Herron and his God's Mercy Church. Lately, the money boys have grown disenchanted over what they view to be lack of financial reporting."
    Paws thupped the counter, then the floor. Moving fast, Birdie slithered from the room. Boyd's gaze never left Pete's plate.
    "Also, Flynn's daughter hooked up with Herron a little over three years ago. Helene, that's her name, bounced around working at one or another of the poverty clinics the reverend bankrols. According to Flynn, at first she caled regularly to tel him what a bad-ass job GMC was doing for the poor, and how fulfiling it was to be helping in