Break No Bones by Kathy Reich Read Free Book Online Page B

then laced on my Nikes and did a couple of miles on the beach with Boyd. It was not high season, so the "unleashed dog" hours weren't strictly enforced. The chow darted in and out of the surf while I pounded the hardpack left by its retreat. The sandpipers weren't thriled with either of us.
    On the return loop I cut over to Ocean Boulevard and picked up Sunday papers. A quick shower, then Boyd and I inventoried Pete's contributions to the pantry.
    Six varieties of cold cuts, four cheeses, sweet and dil pickles, wheat, rye, and onion bread. Coleslaw, potato salad, and more chips than a Frito-Lay factory.
    Pete had a lot of shortcomings, but the man could stock a larder.
    After constructing an artwork of pastrami, Swiss, and slaw on rye, I popped a Diet Coke and lugged the newspapers out to the veranda.
    I spent a blissful hour and a half with The New York Times. And that's not counting the crossword. Al the news that's fit to print. You gotta love it.
    Having eaten my crusts and whatever pastrami I was wiling to share, Boyd dozed at my feet.
    Ten minutes into the Post and Courier I nearly lost my sandwich.
    Local section. Fifth page, below the fold. Headline pure aliterative art.
    Buried Body on Barrier Beach
    Charleston, SC. Archaeology students excavating a Dewees Island site dug up more than dead Indians this week. The group, led by Dr. Temperance Brennan of UNC-Charlotte's Anthropology Department, stumbled upon a recent grave occupied by a very modern corpse.
    Brennan refused comment on the grisly discovery, but the remains appeared to be those of an adult. According to student excavator Topher Burgess, the body had been bundled in clothing and buried less than two feet below the ground surface. Burgess estimates the grave had been dug sometime during the past five years.
    Though police were not called to the scene, Charleston County Coroner Emma Rousseau deemed the discovery significant enough to personally oversee excavation of the grave. A two-term electee, Rousseau has come under criticism recently for the role of the coroner's office in the mishandling of a cruise ship death last year.
    Following recovery, the unidentified remains were transported from Dewees to the MUSC morgue. Morgue personnel refused comment on the case.
    — Special to the Post and Courier by Homer Winborne

    A grainy black-and-white showed my face and Emma's south end. We were on our hands and knees on Dewees.
    I flew into the house, Boyd at my heels. Grabbing the first phone in reach, I punched in a number. My actions were so jerky, it took two tries.
    Emma's voice mail answered.
    "Sonovabitch!"
    I waited out the message, moving pointlessly from room to room.
    Beep.
    "Have you seen today's paper? Happy day! We made the news!"
    I hit the sunroom, threw myself onto the couch. Got up. Birdie dropped to the floor and slunk out of sight.

    "Forget the Moultrie News. Winborne hit the big time! Charleston Post and Courier. The boy's on the way up!"
    I knew I was ranting at a machine. I couldn't stop myself.
    "No wonde—"
    "I'm here." Emma sounded sluggish, as though I'd awakened her.
    "No wonder the little worm forked over his Nikon. He had a backup camera. Probably a whole stash!"
    "Tempe."
    "An SLR in his shorts! A wide-angle in his balpoint! A miniature camcorder strapped to his dick! Who knows? We might make Court TV!"
    "Are you finished?" Emma asked.
    "Have you seen it?"
    "Yes."
    "And?" I considered crushing the handset.
    "And what?"
    "You're not furious?"
    "Sure I'm furious. My butt looks huge. Are you done venting?"
    That's what it was, of course. Venting.
    "Our goal is to get the skeleton identified." Emma's voice sounded dul. "Exposure could help."
    "That was your line on Friday."
    "It stil is."
    "Winborne's article could tip the kiler."
    "If there is a kiler. Maybe this guy died of an overdose. Maybe his buddies panicked and dumped his body where they thought it wouldn't be found. Maybe we have nothing more serious than a Chapter Seventeen