Bones on Ice: A Novella by Kathy Reichs Page A

displayed—“the mountain or the Sherpas got in a few good whacks. My money’s on a jury blaming Everest, not some moron crawling up its side.”
    “She didn’t accidentally impale her neck on an ice pick or a tent stake or whatever.” Terse. I’d been thinking about whatever. Come up with no good candidates.
    “Ever heard of the perfect weapon?” Skinny’s mouth mashed up at one corner.
    I cocked a brow.
    “Icicle. Perp stabs his vic, weapon melts.” Slidell was dragging up an age-old crimescene riddle. “Poof. No evidence.”
    “An icicle would not have cut into the vertebrae.”
    “The detective has a point.” In a rare move, Larabee sided with Slidell.
    “Seriously? An icicle?”
    “No, no. But it’s quite a leap to homicide. A blow from falling rock or ice might easily mimic intentional blunt or sharp force impact.”
    “I understand the biomechanics of fracture.” A bit sharper than I intended. “And I appreciate that the death zone provides the perfect setting for concealing foul play. That’s my point. The killer used knowledge of the mountain to his or her advantage.”
    “Say you’re right. It don’t matter.” Slidell spread beefy palms. “Whatever went down, it went down in China.”
    “Nepal.” Curt.
    “I don’t care if it was in freaking Neverland. It wasn’t here. Not my turf. Not my problem.”
    “The perp is,” I snapped.
    Now the hand flapped, dismissive. Wait. Had Skinny gone for a manicure? “You ain’t got shit.”
    Dial it back, Brennan. Calming breath. “Five went up, four came down.”
    “And a Sherpa or two and five hundred other yahoos who think freezing their nuts off makes for a good time.”
    Larabee jumped in, partly to keep the peace, partly motivated by the tower of files on his desk. “It’s a bit of a stretch, Tempe.”
    “Agreed, but the X-rays show physical evidence of stabbing and blunt force trauma. There is soft-tissue evidence to contradict hypothermia as cause of death. And the perp may be right here in Charlotte.” Blank looks. “It’s a closed universe of suspects. Except for Elon Gass, who is expected back soon, Brighton Hallis’s climbing buddies are all right here. I talked to three of them. You need motive? This trio is lousy with motive.” I looked from Larabee to Slidell. “What’s the harm in digging a little?”
    “And we’re done here.” Slidell slapped the arms of his chair and heaved himself up. With less effort and grunting than usually required? Had he lost weight?
    “Detective. I can demonstrate that a Charlotte girl was killed.”
    “Call me when you can prove she was killed here.” Tossed over one shoulder, heading for the door.
    Images flashed in my mind. Brighton Hallis, radiant and youthful before a snowy peak. Alone and frightened as life drained from her in a bitter mountaintop wind.
    Play the card? Cheap trick, but I went for it.
    “I’m sure Blythe Hallis won’t be too disappointed when I explain that the CMPD can’t investigate her daughter’s murder. Did you know she’s besties with the chief? He’ll explain all about jurisdiction while she’s keeping her checkbook safely in her purse at the next police fundraiser.”
    Slidell froze. Larabee’s face swung to me, expression saying exactly how he felt about being caught in the middle.
    “This is horseshit.” Slidell’s shoulders slumped. He held a moment, then turned, crossed to us, and dropped back into the chair. Which protested loudly.
    “So what’s your next step?” Larabee, resigned.
    “The bones.” I was going for the gold.
    Larabee pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “You want to deflesh the body.”
    Put that way, it didn’t sound like I was on Brighton’s side. “Just the parts that show trauma.”
    “How long will that take?”
    “A while. But the end result will be worth the effort.”
    “Uh-huh. When you speak to Mrs. Hallis, spare her the details.”
    “Of course.” I turned to Slidell. “What do