filled my mug with some Colombian and moved to the deck. The fire had long been out. Sal crunched through the woods just as I sat down.
“You have radar or something? You always seem to know when I’m about to chug some brew out here.”
“Wave length, Nick. We’re on the same one.” He plopped into the chair across from me, put his travel mug on the table and added, “Besides, that Artemus guy from Homeland Security never took his bugs back.”
I looked under the table just to make sure Sal was only tugging my leg. He was.
Sal took the information just received from Forte and I could see him processing it. Slipping his iPhone from his jeans, he punched in Phoenix HP22A and came up with a photo of the gun. Nickel-silver body; black plastic grips; black hammer and trigger.
“Cute. Not my style,” I said when he showed me the photo.
Guns are personal like cars and clothes. I like wheel guns. Revolvers, like Harleys and the Crown Vic have a fundamental and useful look.
Semi-autos are Sal’s preference. He relishes the intricacy of the mechanism, the core complexity. His three-dimensions versus my two.
I also like heft, but not weight. A .50 cal Desert Eagle is way cool. Big. Brawny. And at 6 pounds, heavy. I always feel I should be carrying it in a suitcase rather than a holster.
Then there’s the issue of what I call “gloveness.” Some cars have it. All Harleys. Some guns. It’s the ability to feel comfortable, familiar, regardless of model. A Porsche is a Porsche is a Porsche. They fit you like a glove. My Taurus Magnum is like that. When I pick it up, my hand goes to all the right places and every muscle is at its own comfort level, own tautness.
Another buzz in my pocket.
“Drago.”
“Good morning Nick.” I winced at the salutation but recognized Bosch’s voice. “I’ve got some news on the bones.”
“Sal’s with me so I’m putting you on speaker.”
“They’re of a white male, about 75 years old. Stood 5-foot-5. Now he could have been part Native American. There are some skull anomalies that could indicate one parent was Caucasian and the other Indian. That’s a wild-ass guess, though. I’d also say he was probably a farmer by the density of his hand and wrist bones. Both left and right were about the same so he wasn’t someone like a blacksmith who used one arm significantly more than the other. At least he worked with his hands most of his life.
“Lots of calcification, so he was suffering some pretty severe arthritis. A few broken bones that had healed but whoever set them wasn’t likely a doctor. Back then, he may well have wrapped a splint in some bandages and let it heal on its own.”
I could hear him turn some pages of what I assumed was a report. “There are a couple missing which are probably still in your fire pit. A clavicle and a small toe.”
“We’ll check.”
“I’d appreciate it. Might as well rebuild this guy with all his parts. Let me know if you find ‘em. Other than that, I’m going to glue the pieces together and send the skeleton to Salem for more eval. Call me on those missing bones.”
Clicking off, “Well, shall we go on a treasure hunt?”
Sal and I each grabbed some gloves from my work shed and began sifting through the comfortably warm ashes. It didn’t take long digging through the fine powder to find the missing clavicle. Setting it aside, we each began looking for toe bones. We’d spent 20 minutes or so in pursuit when my hand came up with what looked like a mud egg about twice the size of a golf ball.
Holding it up between my thumb and forefinger, “Looky here, Sal.”
“An Easter egg hunt long forgotten?”
I carried the find to the deck, set the ball on the table and pulled off my gloves. I gently shook it and heard a definite clunk.
“Hello,” Sal said. “A bauble.”
The exterior of the shell was smooth with a small ring at what I assumed was the top as if it were supposed to hang from a jewelry chain or thin leather thong.
“My guess is it was hanging from the neck or wrist of the Tree Guy,” I said.
“Fair guess, I would say. Shall we open it?”
“Let’s get some pictures first.” Sal complied by using his cell phone camera to get close ups and medium-distance shots for size comparison.
I pulled out my pocket knife and scored a line around the egg’s equator.
“Looks like clay. Hope we didn’t burn off some design or words.”
I continued scoring the same line over and over, slowly working deeper into the ball. My goal was to cut through the shell and have two intact halves.
“Almost there,” Sal watched closely, alternating between sips of coffee and stroking his beard.
I nodded just as the knife’s blade broke through a portion of the egg. Slowly working my way around what now looked like a seam the two parts finally were held together by a scant eighth-inch bridge which easily and cleanly popped apart.
Like the yoke of an egg, a large gold sphere rolled out of the shell and onto the table.
“Holy crap,” Sal whispered. “Wouldya look at that.”
It was mesmerizing. About three inches in diameter and polished like glass, the gold ball rested on my half of the table top reflecting the blue sky, trees and our faces as if it were a mirror. Perfectly round it rolled effortlessly toward Sal when I touched it lightly with my fingernail, stopping only when it hit the white ledge of the metal frame that supported the glass top.
“Should I pick it up?” Sal asked.
“Did you wash your hands after using the bathroom?”
“Funny.”
“Let me get some cheesecloth first.”
I went to the workshop, pulled open a cabinet and grabbed a new package of the material. Ripping it open on the way back to the table, I stopped at the sound of tires on the gravel road then pulling into my driveway. Forte’s cruiser came to a stop and he climbed out of the car.
“Hey Nick. Why do you look like that?”
Speechless, I merely waved him to follow me which he did looking puzzled. Sal was still staring at the gold ball, eyes mere inches away from its glowing surface.
“Uh, guys,” Forte said, “What are you doing? Trying to move the pretty ball with your mind?”
Not getting the expected smart-ass response from either Sal or me, Forte took a second and closer look.
Then it dawned on him, his eyes first turning to slits then opening like one of those time-lapse videos of a flower.
“Are you kidding me? Is that what I think it is?
