Twenty-Seven Bones Read Free Page B

fourth row of the auditorium, cowboy boots sticking out diagonally into the aisle. “You sayin’ if I want to get the truth out of some child rapist, I have to respect him going in?”
    Pender stepped out from behind the lectern. “You questioning my expertise, you shit-for-brains, redneck peckerwood?”
    The man was already on his feet—the only question was which way he was going to go, out the door or straight for Pender.
    Pender stepped back and held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just making a point. What’s your name, man?”
    “Bafferd.”
    “See—I treat you with disrespect, I can’t get so much as a first name out of you.”
    “It’s Ray.” Bafferd sat back down—there were a few chuckles around the room, but none from anyone within arm’s reach of the man.
    “The answer to your question, Ray, is that it wouldn’t hurt. But at the very least, you have to recognize that he has the same need for respect that you do, and if you doubt it, just ask yourself how likely you’d have been to cooperate with me thirty seconds ago, when I disrespected you.
    “Any other questions? Okay, let’s get started. Proxemics, the science of spatial psychology. Most people brought up in our culture consider eighteen inches the optimum distance for intimate conversations. Casual but friendly conversation: eighteen to forty-eight inches. Anything beyond four feet is impersonal, anything beyond six feet is public. So unless you’re dealing with somebody from another continent, which we’ll get to later, here’s how you want to set up your interview space….”

4
    “Lewis, we have to talk.”
    Oh gawd. The last words any married man wants to hear. Even if he’s not hungover. Which Lewis Apgard was. Frightfully. On rum. White, hundred-and-fifty proof St. Luke Reserve. Lewis opened his eyes. The effort was excruciating. They say white men shouldn’t drink white rum. They could be right.
    “How much do you remember from last night, Lew?”
    Oh gawd again. Apparently there was going to be a formal recital of Letterman’s top ten list of phrases no married man wants to hear. Lewis glanced warily around the master bedroom of the late-eighteenth-century mansion known as the Apgard Great House, looking for clues. “Not much,” he had to admit.
    The better half emerged from the bathroom, wearing one of her golf outfits—tartan shorts, sleeveless white jersey. Her full name was Lindsay Hokansson Apgard—two surnames to reckon with on St. Luke—but everybody including the servants called her Hokey. Childless, slender, a strong swimmer, a good rider, and a scratch golfer, she looked both older and younger than her age, which was thirty-three, same as her husband. Older because the tropics wreak havoc on the Scandinavian complexion; younger because she still retained the facial mannerisms of the spoiled little rich girl—on this occasion, the proactive pout. “I didn’t think so.”
    Suddenly Lewis had to piss. He pulled back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and brushed past her on his way into the bathroom, not even trying to hide his morning hard-on.
    “Well? You gonna tell me or what?” he called over the sound of his stream hitting the water. Even with his hangover, it was a noisy, satisfying, damn-near-glorious piss—and the way his marriage was going, probably the most rewarding thing he’d be doing with his dick all day.
    “I’ll wait.”
    He finished, shook off, flushed, returned to the bedroom. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing her whitish blond hair with short, angry strokes. Her back was turned, but she could see him in the mirror. “Put some pants on,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m not having this conversation with your thing swinging in the breeze.”
    Now it’s my thing, thought Lewis, pulling on yesterday’s briefs, which were on the floor not far from the hamper. She used to call it Clark, as in Lewis and Clark, because in the early days of their