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One was a squat, square block of a guy. The other looked like a scowl on legs. Both wore black pants, white shirts, and ties the belligerent gray of a winter storm.
My first thought was LDS missionaries. Until they reached us.
Scowl held out a credentials case with an ID on one side, a badge on the other. I recognized the bald eagle on top, the blindfolded Lady Justice beneath it, the words “Federal Bureau of Investigation” and “Department of Justice” arcing above and below her.
“FBI,” Scowl barked, in case we remained unclear.
“You can buy those on eBay.” Monck chin-cocked the gold shield.
“You’ve gotta be Monck.” Scowl’s scowl deepened. “Word is, you find yourself funny.”
“And I’m playing here every Saturday this month.”
“You’re the forensic anthro?” Directed to me.
“Temperance Brennan.” Cool. “Let me guess. You two are very special agents?”
Scowl turned to Square Block. “We got Abbot and Costello here. Better call for a bus, Ross. I may die from laughing.”
“No need for incivility.” Square Block’s smile projected an overload of charm. “I’m Ellis Rossiter. The humor-challenged gentleman with me is Alfie Reid.”
“You’re the SAA,” I said, recalling the name. “Cloke’s boss.”
“Indirectly.”
“You’ve come to Provo looking for your lost boy?” Monck asked, his tone glacial.
Rossiter shot Reid a quick sidelong glance.
“You know anything about that?” he asked, the smile never faltering.
“At the moment, Cloke’s not the focus of my concern.”
“May I ask what is?”
“I briefed you by phone on the Provo serial,” Monck said.
“And you were thorough, indeed, sir.”
“The owner of this home, one Joe Benjamin, is our primary suspect. The guy just said the big adios in a single car wreck. I have a warrant to search his property.”
Rossiter’s eyes again skidded to those of his partner.
“Benjamin’s dead?”
“He is.”
“What do you know about him?”
“We think the asshole clipped four people. That’s why I’m about to toss his place.”
“And Special Agent Cloke?”
“AWOL since landing.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
