It was seconds after Bones was taken from the room that he curled his hand into a fist and smashed it against the frame of the door, cursing her for her insatiable need to be truthful, intelligent and logical, cursing himself for not fighting harder when he heard she was going to New Orleans for vacation and then he let a solid curse out against the singular drive this detective had to get this case off her desk. He could hear the group of police officers, said detective and Bones making their way down the staircase outside the room. Angry and inconsolable, he crossed the room and walked out onto the deck, through the French doors with the gauzy white curtains. The vague stinging in his palm caused him to look down and stare at the earring that he had scooped up from the crime scene at the house.
To him, the earring wasn't anything he familiar with – to Bones, this was a symbol of her mother, obviously important in that sense, but also connected her much more closely to the murder. It was two small discs and then a large almost shield-looking disc at the end of the earring. Every piece of metal he ever had his hands on was polished to shine, he quirked a smirk thinking how weird this would look on his military uniform. He had no idea where it was from, if it as some sort of cultural symbol from some tribe in who-knows-where, but right now it was what he had of Bones.
The patrol car that had Bones cuffed in the back like some common criminal had long driven off, and the breezes just barely helped with the oppressive heat. Booth didn't shrug of his jacket, the heat didn't get to him quickly – what was making him sweat was what to do about Bones. He turned and slowly walked back into the room, the old wood of the floor creaking under his weight. There was the seat Bones had sat down on just minutes before, speaking of the possibility of her being the murderer. He had the same reaction as he had then: anger and disbelief. Bones didn't kill people, she didn't go into trances and she was far too logical to be caught if she did in fact murder someone.
The couch seemed inviting enough, although it was a bit feminine for his tastes. He groaned a bit at the lack of cushioning, and the weird round side pillows annoyed him. Her laptop still sat on the coffee table, the camera set up to talk to the Jeffersonian. Booth moves his bags off the right side of the couch and shifted over to sit in front of the machine. He couldn't touch it. Not that he wouldn't if he needed to, but computers, scientific analysis – that wasn't him. He needed Bones here for that. Had she not been so resistant to share her troubles with her team back home, he would've called up the brain squint squad in a second, but that didn't feel right. There was enough tension between him and her over this bizarre murder.
Instead he glanced over the papers tucked beneath the corner of the laptop. Looked like research to him – notes on injuries of flood victims, what was common and what was rarer, what to expect and things to make a definitive note of. From what he could tell, she was thinking about a scientific publication, since she wasn't using her notebook that she kept ideas in for her novels. He rubbed the disc on the earring with thumb while he thought of her and her belongings. The novel notebook was one of few things that she kept rather secret. He had tried to peek in it once and she had smacked his hand, threatening to break it the next time he tried that. That notebook probably hadn't even been brought on this trip, Bones would've wanted to stay focused on the tasks at hand. Also it didn't seem like her to use her experiences from something this horrific for her next book.
The white curtains drifted particularly high and caught his attention. He wondered if Bones had chosen this hotel, this particular room - it was oddly romantic and full of luxurious flourishes that he would never have seen in her apartment in D.C. The hammered and flowery sconces on the walls, the French doors leading out onto a large deck, the dark wood bed with all those throw pillows. Booth had always wondered why they were called that, it was accurate, considering every time he saw them he always threw them off the bed. Also, the green paint with the off-pink trim didn't fit into his sense of relaxation or comfort at all. Finishing his assessment of the room, his eyes landed on the door that those idiot police had busted in. He didn't think he'd get much sleep tonight anyway, knowing Bones wasn't exactly safe, but with that broken door, he probably wouldn't sleep at all. Correction, with that creepy voodoo dumpling on the bed, he certainly wouldn't be sleeping there.
Shaking his head of thoughts that didn't quite fit into his understanding of the world – Bones had called it some Anglicization of something. Whatever – the point was, this whole balancing universe thing didn't quite jive with what he grew up with, but Bones was wrapped up in it, and he had to get her out.
That meant a game plan, so the first thing was to get Bones something resembling a lawyer. He flipped open his phone scrolled down his contact list, nodding when he found what he was looking for. As he dialed the number and waited for a response, he stood and walked to the door, fiddling with it. He could probably fix this on his own, at least well enough so he wouldn't have to look at a splintered door all night.
"And who is calling me this late at night?" Her voice, full to the brim of accusation and displeasure made him smirk.
"Caroline? It's me, Seeley. I'm calling in a favor."
"Hm." That word, which really just was a form of punctuation for Caroline, left him hanging in silence.
"…Caroline?" He ventured after about thirty seconds of silence.
"I heard you cher!" He exclaimed, making him pull the phone back and glare at it. "Fine fine, I'll help you out." Her tone said anything but consent. "What do you need this time, F.B.I Agent Booth?"
The agent in question smiled and looked down at the earring in his hand.
"A serious favor for a good friend of mine."