Bones of the Lost (3 page)

“If I could boost a car, I wouldn’t be here.” I hopped out. The blisters looked like two red eyes staring up at my face.

If the bracelet hadn’t been a gift from Katy, I’d have cut my losses and split. Someday I’d tell her about this. Then we’d laugh. Maybe.

I slid between my car and the blue mammoth, eyes on the pavement. Bingo. The bracelet lay beneath the two abutting mirrors, in the least accessible spot possible.

Sucking in my gut, I wedged between the door handles and down into a squat. Shoulders twisted sideways as far as they would, I reached out and snagged the bracelet. Then, careful not to set off alarms, I hauled myself up and made for the Taurus.

Slidell watched my performance without comment. Apparently I’d crossed the line from amusing to pitiable.

I got in and slammed the door.

“Where to?”

“The ME office.” Snapping the bracelet onto my wrist.

“Happy to swing by your crib.”

“My house key is in my purse. In my car.”

“Shoe store?”

“No, thank you.” Curt.

“No problemo. I’m headed back there anyway.”

I could have asked why. Instead I sat facing the side window, attention focused on blocking the olfactory record of Slidell’s passion for the deep-fried and overgreased. Of coffee supporting white colonies of mold. Of sweaty sneakers and oil-stained caps. Of stale smoke. Of Skinny himself.

But I wasn’t exactly aromatic either.

Slidell exited the deck, kinked over to East Trade, and hung a left.

Several minutes passed in silence. Then, “Who snuffed Fluffy, eh?”

I had no idea what that meant.

“Who popped the pooch?”

Great. Slidell knew about my mummy bundles. More grist for the comedy mill.

“Who capped the—”

“I’ve been asked to examine four sets of remains to verify that they are nonhuman. Should that be the case, archaeologists will date, authenticate, and send the materials on to . . . somewhere.”

“Why’s this litter of dead Chihuahuas—”

“The bundles are from Peru, not Mexico.”

“Yeah, sure. So, how come these pooches get the ME treatment?”

“Customs officials snagged them at the airport. Some bonehead’s been accused of smuggling them into the country. The illegal import of antiquities is a crime, you know.”

“Ee-yuh.” We rode a few more moments without talking. Then, “Ol’ Dom Rockett got lassoed by the feds.”

Though curious, I waited, knowing Slidell would expound.

“Dom Rockett, king of folksy shit from around the world.”

“The whole world?” I couldn’t help myself.

“South America, mostly. Our amigos down there got enough shit for the world.”

Slidell is definitely fair-trade offensive.

“Junk bracelets, rings, crap to loop around your neck. Llama-mama shawls, wall hangings. Fleas from overseas.”

“You’re a poet, detective.”

“Word is ICE thinks Rockett’s expanding his horizons, maybe branching out to include real antiques.” Slidell was referring to the
U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement. “Unreported ones.”

I said nothing.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. The guy’s pond scum.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. Scum knows scum.”

I didn’t ask what that meant.

“Can you turn up the air?”

“Feet won’t get cold?” Deadpan.

I shot Slidell a don’t-go-there look. Which was pointless, since the Ray-Bans were fixed on the road.

Slidell reached out and flipped a button, then hammered the dash with the heel of one hand. A blue light flickered and tepid air oozed from the vents.

“If what you say is true, Rockett might have thought he could sell the mummy bundles to a museum,” I said. “Maybe a private collector.”

“I’m sure ICE will be querying his ambitions. Turd will roll on whoever he’s dealing with.”

Past I-77, West Trade swung west, then cut east again. Slidell took the curve fast, shooting paper bags and carry-out cartons across the floor in back. My mind threw up images of foodstuffs long gone. Fried chicken? Barbecue? Scavenged roadkill?

Finally, curiosity won out.

“What were you up to with Larabee?” I asked.

“Hit and run came in this morning. Female. No ID.”

“Age?”

“Old enough.”

“Meaning?” Sharper than I’d intended.

“Mid to late teens.”

“Race?”

“Wetback. You can take that to the bank.”

“No name, but magically you
know
the girl’s Latina, and therefore undocumented?”

“She’s moving with no ID and no keys.”

Rather like I was, I thought, but didn’t say it.

Seconds passed.

“Where was she found?” I asked.

“Intersection of Rountree and Old Pineville roads, just south of Woodlawn. Doc Larabee’s putting time of death somewhere between midnight and dawn.”

“What was she doing out there?” Mulling aloud.

“What d’you think?”

I was thinking Old Pineville was one deserted stretch in daytime, let alone in the middle of the night. There was a smattering of small businesses, but none that would attract a teenage girl.

“Any witnesses?”

Slidell shook his head. “I’ll do some canvassing once I’m done with Doc Larabee. My guess, she was out working.”

“Really.”

Slidell shrugged one beefy shoulder.

“Unidentified teenage girl, that’s what you know. But you’ve got her down as an illegal turning tricks. That speed detecting?”

He mumbled something.

I blocked him out. After years of practice, I’ve gotten better at it.

My gray cells offered a collage of images. A young girl alone in the dark on an empty two-lane. Headlights. The impact of a bumper.

“—Story?”

“What?”

“Do you remember John-Henry Story?”

The change of topic confused me. “The fire death last April?”

Six months back I’d examined fragmentary remains found in the aftermath of a flea market explosion and fire. I’d determined the victim was white, male, forty-five to sixty years of age. The bio profile fit John-Henry Story, the owner of the property. Story had told witnesses he was going to that location and had not been heard from thereafter. Personal items were found with the bones. A cell phone? Wallet? Watch? I couldn’t remember details.

Though the ID was circumstantial, the ME had decided it was enough. Arson investigators had probed and tested, but the barn was so old, the destruction so total, an exact cause for the blaze was never determined.

Story’s death had been big news. Prominent businessman burned to death in a building with inadequate alarm and sprinkler systems. The media had jumped on the issue of public safety at under-regulated
markets and gun shows. Eventually the press turned to something else, the furor fizzled, and Story’s flea market reopened elsewhere.

“Ee-yuh.” Skinny’s favorite utterance. It drove me nuts.

For years the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner was located at Tenth and College, in a redbrick box that was once a Sears Garden Center. For years the city fathers had talked of relocation. For years nothing had happened. Then, miraculously, the plan moved forward.

At a cost of eight million smackers, a replacement facility was built on government land in an industrial area northwest of uptown. Boasting seventeen thousand square feet, the new building is four times the size of the old. Epoxy floors, Corian walls, miles of stainless steel. Instead of only two, pathologists can now perform four simultaneous autopsies. The new setup includes a pair of rooms for analyses requiring special handling due to decomposition or potential contamination.

The stinkers. My kind of cases.

And the spanking-new building is conscientiously green. Sophisticated energy recovery systems. HVAC with air ducts up to forty inches wide. Though all the action takes place on the first floor, parts of the building had to be two stories to accommodate it all.

Yet the atmosphere is reasonably peaceful. The office and public areas are done in soft blues and earth tones. The windows are large and solar shades and light shelves maximize daylight intake and minimize glare.

In other words, our new digs are the bomb.

I waited as Slidell pulled through the black security fence, circled the flagpoles, and slipped into a parking spot. Killing the engine, he threw an arm over the seatback and a wave of odor my way. Then he shifted to face me.

“John-Henry Story had holdings all over Mecklenburg and Gaston counties. Story Motors. Story Storage—”

Store your stuff with Story
. The slogan popped into my brain unbidden. It had been an annoying but effective ad campaign.

“—John-Henry’s Tavern. The list is longer than my coon dog’s tail.”

“You have a dog?”

“You want to hear this?”

“Story’s death was ruled accidental. Why are you bringing him up now?”

Slidell fixed me with a dramatic stare while reaching inside his jacket. Which was mustard and brown. With one deft move he pulled a Ziploc from the pocket of his shirt. Which was a shade of orange probably called melon.

Forcing my eyes not to roll, I leaned sideways to examine the contents of the baggie.

And felt my brows lift in surprise.

S
UN GLINTED OFF THE PLASTIC
dangling between Slidell’s thumb and forefinger.

I waited for his explanation.

“Vic had a purse. Screeching pink, size of a burger, hooker strap.”

“I carry a shoulder bag.” Slidell’s sarcasm was, as usual, turning me surly. As was his jump to the conclusion that the hit-and-run victim was a prostitute.

“Hot pink? Shaped like a freakin’ cartoon cat?”

“You’re sure it was hers?”

“Thing was lying in the weeds, three yards from the body. Hadn’t been there long. We’re checking for prints. But, yeah, I’m sure it’s hers.”

“This was in the purse?” I indicated the object enclosed in the Ziploc.

“Along with one tube of come-fuck-me red lipstick.”

“Cash?”

“A ten and two ones. Forty-six cents. Loose. Like she just jammed it in.”

“Anything else?”

“Nada . . . except—” He waggled the baggie. The Amazing Slidell, Magician of Mecklenburg.

I took the bag and studied the plastic rectangle inside, certain I’d misread the tiny black letters on its surface.

I hadn’t.

“What the flip?”

“Thought it might interest you.”

The yellow-and-brown US Airways club card had an expiration date of February of the upcoming year. The account was in the name of John-Henry Story.

“She had John-Henry Story’s airline club pass?”

Slidell nodded.

“How?”

“Insightful question, doc. And here’s another. Story crisped six months back. Where’s his plastic been in the meantime?”

This wasn’t making sense.

“What we got here is Story dies, but his card lives on. Or goes into suspended animation,” Slidell said. “I checked. Last time he used the lounge was six weeks before the fire.”

“Where was he going?”

“I’m working on that.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“One guest.”

“The girl?”

“They don’t enter that information.”

Slidell drew another Ziploc from his pocket. “And this was also in her purse.”

I examined the slip of paper through the plastic. On it was scribbled:
Las clases de Inglés. Saint Vincent de Paul Catholic Church
.

I looked at Slidell. He looked at me and shrugged.

I moved to gather my belongings before exiting the Taurus, but, of course, I had no belongings. No shoes, no purse, no house or car keys, no phone, no cash, no cards.

Another time I could have called Katy for the spare key she keeps for my place.

Oh, God. Katy
.

“Listen, thanks for swinging by for me. I—”

“—owe me one? Don’t worry about it now.”

Now?
Great.

I hiked up my pants, eased from the Taurus, and hurried to the vestibule door. Stepping up onto the smooth concrete floor was as
close to pleasure as I’d come all day. I paused a moment, taking relief from the cooling stone.

Waiting in my office were scrubs and sensible shoes. Soon I’d be reasonably presentable.

As with Slidell, my appearance wouldn’t shock so much as amuse those inside. I’d arrived looking, and smelling, worse.

Except for Mrs. Flowers. She would signal disapproval by the briefest narrowing of the eyes, by a flurry of rearrangement of her already meticulously ordered desk.

I nodded at Mrs. Flowers through the reception window. After buzzing me in, she motioned me over with a finger waggle.

Though Mrs. Flowers has a first name—Eunice—to my knowledge she’s never been addressed as anything other than Mrs. Flowers. The name so suits her I’ve wondered at times what she’d be called if she’d married a suitor named Smith or Gaspard. She is a peony of a woman, full-bodied, with pale pink skin that must have seen pampering since the stroller. The perfect complexion’s one flaw? Mrs. Flowers colors in the presence of the opposite gender.

Blusher or not, Mrs. Flowers has the skill and motivation to keep every document filed and accessible, every report typed, proofed, and delivered promptly, all while answering the phone and triaging members of the public who show up at her window. Given a staff of three pathologists, numerous death investigators, the occasional specialty consultant, and myself, it’s quite a feat.