Bones of the Lost (30 page)

I pulled the mug shots of Creach and Majerick from my purse. Rosalie studied them, slowly shaking her head.

“The hat. And—” She mimed pulling up a collar. “And he no look into my eyes.” She shrugged. “No face.”

Great. A medium-size guy in a hat. Slidell would love that description.

“Did the man and the girls come by car?”

“Walking.”

“Did you see where they went?”

Rosalie nodded. “After they leave I watch. From window.”

With another quick glance toward the kitchen, she came around the counter, pushed open the door, and pointed to a storefront half a block up on the opposite side of the street.

“There. They walk there.”

“What is it?”

She struggled, then,
“Sala de masaje.”

I had to think about that. Seeing my noncomprehension, Rosalie pantomimed rubbing her neck and shoulders.

“Massage parlor?”

“Yes.” Her lips went thin. “Only men. Men go in, men come out. No women. But girls.”

“The one with the pink barrette.”

“Sí.”
She let the door swing shut, returned to the counter, and held out a hand. I gave her a twenty.

“May I ask one more question?”

She looked at me.

“Did you give the girl with the barrette a note about St. Vincent de Paul Church?”

“
Sí.
I think maybe these girls don’t talk because they have no English.” She shrugged. “Maybe, I think, they talk to Jesus.”

“That was very kind.”

“They don’t say
gracias.
They don’t say nothing.”

She handed me change, slammed the register drawer, and drew in a breath. I sensed she had something further to say.

“I think those girls is scared. Then one is dead. I have to—” A hand rose to the heart-shaped splotch of brown at her throat. “I call you. Something is bad. Something is wrong.”

“You did the right thing, Rosalie. Detective Slidell and I will find out who this poor girl is. Because of you she will go home to her family. And we will discover who hurt her. If other girls are being hurt, we will help them, too.”

The door whipped open and two kids slouched through. Each wore an athletic jersey and jeans large enough for a party of four.

“Está abierto?”

“Sí.”
To me. “I go now.”

“You have my number. Please call if you remember anything else or if you see the man in the hat again.” I collected the printouts. “Or either of these two men.”

Outside, Slidell was leaning against the Taurus.

“This better be good.” He yanked open the door and slid behind the wheel.

“Drive past that building.” I pointed to the massage parlor, then relayed what Rosalie had said about it.

“So the kid
was
turning tricks.”

Was that it? Had Rosalie observed a meal shared by working girls and their pimp? I hated to admit it, but Slidell’s theory was starting to have legs.

The massage parlor stood between a tattoo shop and a liquor store. Like its neighbors, the building was dirty-white brick with a glass door and large front window. Unlike its neighbors, every inch of glass was curtained. A small sign identified the place as the Passion Fruit Club.

Slidell and I observed in silence. No one entered or left any of the businesses.

After ten minutes, I said, “We should check the place out.”

“Because a waitress disliked the look of the clientele?”

“She did see our Jane Doe enter the place.” Testy.

Skinny didn’t favor that with a reply.

Slidell was right. Still, it peeved me.

We watched another five minutes, then, without asking, Slidell put the car in gear and turned toward Griffin.

As we drove, I briefed him on everything I’d learned from D’Ostillo.

I’d barely finished when a phrase she’d used triggered a cerebral chain.

No face.

A hat pulled low and a collar raised high.

Who would hide their features?

A person with a disfigured face?

A vet with a disfigured face?

A vet involved in smuggling?

Dom Rockett?

Why would Rockett be in a taquería with a group of young girls?

One of whom now lay dead in our cooler.

I
T WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN
Slidell dropped me back at the MCME. My ankle was kicking up, so at five I gathered what correspondence I hadn’t gotten through along with my copies of the files on Creach and Majerick and headed home.

Pleasant surprise. Pete had returned Birdie. The cat met me at the door, wound my legs, then positioned himself for the stare-down bit.

Though it was early, I fed him. What the hell? I hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks.

I watched the cat eat, then we both went to the study for some quality time on the sofa. I rubbed his ears. He purred. I scratched the base of his spine. He raised his tail and arched his back in approval.

My eyelids grew heavy. I yawned. Swung my feet up and laid my head on the armrest. The cat curled on my chest.

The landline rang. Softly. Too softly.

I rose and got the handset from the desk. Not seated squarely in its charger, the thing was dead.

Cursing, I positioned it properly, trudged up to the bedroom, and brought that handset down. The little screen identified the caller as Pete. Certain he’d try again, I lay back down. Birdie recurled on my chest.

Moments later the ring came again, this time at full volume.

“Mm.”

“Welcome home, sugarbritches.”

“What do you need?” Groggy. And fighting pulmonary compression caused by fifteen pounds of cat.

“Well, that’s a fine thank-you.”

“Thank you.”

“You are graciously welcome.”

“I mean it, Pete. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. The little guy’s not bad company.”

“Mm.”

“Are you napping, princess?”

“Jet lag.”

“You claim to never get jet lag.”

“I never get jet lag.”

“Here’s something to snap you awake. I just had a call from Hunter Gross. The Article 32 investigating officer has recommended that charges be dropped.”

“That’s great.” Yawning.

“Did you hear what I said? John Gross is going to be cleared.”

“I figured the hearing would go his way.”

“You don’t exactly sound over the moon.”

“I’m happy for him.”

“Of course, his career’s probably in the toilet.”

“Really?”

“Hell, what do I know?”

“Gross is one squared-away guy,” I said.

“Imagine the stress he was feeling.”

Pete was right. On two levels. Yes, I wasn’t exactly over the moon. Somehow Gross had rubbed me wrong. Too cocky. Too tightly wound. And, yes, the pressure must have been dreadful. Especially for someone with his psychological makeup.

“Glad I could do my part,” I said.

“You know you’re famous.”

“What?” That got me upright. To Birdie’s annoyance.

“Google your name and
Stars and Stripes
.”

“The military newspaper?”

“No. Old Glory.”

I put Pete on speaker and set the handset on the cushion. Then I dug out and booted my laptop, followed his suggestion, and clicked on the link that came up.

FORENSIC EXPERT TESTIFIES ON BEHALF OF ACCUSED MARINE

The whole story was there. My name, as promised.

Dr. Temperance Brennan, working with NCIS, traveled to Afghanistan and performed dual exhumations and provided key testimony at the Article 32 hearing at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina . . .

I read no further. Two press mentions in a week. So much for keeping a low profile.

I snapped the computer shut.

“Hello-o.”

I snatched up the phone. “Is Gross’s attorney responsible for this?”

“Weren’t journalists present at the hearing?”

“Could have been. There were a couple of spectators.” Petulant.

“Come on. You saved the guy’s ass. Enjoy the glory.”

I rolled my eyes. Wasted, since Pete couldn’t see me.

A few beats, then, “Did you leave a PC on my desk?”

“I did. It’s acting sluggish, so I’m running a virus check.”

“Have you considered the fact that the thing’s an antique?”

“I only use it for personal e-mail. All my files are on the firm’s system.”

“Go crazy, Pete. Buy a new one.”

“Maybe.”

“Why here? Why can’t you run your virus check at home?”

“Summer has every outlet tied up.”

“What? She cooking meth?” That image brought a smile to my lips.

“She’s charging some kind of weird little lights for the wedding reception. Must be a billion.”

“Did you hang out at my place while I was gone?”

“I may have watched a little football.”

“Thanks for the provisions.”

“My pleasure, buttercup.”

“How old is the lasagna?”

“Purchased yesterday. Get some shut-eye. You sound like you need it.”

When we disconnected, I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Katy. Nothing from Ryan.

“Of course not.” Louder than I’d intended.

Bird raised his head from his paws but said nothing.

The icon on my junk-mail folder showed seventy-four items. I deleted them one by one, expelling pent-up frustration with each irritated jab.

Until a subject line stopped my finger in midair.

You’ll die, too, fucking slut.

What caused me to pause? Not the expletives. I’d just deleted several at least as obscene. Die? Die, too?

Ignoring the warning voice in my head, I opened the thing.

Blank.

I checked the delivery date. Yesterday. The
Stars and Stripes
piece had also been posted yesterday.

The e-mail’s sender was [email protected].

A political group? A crackpot? A kid with too much Web access and too little parental supervision?

Or was it personal? A threat specifically meant for me?

I had messages from several accounts routed into one central mail program. The e-mail had come through the ME system, not through my personal Gmail account. The address was easily obtainable. It was on my business cards. Hell, I’d posted it on flyers up and down Old Pineville Road and South Boulevard.

Was citizenjustice a disgruntled ex-con? Someone who’d served time because of my testimony? The reverse? A friend or family member unhappy that my findings had contributed to an acquittal? To loss of monetary recovery in a civil suit?

I racked my brain for other possibilities.

A student unhappy with a grade? A neighbor who doesn’t like my cat? A psycho stranger I’d passed on the street?

I stared at the crude message. Tell Slidell? Screw it. I didn’t need his skepticism. Or, worse, his paternalistic hovering.

It was probably nothing.

I closed the computer, ate the lasagna, took an aspirin for my ankle, and crawled into bed.

Sleep dropped like a curtain at the end of a play.

•  •  •

Sheee-chunk!

My lids flew up.

I listened, unsure if I’d dreamed or actually heard the sound.

Sheee-chunk!

The noise was definitely real. And inside the house.

My pulse kicked into high.

I blinked, urging my eyes to adjust. Held my breath.

I searched the room, alert to the slightest movement. Saw nothing but shadows. Heard only stillness.

The bedside clock read 2:38.

Sheee-chunk!

My pulse jackhammered harder.

The noise was coming from downstairs, a sound like a typewriter carriage slamming home.

I reached for the phone. Damn! I’d left the portable in the study, my iPhone in my purse.

I eased from bed and crept to the door, careful to avoid boards I knew would creak.

Breath suspended, I listened.

No stealthy footsteps. No whisper of fabric brushing a wall. No movement at all.

Something feathery touched my bare calf. I flinched and inhaled sharply. Looked down.

Two round eyes gleamed in the darkness.

I gestured at the cat with a downturned palm. Stay. He slipped through the door as the sound fired again.

Sheee-chunk!

A phrase flashed in my mind. Printed words.

You’ll die, too, fucking slut.

Adrenaline shot through my body.

I glanced over my shoulder, searching the room for something to use as a weapon.

The troll from Norway? The LSJML mug? The MacKenzie-Childs vase?

I settled on the bronze of two monkeys holding hands. Heavy. Sharp.

Sculpture clutched in one hand, I inched into the hall. In the dimness, the wall mirror provided a ghostly view of the stairs.

No figure crouched below, knife or gun at the ready.

Birdie was poised on the first riser. Hearing me approach, he rose and started gliding down.

Sheee-chunk!

The cat froze. His tail flicked. Then he shot back up and disappeared into the bathroom.

Barely breathing, I took the treads one by one. My ankle floated little warning twinges.

At the bottom, I stopped to listen again.

Sheee-chunk!