by Kathy Reichs
“Yes.”
And I was excused.
Ignoring my protesting pedal digits, I hobble-bolted from the courtroom, across the lobby, and out the double glass doors. My Mazda was at the farthest corner of the parking deck. Arriving ten minutes past the eight A.M. hour demanded on the summons, I’d grabbed the first space I could find, halfway to Kansas.
After a fast limp across a traffic lane, I rounded a row of vehicles and found my car closely flanked by a humongous SUV on the driver’s side and even more closely wedged on the passenger side. Sweat glands pumping, I wriggled between the two sets of handles and rearview mirrors, butt and chest skimming the grimy doors and side panels squeezing my torso. My classy tan linen now looked like I’d taken a roll in a landfill.
As I wedged the door open and squeezed behind the wheel, something clinked at my feet. A sensible citizen—that is, a citizen in sensible footwear—would have stopped to identify whatever automotive adornment had been dislodged. I focused on my escape, fingers searching for keys in the zipper pouch of my purse.
Feet aflame, I jammed the keys into the ignition and bent sideways to tug at my right shoe. The thing gripped as though grafted onto my flesh.
I tugged harder.
My foot exploded from its casing. With much twisting and maneuvering, I repeated the process on the left.
Settling against the seatback, I eyeballed a pair of spectacular blisters. Then the hated Louboutins in my hand.
My hand.
My wrist.
My bare wrist!
Katy.
A familiar stab of fear pierced my chest.
I pushed it away.
Focus. The bracelet had been in place in the jury lounge, in the jury box.
The clink. The little silver band must have caught on something during my slither along the SUV.
Cursing, I squeezed back out and slammed the car door.
The human brain is a switching station that operates on two levels. As a reflex order fired to my hand, a neural connection was already taking place in my cerebellum. Before the door hit home, I knew I was screwed. Pointlessly, I tried the handle, then checked the position of all four lock buttons.
Cursing even more colorfully, I reached for my purse. Which was lying on the passenger seat.
Shit.
And the keys? Dangling from the ignition.
I stood a moment, pant cuffs waterfalling over my bare feet, suit streaked with dirt, underarms soggy with sweat. And wondered.
Could this day get any worse?
A muted voice floated from inside the car. Andy Grammer singing “Keep Your Head Up,” announcing an incoming call on my iPhone. I almost laughed. Almost.
I’d told my boss, Tim Larabee, that I’d be at the lab before noon. In the jury lounge, I’d phoned to update my ETA to 1:00 P.M. My watch now said 2:00. Larabee would be wondering about the mummified remains awaiting my evaluation.
Maybe it wasn’t Larabee.
Hell. So now what? There was no one I wanted to tell I was standing shoeless on a parking deck, locked out of my car.
But you gotta keep your head up …
Right.
I scanned the lot. Full of vehicles. Devoid of people.
Break the car window? With what? Frustrated, I glared at the glass. It countered with an image of an angry woman with really bad hair. Clever.
But it was. My eyes took in the glass that no longer snugged tight to the frame. A worn or missing tooth in the window regulator, Jimmy, my mechanic, had said. Dangerous. Enough gap for some kid to drop a wire and be halfway to Georgia before you realize your car’s been boosted.
Seriously? I’d said. A ten-year-old Mazda?
Parts, he’d said solemnly.
Was a coat hanger too much to ask? I scanned the detritus collected where the deck’s pavement met its back wall. Pebbles, cellophane wrappers, aluminum cans. Nothing likely to get me into the car.
I moved along the wall, gingerly positioning my feet. Though the blisters now looked like patches of ground beef, I soldiered on, cuffs dragging on the filthy concrete.
Mummified bones at the lab growing older by the minute.
Given all the delays, I’d be at the ME office until well into the evening. Then home to a cranky cat. Microwaving whatever was left in the freezer.
But you gotta keep your …
Can it.
Then I spotted a glint in the debris two yards ahead. Hopeful, I inched toward it.
My prize was a two-foot segment of wire, perhaps once part of a jerry-rigged arrangement such as the one I envisioned.
After a fast hobble back to the Mazda, I created a small loop at one end and fed the wire through Jimmy’s gap.
Working two-handed, face flat to the window, I tried to drop the loop over the button. Each time the gizmo seemed well positioned, I pulled up sharply.
I was on my zillionth loop-and-yank when a voice boomed at my back.
“Step away from the vehicle.”
Shit.
Clutching the wire firmly in one hand, I turned.
A uniformed parking attendant stood three yards from me, feet spread, palms up and pointed my way. His expression was one of nervous excitement.
I smiled what I hoped was a disarming smile. Or at least calming.
The attendant did not smile back.
“Step away from the vehicle.” The guy’s hair was blond, his face flushed a shade of red just a tick down from that of my blisters. I guessed his age at maybe eighteen.
I beamed a “silly me” charmer. “I’ve locked myself out of my car.”
“I’ll need to see ID and registration.”
“My purse is inside. The keys are in the ignition.”
“Step away from the vehicle.”
“If I can manage to catch the lock I can show you—”
“Step away from the vehicle.” Blondie had quite the repertoire.
I did as ordered, still holding on to the wire. Blondie gestured me further back.
Eyes rolling, I increased the distance. Let go. The wire slid inside onto the car seat.
Irritation overcame my resolve to be pleasant.
“Look, it’s my car. I’ve just left jury duty. My registration and license are inside. I need to get to work. At the medical examiner’s office.”
If I hoped the last reference would do it, I was wrong. Blondie’s expression said dirty barefoot woman with burglary tool. Dangerous?
“Call the ME office,” I snapped.
A beat. Then, “Wait here.”
Like I was a flight risk with no shoes and no wheels.
Blondie hurried off.
I leaned against the Mazda, fuming, shifting from damaged foot to damaged foot, alternating between checking my watch and scanning the pavement for my bracelet. I began to pace the parking lot. Finally I heard the sound of an engine.
Seconds later, a white Ford Taurus rolled up the ramp.
Could this day get any worse?
It just had.
PULLING CLOSE, ERSKINE “skinny” slidell removed his knock-off Ray-Bans, lowered his window, and eyed my flopping pant legs, devastated feet, and disheveled hair. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Though the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit has more than two dozen detectives, somehow I always end up with Skinny. And the pairing is always a test of my fortitude.
It’s not that Slidell’s a bad investigator. Quite the opposite. But Skinny views himself as “old-school.” In his mind that means Dirty Harry Callahan, Popeye Doyle, and Sergeant Friday. I’ve seen Slidell question witnesses. Always expect “just the facts, ma’am.” But Skinny’s not a “sir” and “ma’am” kind of guy.
Several years back, Slidell’s partner, Eddie Rinaldi, was killed in a sidewalk shoot-out. No one blamed Slidell. Except Slidell. Thinking Skinny could use some diversity awareness, the department partnered him with a Latina lesbian named Theresa Madrid. To the surprise of all, the two got along.
Recen
tly, Madrid and her partner had adopted a Korean infant, and Madrid had taken maternity leave. Slidell was temporarily working solo. Which he liked.
“Whoo-hee.” The dolt actually said that.
“Detective—”
“You piss someone off?”
Later I might have chuckled about this episode. At that moment, I saw nothing but lousy choices. Argue with the parking twerp. Hike to a phone, then wait for AAA. Deal with Slidell.
“How did you know I was here?” Cool.
“I was with Doc Larabee when he got a call.” Slidell leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. “Get in.”
Drawing a lungful of fresh air, I slid into the seat.
“Lord in heaven, doc. Don’t know I’ve seen anyone that ratty in years.”
“You should get out more.”
“What the hell were you—”
“Mud wrestling. Pull over there.” I pointed to where my car was.
“Hate to see the other guy.”
“I’ll post a video on YouTube.” I jabbed an impatient finger in the direction of the big SUV.
Slidell proceeded as directed.
“Stop!” My hand came up. “No, up behind that van.”
“I know what happened. Some dude tuned you up for trying to boost his car.”
“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.”
