Bones of the Lost

by Kathy Reichs

  Oh, yeah. Rattus rattus.

  Story was beside a woman in a sparkly green halter creating va-va-voom cleavage. Both were raising champagne flutes. She was smiling. He was not.

  A blond kid sat one barstool down from the woman, leaning at an angle that suggested at least twenty beers. The date embroidered on his varsity jacket was two years back.

  Pumped, I burrowed through more stratigraphy.

  Pay dirt.

  I knew the terrible price of war. I’d seen images of veterans in full dress uniform, heads high, ravaged faces proud. Speaking at rallies. Arm in arm with their beautiful brides.

  I’d been told Dominick Rockett’s burns were severe. Still, I was unprepared.

  On the left, Rockett’s brows and lashes were gone, and his forehead hung bulbous over a lidless orbit. His lips were bloated and skewed, and his nostril melted into a cheek the consistency of congealed oatmeal.

  On the right, save for hair loss and an unnatural smoothing of the skin, his face appeared normal. A knitted tuque was pulled low on his forehead.

  I felt pity as I viewed the destruction. The image in the mirror every morning of Rockett’s life. In his mind when a stranger looked away. When a child stared or screamed in fear.

  Dear God. What a price.

  My eyes moved from Rockett to the other man sharing his table. Wiry, with gaunt cheeks and small rodent eyes.

  Casting a quick glance behind me, I thumbed the second snapshot from the board and slipped both into my purse. Then I crossed back to the bar.

  Slidell had released Poland but was still grilling him. The beer drinkers and Boob woman remained focused on their beverages.

  “—telling you, man, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know much, do you, asshat.”

  After a round of my not so subtle throat-clearing, Slidell graced me with a glance. I tipped my head toward the door.

  Slidell frowned, then hit Poland with two more questions. Got more nothing, but the point was made. Dirty Harry was in charge.

  Slapping a card on the bar, Slidell gave the usual instruction about phoning. Then we left.

  Back in the Taurus, I pulled out the purloined pictures and identified the players. Slidell studied the faces without comment. Which surprised me.

  “So Story and Rockett are drinking buddies,” he finally said.

  “I don’t know about that. But this proves they’re acquainted.”

  “What say we poke at that?”

  “Oh, yeah. But remember. Dew doesn’t want Rockett spooked.”

  “Right.”

  We were rolling before my seat belt clicked home.

  ROCKETT LIVED OFF highway 51 in one of charlotte’s far southwestern tentacles. During the first half of the drive, Slidell briefed me on what he’d learned from Poland. Which was practically zip.

  After some prodding, the bartender admitted he’d seen the tavern’s owner a few times. Said Story hadn’t been a drinker, hadn’t been interested in getting to know his employees.

  Poland had the impression Story usually came with men, and that the visits had been more business than pleasure. Wasn’t sure, since Story hadn’t been a smiley guy.

  Poland hadn’t a clue who’d started the photo gallery. Or maintained it. Said the collection traced to well before his tenure.

  “Apparently Story and Rockett weren’t all that concerned with discretion.” Throughout the trip, I’d been wondering what that implied.

  Slidell turned to me, a Chiclet halfway from his palm to his mouth.

  “Meaning?”

  “Why allow their picture to be posted on that board?”

  “Dumb shits probably didn’t know.”

  Maybe.

  Thirty minutes after leaving South End, Slidell hooked a left past a sign announcing LES FLEURS. Pretentious, I know. But Charlotteans like their neighborhoods christened.

  Houses in Les Fleurs were mostly ranches and split-levels dating to the sixties and seventies. Most had meager square footage, detached garages, and some variation on the theme of pastel siding.

  The streets were curving, tree-lined, and named after flowers. As Slidell wound from Marigold to Poppy to Rockett’s address on Azalea Court, I noted that every backyard was fenced, every front lawn mowed and edged. Here and there a bike or scooter lay abandoned on a walkway or propped against a staircase, porch, or foundation.

  It was a hood that made you think of kids, dogs, and retirees. What did Harry call houses like these? Starter-ender homes.

  Slidell pulled to the curb in a cul-de-sac shaded by two magnolias and a towering pine. Behind each magnolia was a ranch, one salmon, one green. Below and behind the pine was a brown two-story that New Englanders would call a saltbox.

  “Anything strike you weird about this place?” Slidell had looped the court to park facing out, and was scanning the street we’d just driven down. His jaw was working double time. The gum was making wet popping sounds.

  I followed Slidell’s sight line. Saw nothing but closed doors, blank windows, and a lot of azalea bushes, none in bloom.

  “Looks pretty quiet.”

  “Damn quiet.”

  “We’re on a cul-de-sac in the burbs on a rainy Thursday afternoon.”

  “La-dee-da. Cool-day-sac.” Slidell freed his belt. “Guy lives on a freakin’ dead end.”

  Flashbulb image. The face in my purse.

  I felt a wave of pity, followed by unease. Would Rockett be as disfigured as the snapshot suggested? Was that why he lived on a “freakin’ dead end”?

  “Rockett’s place isn’t flashy.”

  “Squirrel’s either a piss-poor smuggler or one cagey sonofabitch.”

  “Did you check how long he’s lived here?”

  “Deed’s been registered in his name since 1991.”

  “So he bought the property shortly after his retirement from the military. Mortgage?”

  “No.”

  “He could have saved up. Or inherited money.”

  Slidell worked a molar with a thumbnail, then resumed chewing. “Wonder what the neighbors think of his gardening skills.”

  He was right. Maybe it was the perpetual shadow cast by the pine. Maybe lack of interest. The emphatically green lawns to either side ended abruptly at the boundaries of Rockett’s patchwork of dirt and grass.

  “Let’s roll.”

  “Remember,” I warned. “Dew will be pissed if we goad Rockett into hiring an attorney.”

  “Ee-yuh.”

  I climbed from the Taurus and headed toward the house, raindrops gently cooling my face. I focused on the sensation to clear my head.

  Of pity for Rockett.

  Of thoughts of Katy and IEDs.

  The door, painted brown to match the siding, had a black wrought-iron knocker in the shape of a cannon. Slidell banged it. Banged again.

  In the distance, traffic hummed on Highway 51. No sound came from inside.

  Slidell was about to whack away a third time when a lock rattled. His body tensed as the door swung in.

  So did mine.

  It had not been a trick of unkind light. And the scarred flesh had experienced no rebirth or restoration since the photo had been taken.

  Though the day wasn’t cold, Rockett wore a black knit hat pulled low to the level his brows should have been. The fingers wrapping the doorjamb were waxy and pale and had no nails. Above the hand, the edge of a tattoo winked from the cuff of his long-sleeved tee.

  Rockett looked at Slidell, then at me, the left side of his face frozen, the right side crimped in a scowl.

  I forced my expression neutral.

  Slidell held up his badge. “Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD.”

  Rockett’s good eye flicked to the shield, returned to us.

  “What do you want?” Gravelly, but deep.

  Slidell hit him with the old saw about asking a few questions.

  “About what?”

  “You want we should do this in front of the neighbors?”

  “You
see any neighbors?”

  Slidell crossed his arms and spread his feet. “Or we could do it uptown.”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “Should I have a warrant?”

  “You tell me.”

  The two men locked eyeballs. Which were at about the same level. But Rockett’s neck was thick, his body all muscle. The definition under his tee spoke of hours in a gym.

  Mimicking his unwanted caller, Rockett crossed his arms and set his feet wide.

  A flush darkened Slidell’s face.

  “This really won’t take long.” I smiled, trying to defuse the macho standoff.

  “Who the hell are you?” Holding his gaze on Slidell.

  “Dr. Temperance Brennan. I—”

  “Lady works at the morgue.”

  Rockett’s right cheek may have twitched slightly at Slidell’s response. A beat. Then he inhaled through his good nostril, exhaled slowly. I thought he’d send us packing.

  “Ten minutes.” Rockett stepped back.

  Slidell spit his gum into the grass and entered. I followed, into a windowless foyer with checkerboard flooring, folding doors on the left, wall pegs on the right. A knitted cap hung from one, a black windbreaker from another.

  Rockett led us into a parlor with a picture window that was curtained against daylight. The room’s only illumination came from a flat-screen TV the size of a billboard. Sports highlights played soundlessly, bathing the room in jumpy, kaleidoscope patterns.

  A brown leather couch sat opposite the television. Flanking it were distressed wood-and-iron tables, maybe Restoration Hardware. Angled beside it was an elephantine recliner. The TV remote lay abandoned on one arm.

  The room’s back wall held shelving half-filled with equipment relating to the audio-visual setup. A ship in a bottle. A combo thermometer-barometer device. Photos, mostly of men in uniform. A framed patch. I recognized the Marine Corps anchor and eagle embroidered on a red circle at center. The words DESERT STORM arced above, and TASK FORCE RIPPER arced below.

  To either side of the shelving, lining the baseboard, were larger objects. A metal breastplate. A carved tusk. A painted ceramic vessel. A battle ax. Each artifact looked seriously old.

  I caught Slidell’s eye. He nodded. He’d noticed, too.

  Rockett gestured toward the sofa but remained standing. So did Slidell. So did I.

  “Clock’s running,” Rockett said to Slidell.

  “Save the attitude.”

  Rockett’s spine, rigid as a mast, went even straighter.

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Slidell.”

  “Fire away, Slidell.”

  “How ’bout we talk stolen dogs.”

  Something flickered in Rockett’s good eye. Surprise? Relief? He said nothing.

  Slidell waited.

  At length, Rockett snorted, a dry, wheezy sound like air through a filter.

  “You been talking to that fruit fly Dew?”

  Slidell neither confirmed nor denied.

  “You want me to react?” Rockett asked.

  “You want to react?”

  “Will it get you and Sister Wide Eyes out of here sooner?”

  “Might.”

  “Stolen is the wrong word,” Rockett said.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I bought the dogs from a farmer. Guy was so eager to sell he nearly peed his gauchos.”

  “ICE don’t look kindly on relic smuggling.”

  “I didn’t know they were old.”

  “That your hobby? Buying up mummified pets?”

  “Dew’s got no case.”

  I knew Slidell was leading Rockett, getting him to believe we were there because of illegal antiquities. Target lulled into overconfidence, Slidell would pounce.

  As the men spoke I glanced across a corridor into what the architect had probably intended to be the dining room. Instead of table, chairs, and buffet, the room held a bench press, weights, chin bar, punching bag, treadmill, and elliptical.

  “ICE thinks you’re dirty,” Slidell said.

  “They’ve got nothing.”

  “Yeah?” Slidell jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You get that shit at the Walmart?”

  “Everything I own is legal and documented. Someone wants to sell, I buy. Someone wants to buy, I sell.”

  “Could be that’s the case. But from now on, you hit a border, a latex glove goes right between your cheeks.”

  “I’ll say I’m a virgin, ask for gentle.”

  “You think you’re smarter than me?” Slidell’s tone indicated tightly controlled anger.

  “Donkey piss is smarter than you.”

  That’s when Slidell crossed the line.

  “You got all your tax ducks in a row, asshole? ’Cause Dew is fine-combing your 1040s, your bank accounts, your credit scores, every plumbing bill you ever paid.”

  Rockett simply glared. With a hair less confidence than before?

  “Screw with the IRS, you’re looking at hard time.” Slidell’s face was hard. “You know Dew’s wife is Peruvian? For him this is personal. And he’s got contacts down there. You skate this bust, and I ain’t putting money on those odds, you may want to think about shifting your base of operations. Maybe to Mars.”

  I doubted the wife story. And was certain Dew would disapprove. But I didn’t interrupt.

  “Every penny you ever earned, every dime you ever spent, Dew’s running his pencil down the columns. He’s calling your buyers, your suppliers, subpoenaing their records. Think Farmer Gaucho and his amigos will go to the slammer for you? Only question is how fast can they hablo to save their own asses.”

  Silence followed Slidell’s rant. Rockett finally broke it.

  “Why’s my customs beef a concern of the Charlotte PD?”

  “My turf, my call.”

  Rockett glanced at his watch, back at Slidell. “That it?”

  “No. That ain’t it. Tell me about your buddy, John-Henry Story.”

  “Don’t know him.” Rockett’s face remained carefully blank. But the fingers of his unscarred hand curled inward.

  “Lying to a police investigator will bring you serious grief.”

  What the hell? Slidell had already inflamed the situation. I pulled out the bar photos. Rockett glanced at them briefly, but offered no explanation.

  “Special Agent Dew is aware of your position in S&S Enterprises,” I said. “Of your association with John-Henry Story.”

  “No comment.” Through lips barely open.

  “You got any comment on how Story managed to torch himself?”

  Rockett offered no reply to Slidell’s question.

  “Here’s what Dew keeps wondering.” Rainbow fragments of light danced the contours of Slidell’s face. “Where’s a two-bit importer get the bucks to play with the big boys?”

  Still nothing.

  “Local businessman up in flames.” Slidell raised and lowered his palms, as though comparing objects for weight. “Two-bit importer with a shitload of cash.”

  “You saying I had something to do with Story’s death?” Behind Rockett, a referee raised his hands above his head. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  Seeing a possible crack in the smug self-control, I arrowed straight to the real purpose of our visit.

  “Two nights ago a young girl was killed in a hit and run near Old Pineville Road.”

  I pulled out one of my flyers. Rockett gave it another of his nanosecond glances.

  “The girl wasn’t killed on impact. She managed to crawl to the shoulder, where she died in pain some time later. Alone. Terrified.”

  “You’re telling me this because?” Rockett’s undamaged eye bore into mine.

  “The girl had something belonging to John-Henry Story in her purse.”

  “So?” Cold as ice.

  “Did Detective Slidell mention that he works homicide?”

  The distorted face changed in a way I couldn’t interpret. I dangled the flyer square in front of it.

/>   “You were acquainted with Story. This girl was acquainted with Story. Do you know who she is?”

  “Mary Fucking Poppins.”

  Anger burned in my chest. War hero or not, Rockett was repulsive.

  “One other thing. The ME found semen on the girl’s body. The samples are being tested for DNA.”

  Rockett shrugged. “Test away.”

  “The kid’s got Story’s plastic. Story’s your partner and drinking pal,” Slidell said, clearly sharing my disgust. “You’re connected, asshole. Who is she?”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Slidell didn’t budge.

  “Here’s one more fact, Mr. Rockett.” My tone was glacial. “Yesterday I received a tip. The caller claimed to know the hit-and-run-victim. Said the girl was scared.”

  “So?”

  “Something or someone frightened this child.” I waggled the flyer inches from Rockett’s nose. “I will find out what or who that was.”

  With an angry swipe, Rockett knocked the paper from my upraised hand. I retrieved it from the floor and placed it faceup on the table.

  “I will not stop until this girl is identified. Detective Slidell will not stop until her killer is caught. You lied to us about knowing Story. You must have had a reason to do so, and that ties you in.”

  “And remember, asshole.” Thrusting his face into Rockett’s, Slidell hiked his brows up, then down. “I’m fucking crazy.”

  Without another word we walked out and drove away.

  And that was it.

  For the next ten days I would learn nothing about the girl with the pink purse and barrette lying in the morgue cooler.

  PART TWO

  SATURDAY I WOKE with bed linens wrapping me like a constrictor. If I’d been thrashing in my dreams, I remembered nothing.

  Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

  I pulled the clock into bleary view. 8:45.

  When breakfast is late, my cat either chews my hair or rattles a silk plant I keep on the dresser. He’s good. Either ploy annoys me enough to get up.

  Weird that Bird hadn’t tortured me into consciousness. Too heavy-handed with the oatmeal and eggs?

  But I’d bought his favorite on my way home the previous night. Iams. He didn’t know I fed him the weight-control formula.

  I rose on one elbow and looked around.