by Kathy Reichs
“Yes, Dr. Brennan.”
“I got a call last Friday at one thirty-one P.M. It rolled to voicemail. Could you check the log to see if the number was recorded?”
After a few seconds, Mrs. Flowers read off a series of digits that began with 704, the local area code. I ran the number through a 411 reverse-lookup site, but got zip. No name, no address.
I was dialing Slidell when the man himself appeared at my door.
“Yo, doc.” Dropping heavily into the chair opposite my desk, feet out, ankles crossed.
“Detective.”
“How’s it hanging?”
“Did you get my messages?”
Slidell reached out, snatched my tester safety pin from the blotter, and began cleaning a thumbnail. The scritching sound grated like a mosquito whining in the night.
“Didn’t tangle with one of those mean-ass desert wolf spiders, did you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Big as golf balls.” Slidell stopped excavating to splay his fingers. “Legs spread, they’re big as dinner plates. And the little fuckers can jump. Guy told me—”
“Can we discuss my hit-and-run case?”
“Topping my dance card.”
“It is?”
“Found our MP.” More scritching.
“Cheryl Connelly.”
“Ee-yuh. Car went off West Arrowood into a pond in the Moody Lake Office Park. Water barely covered the roof.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I was. Though I was glad Slidell was now free to focus on my Jane Doe. “Did you get my messages?”
“Seventy-two by my count.”
“You received the DNA reports?”
“The many loves of Juanita Doe.”
“That statement is presumptive and offensive.”
Slidell raised a placating palm. “I’m just saying.”
I leaned down to rub my ankle, which, for some reason, had begun to throb.
“Hurt your foot over there?”
“I’m fine. What do you know about Creach and Majerick?”
Slidell drew two printouts from an inside jacket pocket and tossed them onto my desk. Then he slumped back and reengaged with the thumb.
I unfolded and laid the papers side by side.
Two faces stared up at me. Mug shots in black and white.
CC Creach had close-set eyes above a nose that had clearly taken more than one hit. His lips were thick and hung partially open. A patch of depigmentation trailed from his right temple to his cheek, a pale footprint in a background of dark, acne-pocked skin. Descriptors said Creach was African-American, seventy-four inches tall, one hundred and eighty-nine pounds.
Ray Earl Majerick stared straight into the lens, smug and self-assured. His curly hair, square jaw, and straight nose made him handsome in a nondescript sort of way. But there was a coldness in the pale eyes, a meanness not tempered by the cocky smirk. Descriptors said Majerick was white, seventy inches tall, one hundred and seventy-five pounds.
“You know them?” I asked.
“I know the type.”
“Meaning?”
Slidell leaned forward and jabbed a thumb at Creach. It was bleeding.
“In the way a rat catcher knows his rats. This guy, CJ—”
“CC.”
“CC, CJ, PJ, BJ, who gives a flying fuck? Creach is your standard low-life dealer. If the turd has two working brain cells, which I doubt, he can’t rub them together to form a thought. But he thinks he’s slick, which will make it easy to run him to ground.”
“Have you talked to his PO?”
“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. The address she had for Creach was a flophouse off Freedom Drive. She hadn’t seen him in several months.”
“Creach is on parole. Shouldn’t he report in regularly?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t follow up?”
Slidell shrugged.
“And she’d made no random house calls?”
“The lady said she was real overworked.”
Jesus.
“And the other guy?”
“Ray ‘Magic’ Majerick. Him I do know. Paranoid and mean as a snake, which makes for a dangerous combination.”
“What’s his history?”
“Considers himself a ladies’ man.” The scritching halted momentarily, resumed. “He’s a charmer, all right. Like Charlie Manson, or Al Bundy.”
“Ted.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Go on.”
“Majerick’s jacket’s as thick as a phone book. Starts out tame, but turns ugly real quick. Battery. Assault with a deadly, B and E.”
Slidell stopped to suck blood from his thumb.
“Could you stop that, please?”
Slidell rolled his eyes, but returned the pin to my desk.
“A few years back, Majerick busts into a home in Beverly Woods, slits the screen on a sliding glass door. Woman of the house is there alone, but gets lucky, manages to trip an alarm. We show up, Majerick’s got her hog-tied in the basement. Inside a gym bag we find rope, pliers, and enough knives to start a circus act.”
“Sounds like a torture kit.”
“Ee-yuh. Ole Magic had a nasty little party planned.”
“Why’s he not in jail?”
“Suit got him off on straight B and E.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Asshole argued that word on the street was the house had cash in a safe, said the items in Majerick’s kit were tools of the trade. Turned out there was a safe in a bedroom closet. The jury bought the story. Majerick served a nickel and walked.”
“I assume you’re looking for these two.” I gestured at the printouts.
“Issued BOLOs the minute I got the reports.” Slidell used the cop term for “be on the lookout.” “Checked LSAs, talked to the neighbors. Creach has a couple of sisters, but they knew nothing. Or wouldn’t give it up. Couldn’t find anyone who’d admit to knowing Majerick. These scumbags probably change addresses more often than I change shorts.”
I refused that image entry into my mind.
“So Creach and Majerick are both in the wind.”
“Yeah.” Slidell raised the thumb to his mouth. Saw my face. Dropped the hand to his lap. “But not for long.”
“We may have another lead.”
I hit speakerphone and played the woman’s message. As Slidell listened, I plucked a tissue and swept the bone-tester-turned-manicure-pin into the trash.
When the message ended, Slidell raised a questioning brow.
“I think it’s the same woman who called once before.”
“Think she’s legit?”
“I do.”
Slidell twirled a finger, directing me to play the voicemail again. I did.
When it ended, he said, “Sounds scared shitless.”
“Yes. Can you trace the number?” Sliding him the sequence of digits I’d jotted.
Slidell glanced at the paper, unclipped his mobile, and punched a series of buttons. A voice answered. Slidell asked for an extension. Waited. Another voice answered.
“Slidell here. I need a trace.” The voice said something. “No. I was hoping for next Thanksgiving.”
The voice gave a decidedly clipped reply.
“Yeah? I’ll see you get a medal.
“Moron,” Slidell mouthed to me. I felt sympathy for the person on the other end of the line.
A full minute passed before the voice sounded again.
Slidell gestured for a pen. I handed him one. He shoulder-cupped the mobile as he wrote.
“Mixcoat-all?”
The voice responded.
“Spell it.”
The voice did.
“I owe you one.”
The voice had already gone silent.
“Call came from a Mexican joint off Old Pineville Road. Taqueria Mixed Coat All.”
“Holy shit.”
“Ay, caramba.”
I was so jazzed I didn’t bother to correct his Spanish.
Old Pineville. The place my Jane Doe had died.
I yanked my purse from the drawer and shot to my feet.
“Up for a taco, detective?”
“Sí, señorita.”
TAQUERíA MIXCOATL WAS located on a grotty little spur coming off Griffin Road, a two-lane winding west from Old Pineville to dead end at the Charlotte Marriot Executive Park. The restaurant sat between a tattoo parlor and an auto-parts discounter. All three businesses had barred windows and grimy glass through which it was impossible to see.
Slidell swung into the lot and parked two doors down from the taquería. Only three other cars were present: a red Mini Cooper, a gray Lexus, and a jacked-up Chevy pickup with windows as dark as the glass in the shops.
“Mixed Coat All.” Slidell was shaking his head at the sign. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mixcoatl is the Aztec god of the hunt.”
The restaurant was small and smelled of grilled meat. Inside the entrance, to the right, was a board filled with flyers, announcements, and posters, all in Spanish. On the left was a cash register counter. The tables were wood, the chairs high-backed, carved, and painted primary colors.
At midafternoon the place was deserted. Slidell and I held a moment, then seated ourselves by the front window.
In seconds a woman stepped through beads strung from a doorjamb to block the view into the kitchen. She wore a getup that looked vaguely Mexican. Puffy-sleeved white cotton blouse. Brightly colored textile skirt.
“Buenos días,” I said.
“Sorry you must wait,” the woman replied.
“We’re in no hurry.” Big smile.
The woman handed us menus. They were laminated and featured pictures of standard Mexican fare.
“I know exactly what I want.” I aimed another friendly grin her way. “Chicken enchiladas verdes and a Jarritos lime soda.”
The woman nodded.
Slidell ordered a beef burrito and a Dr Pepper. One brow formed a comma as the woman clacked through the beads.
“Buenos días?”
“I wanted to get her talking.”
“Think she’s our gal?”
I gestured “Who knows?”
Thought a moment.
“The call came into my voicemail around one thirty. This place doesn’t look like a big operation.”
I scanned the restaurant, saw no landline or portable at the register.
“The phone must be in back.”
“Meaning employee access only.” Slidell got my meaning. Short list of possible callers.
Our food arrived quickly. Though I was friendly as hell, the woman ignored my attempts to engage her in conversation. In either language.
As she withdrew, I tried peering through the beads closing behind her. Caught a glimpse of an old man working the grill. His face looked bronzed by a thousand hours in the sun. A white apron looped his neck and was tied at the small of his back.
As we ate, my gaze drifted to the window, to the parking lot dimly visible on the far side. The Mini was gone, and the Lexus had been replaced by an SUV. The pickup hadn’t budged. From this angle I could see what looked like a silhouette behind the wheel.
“—by the tracks you’ve got the Bronco Club. Can’t tell me those ladies don’t do double duty.”
Slidell was still channeled on the idea that the hit-and-run victim was a hooker.
“There is no evidence the kid was turning tricks.”
“Yeah? How about bingo-bingo on the DNA?” Slidell took a slug of his soda, smacked the can down. “I don’t have all day. Let’s do this thing.”
Before I could stop him, he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop to summon the waitress. She appeared and crossed to us.
“How ’bout a check?”
The woman pulled a small tablet from her skirt pocket. As she totaled our bill, Slidell went straight for the kill.
“So, señorita. Made any interesting phone calls lately?”
The woman’s eyes rolled up. She looked at Slidell, at me, then placed the check on the table and hurried back to the kitchen.
“That was not smart,” I said.
“Yeah? Think she bolted because she ain’t the happy dialer?”
“I think she bolted because you frightened her.” Whispered, but angry. “Or she didn’t understand the question.”
“She understood.”
“If that’s true, I hope your haven’t freaked her so much she refuses to talk.” I snatched up the bill. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
I rose and walked to the cash register, hoping for the woman, not the old man. Once Slidell had left, she appeared.
“I apologize for my companion,” I said in Spanish.
The woman gazed at me across the barrier of the counter, brows tight to each other over her nose.
Instead of presenting the check, I withdrew a card from my purse and positioned it facing her.
The woman glanced down, then her eyes rose and held mine. And I knew. Slidell was right.
“I’m Dr. Brennan,” I said gently. “You phoned me last Friday.”
The dark eyes revealed nothing.
“You saw a girl’s picture in the paper. Perhaps on a flyer. That girl was hit by a car and left to die on the roadside.”
The woman went very still. A vein pulsed in the hollow at the base of her throat, softly lifting and dropping a tiny heart-shaped birthmark.
“We don’t know who she is. I think maybe you do.”
“No.”
“But you know something about her. And it troubles you.”
The woman’s eyes slid toward the kitchen. So did mine. Through the beads I could see the old man looking at something above what appeared to be a dairy case. Flickering light on his face suggested he was watching a wall-mounted TV.
The woman held out her hand. “Please. You pay.”
“The man I am with is a police detective. He traced the call to this restaurant. He can tie you to it.” Unlikely, but I knew Slidell was probably getting antsy. “If you have information and refuse to reveal it, he can charge you with obstruction of justice. Do you understand what that is?”
The woman shook her head. As I explained the term in Spanish, her eyes grew wide.
“What’s your name?”
“Rosalie.” Barely audible.
“Rosalie …?”
“D’Ostillo. Rosalie D’Ostillo. Please. I am legal. I have—”
“I don’t care about that, Rosalie.”
Again her eyes flicked toward the kitchen.
“Or about anyone else’s immigration status. A young girl is dead. It’s my job to find out who she is and what happened to her. Every detail is important.”
I touched her wrist gently.
“Rosalie …”
She yanked her hand free. For a moment I thought she was about to bolt.
“I … I make calls. Two.”
“You did the right thing.”
She allowed the slightest dip of her chin. I didn’t push, just allowed her to speak at her own pace.
“I saw her picture. On a pole. I think to myself, Rosalie you know this girl.”
Again I waited.
“She was here. I remember because the”—she touched her hair, miming a clipping motion—“the pink thing.”
“A barrette?” I felt a fizz in my chest. “Shaped like a cat?”
“Sí. I remember this cat when I see it in the photo. The face look different, but it is this girl who was here. She eat a cheese enchilada. They all do.”
“Did the girl also have a pink purse shaped like a cat?” Fighting to keep my voice calm.
“A purse, yes. Pink like hair thing.”
“When was this?”
Rosalie’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“Dos semanas.”
Two weeks. Around the time of Jane Doe’s death.
“Did she come here often?”
“No. Just once.”
“Was she with someone?”
Slidell chose that moment to stick his head through the door.
“Not getting any younger out here, doc.”
“Just a few more minutes.” I gave him my squinty-eye look.
Slidell sighed but didn’t object. When the door closed, I urged Rosalie to continue.
“Three girls, one man. They eat, they leave. He pay.”
“What was the mood?”
Rosalie looked at me, not understanding.
“Did the girls seem happy?”
Rosalie shook her head. “Nerviosa.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They look at table, not my eye. No smile. No talk.”
“Did you speak to them?”
“I say hola, they say nothing. I say buenos días, they say nothing.”
“Did they talk to the man? Did he talk to you?”
“The man order cheese enchiladas. No friendly. Muy frío.”
“What did he look like?”
She shook her head. “Hat.” She placed both hands level above her brows, like a visor. “I no see good.”
“Was he tall, short, fat, skinny?”
She waggled a hand. “Not so tall, not so skinny or fat.”
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?”
