Bones of the Lost

by Kathy Reichs

  At any given time, 2.5 million people worldwide are in forced labor as a result of trafficking. One hundred and sixty-one countries are affected, 127 as exporters, 137 as importers. Asian and pan-Pacific countries are the most common source, followed by African, Middle Eastern, and Eastern Bloc nations.

  The majority of victims are between eighteen and twenty-four years of age, but roughly 1.2 million children are also trafficked annually.

  Trafficked individuals end up in bonded or forced labor, or in sexual servitude. Bonded laborers work to pay off a loan or service, often for years. Forced laborers work against their will, usually in domestic, farm, or sweatshop settings.

  Forty-three percent of all trafficking victims end up in involuntary commercial sexual exploitation. Ninety-eight percent are women and girls.

  After an hour I sat back, sickened.

  Runaways hoping for better lives as nannies, models, or maids. Teens meeting an exciting new date, an exotic stranger, an older man. Kids playing or walking to school, grabbed and thrown into the back of a van. All ending up in an inescapable hell of strip clubs, brothels, and pornographic films.

  I squeezed my eyes tight. The heartbreaking images remained.

  Children jammed in a pen, hands clutching the wire, eyes begging for help. A girl with bound wrists, face devoid of hope. Young boys on mats in a filthy basement.

  I hovered at the edge of a deep well of helpless rage.

  An e-mail pinged me back.

  I noted the sender. Read the subject line.

  Felt needles of ice dance my skin.

  You’re next bitch.

  citizenjustice@hotmail.com.

  “Bring it on, you bastard!”

  I opened the vile thing.

  A single image filled my screen, a .jpg transmitted as an attachment.

  The picture showed a woman lying on her back, a dark puddle on the pavement below her head. The woman’s eyes were open and fixed on nothing. Her face was swollen and discolored and streaked with blood.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  The woman’s mouth gaped wide. Too wide.

  “Oh, Jesus. Oh, no.”

  Despite the blood, I could see that the woman’s mouth was empty.

  I stared, shocked and sickened. Knowing. The woman’s tongue had been severed, packaged, and left on my doorstep. Had I met her?

  The woman’s features were too distorted to allow recognition. If I even knew her.

  I ran my gaze down the supine body. The clothing was unremarkable, a jacket, dark pants, sensible shoes.

  I worked my way back up.

  The jacket was stained with what I assumed to be blood.

  My gaze fell on the woman’s neck.

  One heartbeat. Two. A dozen.

  The icy needles burned hotter.

  I grabbed my hand lens. Focused.

  Saw a heart-shaped mark in the hollow of the woman’s throat.

  My fist slammed the desk.

  Goddammit! Goddammit! Goddammit!

  Tears burned the backs of my lids.

  I got up. Paced. Furious. Miserable.

  Culpable?

  When the phone rang I nearly ignored it.

  “What!” More expletive than question.

  “You okay, doc?” Slidell.

  “I … Are you near a computer?”

  “Can be.”

  “I’m forwarding a photo to your e-mail.”

  “Could take a minute.”

  “Call as soon as you get it.” I prayed my voice didn’t reveal how gutted I felt.

  “I thought you wanted—”

  “Do it!”

  More pacing.

  The phone rang twelve minutes later.

  “Citizenjustice. Who is this dickwad?”

  I listened to Slidell’s breathing, knew he was studying the image.

  “It’s D’Ostillo,” I said.

  “The waitress at the Mixcoatl?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “See the birthmark on her throat?”

  Slidell grunted.

  “It’s D’Ostillo. She talked to us and was killed.”

  “Now don’t go thinking this is your fault.”

  “Really? Whose is it? Whose idea was it to go to that restaurant?”

  “She’s the one called you.”

  “And for being a good Samaritan she gets her tongue hacked out!”

  I was close to tears. And hating it. Especially when talking to Slidell.

  Slidell was silent for so long I thought he’d disconnected. Given my rudeness, I wouldn’t have blamed him.

  “Getting sicker and sicker,” he said.

  “Whoever did this plays for bigger stakes than one teenage hooker.”

  “You’re thinking Candy and D’Ostillo are connected?”

  “You don’t? Candy was killed near the taquería. D’Ostillo told us she’d seen Candy in there, said she worked at the Passion Fruit. D’Ostillo’s dead, Candy’s dead.”

  “Still liking Rockett?”

  “Right now he’s topping my list.”

  “I’ll send the e-mail over to cyber crimes, see if they can capture an ISP. Techs can analyze the image. Filter it or enlarge it or whatever the fuck they do. Maybe we can nail the location.”

  “What are the chances the body’s still there?”

  Slidell made one of his Slidell noises. Then, “The Passion Fruit belongs to an outfit called SayDo, LLP.”

  “What?”

  He started to repeat. I cut him off.

  “Who are the owners?”

  “They’re not really into talking about themselves.”

  “Someone’s looking into it?”

  “As we speak. In the meantime, I got the warrant.”

  “When do you hit?”

  “Tonight. Putting a team together now.”

  “I want in.”

  “Yeah, I figured that.”

  THE NIGHT WAS cool, the air tainted with the smell of diesel and at least one peeved skunk. A full moon hung in the eastern sky, crossed by wispy fingers of black.

  “Nice night for a raid.”

  Slidell spoke from behind the wheel of a police cruiser. A uniformed cop named Rodriguez rode shotgun. I was in back.

  Ours was one of four vehicles idling in an industrial lot on Griffin, a bump north and fifty yards west of the Passion Fruit Club. Three Chevy Suburbans held three SWAT guys each. Slidell had come loaded for bear. His words.

  My heart hammered inside my Kevlar vest. Slidell’s idea. The thing was bulkier than the IBA I’d worn in Afghanistan. My ankle ached inside its boot.

  Words spit from a radio clipped to Slidell’s vest. He looked at Rodriguez. Rodriguez nodded.

  We got out. The others did the same, helmeted figures carrying AR-15 Bushmasters and Remington 700P .308 sniper rifles equipped with night vision. Bear.

  “Place has two doors.” Slidell’s face was hard to see in the dark, but the edge to his voice told me he was amped. “We’re going in pincers-style, Alpha and Charlie through the front, Beta and Delta through the rear.”

  “Any weapons inside?”

  “Proceed as though the place is an arsenal.”

  “We know how many are in there?”

  “Negatory. You’ve been briefed on persons of interest. If Ray Majerick or Dominick Rockett is on the premises, bag ’em. By the book. No rough stuff. We don’t want some asshole pinstripe arguing brutality.”

  We returned to our vehicles. Slidell cranked the engine, but not the lights. The armada rolled forward, silent but for the low growl of four motors and the crunch of sixteen tires on gravel.

  As planned, two units stopped outside the tattoo parlor. Two others circled the buildings. A single car sat in front of the Passion Fruit.

  Slidell cocked his head and pressed the transmit button on his rover. “Team Bravo in advance position?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Affirmative.”
>
  “Delta?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Alpha says green light. Let’s boogie.”

  A million headlamps and cherries lit the night. Our car shot forward, stopped so fast the rear end lurched left. Slidell and Rodriguez fired from their seats.

  I opened my door. Slidell pivoted and jabbed a finger in my face.

  “Your cheeks stay glued to that seat!”

  “Fine!”

  That was the deal. Remain in the car or get left behind.

  Slidell and Rodriguez crouch-ran forward, Glocks double-gripped and pointed up at the sides of their helmets. Charlie team joined them outside the Passion Fruit, one to either side, one in front of the door.

  Slidell spoke into his rover, not so quietly now.

  “Go!”

  One Charlie guy booted the door. I heard metal bang an inside wall. Glass shatter.

  Slidell and Rodriguez steamrolled in. Charlie team followed.

  Something boomed. A rear door?

  I heard Slidell’s muffled bellow.

  “Police! Everyone freeze!”

  Someone screamed, high and shrill.

  Men shouted.

  Then nothing.

  No bullets. No cries from disgruntled patrons. No shrieks from terrified women.

  Seconds passed. A minute. A lifetime.

  The quiet was deafening.

  “Screw this.” I launched myself from the car and ran toward the building.

  Through the open door I could see a waiting room with taupe walls, orange plastic chairs, fake ferns, coffee and end tables scarred by cigarette burns.

  One of the Charlie guys was there.

  “Clear?” I panted, high on adrenaline.

  “Yeah.” He tipped the barrel of his Remington toward a doorway on the right. “Party’s down there.”

  I followed a corridor toward the back of the building. As in the waiting area, the walls were taupe. Doors ran its length, all painted yellow. Three on the left, three on the right. Every door was open.

  I glanced through each as I hurried past.

  The rooms had plywood walls that didn’t make it to the ceiling. Three were closet size and held only a bed, neatly made, and a straight-back chair. Two had your standard massage-table-and-boom-box setup. All were deserted.

  Muffled voices emanated from the sixth room, the last on the right. One belonged to Slidell. The pitch and tenor told me he was barely containing his anger.

  I entered.

  This room was also cubicle size. It held a desk, a ratty upholstered chair, and an ancient rabbit-eared TV. A door stood open in one corner. Through it I could see stairs descending into gloom.

  Another SWAT guy was in the room, Delta team, I think. His eyes followed me from below the rim of his helmet.

  I pointed to the stairs.

  He nodded.

  The basement was dank and dismal. And, to my disgust, showed signs of habitation. Four cots, each with a tattered blanket. A mini-fridge. A hot plate. A sideboard with cabinets above and below. A table holding a lamp, a mug jammed with pens and pencils, empty ashtrays, a stack of magazines.

  A wheeled clothes rack butted up to the sideboard. Every hanger was empty. A door opened onto a bath at the cellar’s far end.

  Slidell was glaring down at a woman who stood maybe five feet tall. She was returning the glare, clearly not backing off. In one hand she clutched a paper I guessed was the warrant.

  Rodriguez was also present. Two more SWAT guys. I assumed the others were positioned outside the building, or checking adjacent properties.

  “And you run this dump all by yourself?”

  “Someone comes in to clean.”

  “Where are they, Mrs. Tarzec?” Slidell was looming over the woman. The man is a spectacular loomer.

  “I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mrs. Tarzec sounded like decades of cigarettes. Her appearance matched her voice. Her hair was thin and fried, her skin sallow and wrinkled due to the diminished blood flow caused by smoking.

  “I think you do.”

  Mrs. Tarzec shrugged.

  Slidell’s eyes rolled to Rodriguez.

  Rodriguez gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged so large they jostled his helmet strap. “Who dimed you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Slightly accented English. “We do massage therapy. Only massage therapy.”

  “Yeah?” Slidell made a show of looking around. “Where are the masseurs?” It came out massers.

  “It’s Wednesday. Business is slow. It’s costing me more to keep the lights on than I’m taking in, so I gave the girls the night off. Girls. Making the proper term masseuse.”

  “The proper term is whorehouse.”

  “I love the way you do macho, officer. What are you? Four hundred pounds?”

  “With my gun on.” Slidell’s face was hard, his cheeks the color of claret.

  “You seem tense, officer. You might benefit from one of our aromatherapy packages.”

  “You might benefit from a little time in the box.”

  Mrs. Tarzec took two steps back, wagged her head slowly, and smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and seemed oddly small for her mouth.

  “You going to arrest me?”

  Slidell said nothing.

  “I didn’t think so. Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here. Never was. You have nothing. You know it. I know it. So take your piece-of-shit guns and your piece-of-shit vans and get the hell off my premises.”

  “These masseuses”—pronounced mass-ooses—“where do they come from?”

  “Licensed massage therapy training programs.”

  “What’s SayDo?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The outfit that owns this dump. The people funding your lavish pension.”

  At that moment a SWAT guy clomped down the stairs, Bushmaster angled toward the ground. I stepped sideways to allow him access to the room. He nodded thanks.

  Slidell dragged his eyes from Mrs. Tarzec to look at the man. His deep frown deepened on seeing me.

  The SWAT guy shook his head and raised a palm. Nothing.

  “Toss it again,” Slidell barked.

  Mrs. Tarzec’s tough exterior showed its first crack. “This is harassment. You can’t do this.”

  “Yeah?” Slidell pointed at the warrant. “That says I can.”

  Mrs. Tarzec’s eyes narrowed. “Can I get my cigarettes?”

  “No. You can’t.” Slidell indicated one of the cots. “Park it.”

  Mrs. Tarzec sat and crossed both her legs and her arms.

  The SWAT guys headed upstairs. In moments I heard boots on the floorboards above. I knew they’d recheck for people, not search for evidence.

  Slidell knew that, too, and it was not improving his mood. He slammed through the desk, checking random papers, agitation obvious in his rapid breathing and jerky, heavy-handed movements.

  Rodriguez moved to the sideboard and began pulling out ramen noodle packets, canned foods, and boxes of dried macaroni and spaghetti dinners. When each section was empty he knocked on the cheap laminated wood, testing for hollow spaces behind or below.

  Slidell dug through the wastebasket. Empty. Pulled the blankets from the cots, the covers from the pillows. Nothing.

  He disappeared into the bath. I heard the toilet seat bang, the tank cover scrape, the shower curtain screech across its rod.

  Rodriguez opened the refrigerator. Found sodas and condiments, a few packages of cheese. Slidell emerged from the bath.

  “You’ll find nothing illegal.” Mrs. Tarzec’s voice now sounded high and stretched. Either nerves or the need for a nicotine hit.

  “Good point. No client lists. No bills. No ledgers to square your ass with the IRS.” Slidell drilled her a look. “Here’s an interesting point. What ain’t here can be as incriminating as what is.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Slidell strode over to her
.

  “What’s SayDo?”

  Mrs. Tarzec shrugged.

  “Who you working for?”

  “Darth Vader.”

  “You say you’re sucking wind now? Let’s see if business picks up with a cop parked on your ass twenty-four seven. Think Darth’s gonna cut you a big bonus check?”

  “That’s what lawyers are for.”

  Slidell pulled out the picture I’d taken of Candy.

  “Know her?”

  Mrs. Tarzec glanced at the photo but said nothing.

  “The kid’s not looking tip-top, lying on a gurney at the morgue and all.” Slidell waggled the photo. “Try again.”

  Mrs. Tarzec uncrossed and recrossed her legs, keeping her eyes averted from the image.

  “Yeah. I don’t like looking at dead kids either.” Slidell’s tone went harder than granite. “Last chance. Where did you take them?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Tell this to Darth. Wherever you turn, I’ll be there, day or night. Here on in, I’m your worst nightmare. You’re done.”

  No reaction.

  “And here’s the part you really won’t like.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Slidell clicked air through his teeth and winked.

  Mrs. Tarzec’s foot angled up and her leg started pumping. But she held her tongue.

  “We’re outta here,” Slidell said to Rodriguez.

  I got an angry scowl as he pushed past me to climb the stairs.

  Rodriguez and I made our way up and out the front door. The SWAT guys were already piling into their SUVs.

  Slidell was in the cruiser when Rodriguez and I got in. His anger felt like voltage sparking in the small space.

  “Who the bloody fuck tipped them?” Slidell’s palm slammed the wheel.

  I knew better than to respond. So did Rodriguez.

  Slidell swiveled to face me.

  “And who the bloody blue fuck cleared you to leave this vehicle?”

  “I waited a full—”

  “This isn’t done.” Slidell twisted the key. “I’ll get every document ever filed on this joint. Learn every penny ever earned or spent. The last time a fly was swatted or a toilet was flushed.”

  Rodriguez and I let him vent.

  “And no more pussyfooting around with Rockett. That fuckwit’s coming back in.”

  Slidell threw the car into gear and gunned from the lot.

  I settled back, knowing my own castigation was far from over. But I understood. Slidell wasn’t just frustrated at being outsmarted. Behind the bluster, he was feeling the same guilt he’d warned me to shake. We’d questioned D’Ostillo, and now she was dead.