Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel tb-16

by Kathy Reichs

  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 real
ly 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.

  And Slidell’s anger wasn’t all bad. An irate Skinny isn’t a man you want on your trail.

  THE NEXT MORNING I SLEPT later than on any day since my return. Nevertheless, I awoke anxious and restless.

  I had coffee and Raisin Bran, then washed my bowl and mug, feeling as though my skin wasn’t properly sized. The failure of the Passion Fruit raid. Concern for other girls who might suffer Candy’s fate. Frustration at still not knowing Candy’s identity. Anticipation of Slidell’s ongoing wrath. Guilt over D’Ostillo.

  Guilt over avoiding Larabee’s crapper skull.

  Apprehension because some nutcase put a tongue on my stoop.

  The ankle felt pretty good. I decided it was time to try it out.

  I phoned the main switchboard at the MCME. Mrs. Flowers answered. I told her I was going for a run and that I’d be in shortly. She asked if I planned to do the Booty Loop. Surprised that she knew of it, I said yes, though I hadn’t really decided on routing.

  I donned my Nikes and usual spicy jogging attire—bike shorts and an oversized tee. The morning was cool but sunny. In tribute to Mrs. Flowers, I set off for the Booty Loop, a five-mile stretch circling the Queens University campus. Named for, well, that needs no explanation.

  I hadn’t run in weeks and the first mile was a slog. But the ankle felt strong.

  By the second mile, lactic acid burned my leg muscles. I pumped on, determined to finish the circuit.

  Sweating and panting, I finally reached the Clock Tower. I was doubled over, breathing hard, when someone called my name.

  Straightening, I saw a man slide from a bench and walk toward me. He was tall and thin and wore a Tar Heels cap, jeans, and a black nylon jacket. A plastic bag dangled from one hand.

  What the hell?

  “I called your office. The woman who answered said I might find you here. She was very helpful with directions.” Scott Blanton smiled, revealing the errant incisors. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

  A bad time? I was perspiring, drained, and puzzled. I’d last seen the NCIS agent at Bagram. Why was he lying in wait on my jogging route?

  Blanton extended his free hand.

  I raised mine high and offered an apologetic grin. “Sweaty.”

  Blanton scanned me from head to toe. “But looking very fit.”

  “Thanks.” Suddenly conscious of the butt-molding spandex.

  “How’s the ankle sprain?”

  “Completely healed.”

  “After the exhumation, I got sick as a dog. Was quarantined for two days before they let me come home.”

  I remembered a detail from one of our DFAC conversations. Blanton was from Gastonia.

  “I’m sure your family is glad you’re back.” Lame. But I had no idea what the guy wanted.

  “And I’ll bet your cat was glad to see you.”

  The comment surprised me. Then I remembered that I’d also shared that in the DFAC.

  “Yes.” I brushed damp hair from my forehead.

  Blanton reached into the bag and withdrew a cardboard box. Flat and rectangular.

  Like the one that had held D’Ostillo’s tongue.

  Feeling slightly apprehensive, I checked my surroundings. Students crisscrossed the campus at our backs. Traffic passed on Radcliff, not a steady flow, but enough for comfort.

  “For you, doctor.” Blanton held out the box. “For being such a trouper.”

  “I was doing my job.”

  “Then consider it thanks for putting up with my obnoxious behavior.”

  I took the box and lifted the cover. Inside was a pashmina similar to those Katy and I had admired at the Bagram bazaar.

  Blanton had come to Charlotte and tracked me down to present a two-dollar scarf?

  “Your expression says stalker. Either that or you hate the color.”

  “It’s beautiful. Just unexpected.”

  “I was in the area, thought you might like a memento.”

  Gastonia was a good forty minutes away. With light traffic.

  “Look. I wasn’t at my best over there. I was tense. The bugs. Welsted drove me nuts.” Rascal smile. “Bygones?”

  “Bygones.”

  Now that I’d stopped running, the breeze felt cold on my damp skin and clothes. I started to shiver. Blanton seemed not to notice.

  “What we did was important, whatever the outcome. Sheyn Bagh was a bad situation with no winners. We helped see justice done.”

  “Have you spoken to Lieutenant Gross?”

  “No. But I heard through the grapevine he’s itchy to go back downrange.” Blanton’s look suggested he was trying to bore into my brain. “So how’s business? As busy as over there?”

  “Mm.”

  “Bad people doing bad things to other people. Hopefully to other bad people. But that’s not always how it goes, is it?”

  Blanton leaned close, conspiratorial. He smelled of stale coffee and Old Spice.

  “We see it, don’t we? Evil. Day in, day out. After a while it screws with your head. How does shit happen to good people? People like John Gross.”

  I thought it a poor example, but held my tongue.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’ve come to believe evil exists in this world. Real, tangible evil. You never know when you’re going to wake up and find it sitting on our doorstep.”

  Blanton gave a self-deprecating grin.

  “Listen to me, philosophizing. And look at you. You’re freezing.”

  Blanton lifted the scarf from the box in my hands, unfolded it, and draped it over my shoulders. As he leaned close I noticed a tattoo low on his neck, a Chinese symbol of some sort.

  Was I the only person left on the planet without inked skin?

  “You take care, Dr. Brennan.”

  Before I could respond, Blanton turned and headed up the sidewalk. I watched until he vanished around the corner at Selwyn.

  Feeling a sense of relief.

  Jesus. Why did the guy creep me out so?

  Suddenly my ankle didn’t feel so great.

  I did a slow jog home, showered, ate lunch, then headed to the MCME.

  • • •

  By 4:30 I’d finished with the skull. The unpleasant part was scraping off the caca. The easy part was ruling out foul play. No pun intended.

  The skull was that of a young adult male, very possibly of Indian origin. The sutures and dentition gave me age. The bulging brow ridges, prominent nuchal crest, and large mastoid
processes gave me gender.

  The little screws, intended to hold the mandible in place, told me the skull was a biological supply house specimen. The exportation of real human bone stopped decades ago, but during the period it was legal, most human skeletons came from India. That fact, along with facial architecture, suggested South Asian ancestry.

  I wrote a report stating the above. It would be up to Larabee, and, if he pursued it, the CMPD to figure out how the skull ended up in the dumper.

  Motivated by my exemplary performance unpacking, jogging, and analyzing the skull, I hit a Harris Teeter on the way home to stock up on provisions. Who says I’m a procrastinator?

  It was almost dusk by the time I got to the annex. Birdie darted from the hall closet and twined around my legs.

  I picked him up and scratched his chin. He showed keen interest as I stashed my newly acquired rations. I left him wrestling with one of the plastic grocery bags.

  I was upstairs stacking toilet paper and soap in the bathroom closet when I thought of the alarm and hurried down to set it. I’d seen a CMPD cruiser circling the drive as I arrived. Slidell’s surveillance. Still.

  Though I’d never admit it, I was glad the cops were out there. At least periodically. D’Ostillo’s murder had my nerves on edge. Not to mention the delivery of her tongue to my house.

  And Blanton’s unannounced appearance bothered me. Why not mail the scarf? Why buy it in the first place? That was one weird dude.

  What had he said? Wake up and find evil sitting on our doorstep. Was he conveying a veiled threat?

  The phone rang.

  “Jeez, doc. I been calling for an hour.”

  “What is it, detective?”

  “I brought Tarzec in for questioning. Didn’t expect much, and that’s what I got. Squat. Had nothing, so I had to kick her.”

  “What about tax returns, employee documentation, a lease or mortgage on the building?”

  “I’m working on it. But I did touch base with the guy at ICE.”

  “Luther Dew.”

  “Yeah. What a donkey dick.”

  “Maybe if you tell him what D’Ostillo said—”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I dropped by to share a few pics.”

  “The photo of D’Ostillo’s body?”

  “Thought he’d toss his lunch. But he gets it now. This could be about more than dead dogs. He shared some intel he’d just scored.”