Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

“The Peruvian archaeologists will appreciate that.” Dew pulled out and waggled a small point-and-shoot Nikon. “May I?”

I switched X-rays until he’d photographed all four sets. Then he shot pics of the unopened bundles.

When he’d finished, we both stood a moment, regarding the dogs.

A thought struck me. What the hell?

“The hit-and-run victim we discussed remains unidentified.”

Dew looked down at me blankly.

“The girl that Detective Slidell suspects is undocumented. Would you like to view the body?”

“I really don’t see how that can be useful.”

“We’re here. She’s here. What can it hurt?”

Before Dew could object I led him into the cooler, centered the proper gurney, and unzipped the bag.

To his credit, Dew didn’t leave. Nor did he show any emotion.

A moment passed. Then, “This is very sad, but I really can’t help. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

I rezipped the girl and we moved to my office. Dew filled a good hunk of it. I waited for him to divulge what was on his mind.

“As part of its investigation, ICE has begun examining Dominick Rockett’s finances.”

Dew took my lack of response as nonunderstanding.

“We are looking at Mr. Rockett’s bank records, purchase histories, tax returns, for example. Among other things.”

The guy talked like he was reading from a training manual.

“The gentleman has assets difficult to explain by the totality of his pension and disability income combined with the proceeds from his import business.”

“Meaning?” I knew what it meant. But it seemed Dew needed feedback.

“Dominick Rockett may be a larger player than we suspected.”

“You think he’s a smuggler?”

Dew shifted a lot of poundage in a surprisingly elegant manner. “These dogs may be the tip of a very lucrative and disturbing iceberg.”

My stomach chose that moment to voice another notice of need.

I reddened. Dew might have. I couldn’t tell, his face was already so flushed.

“But I’ve engaged you too long.” Dew rose.

“You’ll keep me in the loop?” I asked.

“Certainly. You’ve been very cooperative.”

Cooperative? What was I, a suspect?

“Thank you.” I pulled a flyer from my purse. “Perhaps you’ll float a few questions about my Jane Doe?”

Dew was studying the photo when the landline shrilled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Mrs. Flowers sounded tense. “But the caller is insistent. And sounds rather upset.”

An image of Katy flashed in my mind.

“I’ll take it.” Mouth dry.

As I mimed “sorry” to Dew, the ambient sound on the line changed.

“—picture on the flyer?” The voice was low, the connection awful.

“Are you referring to the notice about the hit-and-run victim?” I asked, baffled.

“—girl dead?” The caller sounded female.

“Yes. She is dead.”

“—hurt her—scared—”

“Scared of what?”

Garbled static.

“—all were—”

“Ma’am. Can you hang up and call me back?”

“—wrong—had to tell someone.”

“Do you know who the girl is?”

Click.

Dial tone.

“IF YOU’D LIKE TO MAKE a call, please hang up and—”

I depressed and released the button, then punched in Mrs. Flowers’s extension.

Busy.

Again.

Still busy.

Come on. Come on .

The caller had sounded guarded. Did she break the connection? Did someone else?

“I’m sorry.” To Dew. “That may have been a tip on my Jane Doe.”

“I understand.”

This time Mrs. Flowers answered.

“I apologize f—”

“The last caller. Do you have a number?”

A pause, then, “I do.”

Dew watched as I jotted the digits. Then, “Again, thank you, Dr. Brennan.”

“I’ll let you know when you can collect the dogs.”

Dew was barely through the door when I hit Slidell on speed dial.

“Yo.” In the background, Waylon Jennings was advising a trip to Luckenbach, Texas.

“Can you trace a number?”

“Lemme guess. Dancing with the Stars finally rang and you lost ’em.”

I told him about my flyers, then about the anonymous caller. Braced for a lecture. Which didn’t come.

“Shoot.”

I shot.

“Gimme five.”

Three minutes later, Slidell was back. Sans Waylon.

“Pay phone. Who knew they still existed? Most of those booths are now pissing—”

“Where?”

“Seneca Square Shopping Center.”

“South Boulevard, near Tyvola.” My heart threw in a few extra beats. Seneca Square wasn’t far from the site of the hit and run.

“Ee-yuh. I’ll float a few questions. But unless your tipster dialed naked in a tiara, the chances of anyone noticing are probably zilch.”

Slidell was right. Which irritated the hell out of me.

“Any news on the vehicle?”

“No.”

“What about the smear on her purse?”

“The FBI’s mostly a jokefest of Fuckaround Frankies. But their paint data’s the shits.”

Slidell really did have a way with words.

“Forty thousand freakin’ samples, but ours didn’t hook up.”

“What we sent wasn’t paint?”

“Yeah, it was paint. But not from a car.”

“From what, then?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“What did the report say?” Barely masking my annoyance.

“Bunch of crap about solvents, and binders, and pigments, and additives. Methyl this and hydrofluoro that. Why can’t these fart-wads just speak English?”

“You’ll have someone figure out what the stuff is?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“How long will it take?”

“As long as it takes.”

When we’d disconnected, I closed my eyes and replayed the mysterious call in my head. Female, saying the hit-and-run vic was scared. Accent? The connection was too lousy to tell.

Did the woman know my Jane Doe? If so, why not give me her name?

Scared of what?

The caller sounded frightened herself.

Frightened of what?

Everyone has access to a mobile or landline these days. Why use a pay phone? To maintain anonymity? Erroneously thinking the call couldn’t be traced?

Had the woman disconnected or had someone cut her off? Had she meant to say more?

At that moment my stomach definitely said more. Loudly.

I fired to the kitchen for a Diet Coke, returned, pulled the top item from the stack in my inbox, and read as I chewed the PowerBar I’d scored at the Circle K.

The form reported on human bones discovered on the shore of Mountain Island Lake. Amelogenin testing showed the remains were those of a male. Definitely not Edith Blankenship, a missing woman the cops thought they’d found. Terrific. So where was Edith? And who was the guy from the lake?

I wrote a brief report, attached the form, and placed both in a bright yellow folder in my outbox. No reason for the color, except that I liked it.

Next I responded to an invitation to the upcoming meeting of FASE, the Forensic Anthropology Society of Europe. Sounded great, but who had the time?

Enough paperwork.

Bunching my PowerBar wrapper, I shifted to the small autopsy room to undertake a more detailed examination of the mummy-bundle X-rays. I was on pooch three when the phone rang.

“Your special agent is back.” Mrs. Flowers was speaking with lips close, hand cupping the receiver. “Shall I send him to you?”

What the hell? Dew had been gone little more than two hours.

“Yes, please.”

Dew and I reached my office door at the same time. Again I noticed that, despite his size, the man’s every move was executed with grace and efficiency.