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

SOUTH END, JUST BELOW UPTOWN Charlotte, is a mixed hunk of turf with serious ambitions up the social ladder. And climbing fast.

The neighborhood dates to the 1850s when the construction of a railroad line connected the Queen City to Columbia and Charleston, South Carolina. Over the decades a manufacturing community sprang up along the tracks, fired largely by a booming textile industry.

Fast-forward to the waning years of the twentieth century. Largely ignored by a town viewing itself as the face of the New South, South End had little to offer beyond abandoned mills, warehouses, and a minor league baseball park. But come the nineties, cagey developers saw dollar signs.

Today, South End is a mélange of condos, lofts, and renovated industrial leftovers housing restaurants, shops, studios, and a broad spectrum of design-related industries. Want a plumbing fixture, fabric, or upscale lamp? South End is the answer to your needs.

But traces of the hood’s past remain. The Design Center of the Carolinas, the headquarters for Concentric Marketing, and the Chalmers Memorial Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church breathe the same yuppie air as seedy garages, abandoned factories, weed-covered acreage, and a strip club.

John-Henry’s Tavern was located not far from the intersection of Winifred and Bland. Flanking it on both sides were lots with entire eco zones thriving in the cracked concrete.

Opposite was a windowless bunker covered with graffiti and enclosed in chain-link fencing. A sign warned NO TRESPASSING. Nothing indicated the structure’s name or explained the purpose of its existence. Junk covered a raised platform that might once have been a loading dock. Rusty beer kegs. A table made of slapped-together boards. An old piano with a black skull spray-painted on a silver moon on its upright portion.

Slidell swung a left into the tavern’s small parking area, which may have been paved. Or not. A coating of dirt and gravel rendered the issue moot.

“This place saw a lot of action back in the sixties.” Slidell shifted into park and cut the engine.

“I’d have guessed the twenties.”

“Beach music, shagging, that kinda shit. For a while the owners brought in truckloads of sand, strung lights in the yard. Young assholes pretended they were at Myrtle Beach grooving to Maurice Williams.” Pronounced Moe-reese.

“When was that?”

Slidell slid a toothpick from the right to the left corner of his mouth. “Late seventies.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “You bust some moves here, detective?”

Slidell looked at me as though I’d told him the world was made of Gouda.

What was I thinking? Slidell’s soul probably had liver spots by his sixteenth birthday.

“Who comes here now?” I asked.

“Older assholes.”

“What’s that?” I tipped my head toward the building across the street.

“Back in the day it was a mill of some kind. Been abandoned since the fifties. Rumor was the property was going condo. Project went south, I guess. Now the dump’s mostly a pain in the ass ’cause of squatters.”

For several moments we both evaluated our target.

Save for a Coors sign glowing in the rain-blurred front window, the small brick bungalow might have been a private home. Iron handrails bordered the two stairs leading up to the stoop. A chimney jutted from the far end, suggesting the presence of a fireplace inside.

The front door, once red, and the trim, once white, were faded and peeling. I’d been by this old building. When?

Before Katy had hired on with the Public Defender’s Office she’d briefly tended bar at the Gin Mill, a trendy Irish pub a few blocks over on Tryon. Perhaps I’d taken a wrong turn after dropping her off.

Slidell’s Taurus shared the parking area with a pickup and five cars whose odometers undoubtedly showed very high numbers.

I was about to comment when a man in sweats rounded the building and walked with questionable balance to a white Honda Civic. Slidell and I watched him climb in and drive off.

“Ready?” I asked.

Taking Slidell’s grunt as affirmative, I stepped out into rain that had dwindled to a slow, steady drizzle. All around me were the sounds of dripping water.

After heaving himself free, Slidell hiked his pants, checked the back of his waistband, and rolled his shoulders. A glance left, then right, and he strode onto the stoop and through the door. I followed.

As expected, the tavern’s management invested little in lighting. Or cleaning. The air smelled of stale beer, human sweat, grease, and smoke.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim, my mind logged details about my surroundings. From the tension in his back, I knew Slidell was also assessing.

Wooden tables with unmatched chairs filled the space where we stood. A jukebox rested against the wall to their right. A mirror in a heavy gilt frame hung above and beside it. Beyond them straight ahead a bar formed an L, its short side facing the tables.

I spotted a second entrance far back to the left, opposite the terminus of the L’s long side. At the moment, that door was propped open with a dark shape that looked like a gargoyle or garden troll.

A series of bulletin boards ran along the wall from the rear entrance to the near end of the bar. Above them were painted the words STORY BOARD. On them were tacked at least a billion photos.

To our right, an archway gave onto a room holding roughly a dozen more tables, all empty. A narrow corridor led deeper into the house, presumably to toilets and the kitchen.

A trio in work clothes and steel-tipped boots occupied a four-top in the main seating area. Three hard hats lay at their feet. Three hamburger specials mounded their plates.

Two men and a woman sat at the bar, backs to the photo gallery, empty stools equidistant between them. The men wore hoodies, jeans, and running shoes. Both had logged enough miles to have shagged at the tavern in its Myrtle Beach days. Both were drinking beer.

The woman wore black stretch pants and a pink tee that warned, STOP LOOKING AT MY BOOBS. With her fried gray hair and sagging face she looked old enough to have mothered the men. Her glass held something the color of tea, probably bourbon.

Though the bartender matched Slidell in poundage, his weight was distributed along more orthodox lines. And much more compactly. Maybe five ten on tiptoes, he had rheumy blue eyes and a shaved skull. Tattooed on his forearm was some sort of bird.

Having memorized the layout, Slidell crossed to the bar.

“How’s it going?”

Rheumy eyes continued drying his hands on a rag.

Slidell made a show of looking around. “I see business is booming.”

“What’ll you have?”

Slidell shifted his toothpick. “Little more hospitality?”

“You’re a cop.”

“You’re a genius.”

The three laborers went quiet. The beer drinkers shifted on their stools.

Boob woman eavesdropped unapologetically.

“License is in order.” Rheumy eyes hooked a thumb at the wall behind him.

Slidell placed both palms on the bar, spread his feet, and loomed.

“How ’bout we start with a name?”

“How ’bout we start with some ID.”

Slidell badged him.

Rheumy eyes slid a glance at the shield and looked up at Slidell.

“Name? Or am I starting out with questions too high up the grid?”

“Sam.”

Slidell raised both brows in a go-on expression.

“Sam Poland.”

“How long you been working here, Sam?”

“What’s this about?”

“Whadja do, Sam? Jump some girl’s bones?” Boob woman guffawed at her own wit, then knocked back a slug of her drink.

“Zip it, Linda.” Poland gestured Slidell down the bar, closer to where I’d paused. “Who’s the chick?” Nodding at me.