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

“Everything I own is legal and documented. Someone wants to sell, I buy. Someone wants to buy, I sell.”

“Could be that’s the case. But from now on, you hit a border, a latex glove goes right between your cheeks.”

“I’ll say I’m a virgin, ask for gentle.”

“You think you’re smarter than me?” Slidell’s tone indicated tightly controlled anger.

“Donkey piss is smarter than you.”

That’s when Slidell crossed the line.

“You got all your tax ducks in a row, asshole? ’Cause Dew is fine-combing your 1040s, your bank accounts, your credit scores, every plumbing bill you ever paid.”

Rockett simply glared. With a hair less confidence than before?

“Screw with the IRS, you’re looking at hard time.” Slidell’s face was hard. “You know Dew’s wife is Peruvian? For him this is personal. And he’s got contacts down there. You skate this bust, and I ain’t putting money on those odds, you may want to think about shifting your base of operations. Maybe to Mars.”

I doubted the wife story. And was certain Dew would disapprove. But I didn’t interrupt.

“Every penny you ever earned, every dime you ever spent, Dew’s running his pencil down the columns. He’s calling your buyers, your suppliers, subpoenaing their records. Think Farmer Gaucho and his amigos will go to the slammer for you? Only question is how fast can they hablo to save their own asses.”

Silence followed Slidell’s rant. Rockett finally broke it.

“Why’s my customs beef a concern of the Charlotte PD?”

“My turf, my call.”

Rockett glanced at his watch, back at Slidell. “That it?”

“No. That ain’t it. Tell me about your buddy, John-Henry Story.”

“Don’t know him.” Rockett’s face remained carefully blank. But the fingers of his unscarred hand curled inward.

“Lying to a police investigator will bring you serious grief.”

What the hell? Slidell had already inflamed the situation. I pulled out the bar photos. Rockett glanced at them briefly, but offered no explanation.

“Special Agent Dew is aware of your position in S&S Enterprises,” I said. “Of your association with John-Henry Story.”

“No comment.” Through lips barely open.

“You got any comment on how Story managed to torch himself?”

Rockett offered no reply to Slidell’s question.

“Here’s what Dew keeps wondering.” Rainbow fragments of light danced the contours of Slidell’s face. “Where’s a two-bit importer get the bucks to play with the big boys?”

Still nothing.

“Local businessman up in flames.” Slidell raised and lowered his palms, as though comparing objects for weight. “Two-bit importer with a shitload of cash.”

“You saying I had something to do with Story’s death?” Behind Rockett, a referee raised his hands above his head. “Are you fucking crazy?”

Seeing a possible crack in the smug self-control, I arrowed straight to the real purpose of our visit.

“Two nights ago a young girl was killed in a hit and run near Old Pineville Road.”

I pulled out one of my flyers. Rockett gave it another of his nanosecond glances.

“The girl wasn’t killed on impact. She managed to crawl to the shoulder, where she died in pain some time later. Alone. Terrified.”

“You’re telling me this because?” Rockett’s undamaged eye bore into mine.

“The girl had something belonging to John-Henry Story in her purse.”

“So?” Cold as ice.

“Did Detective Slidell mention that he works homicide?”

The distorted face changed in a way I couldn’t interpret. I dangled the flyer square in front of it.

“You were acquainted with Story. This girl was acquainted with Story. Do you know who she is?”

“Mary Fucking Poppins.”

Anger burned in my chest. War hero or not, Rockett was repulsive.

“One other thing. The ME found semen on the girl’s body. The samples are being tested for DNA.”

Rockett shrugged. “Test away.”

“The kid’s got Story’s plastic. Story’s your partner and drinking pal,” Slidell said, clearly sharing my disgust. “You’re connected, asshole. Who is she?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Slidell didn’t budge.

“Here’s one more fact, Mr. Rockett.” My tone was glacial. “Yesterday I received a tip. The caller claimed to know the hit-and-run victim. Said the girl was scared.”

“So?”

“Something or someone frightened this child.” I waggled the flyer inches from Rockett’s nose. “I will find out what or who that was.”

With an angry swipe, Rockett knocked the paper from my upraised hand. I retrieved it from the floor and placed it faceup on the table.

“I will not stop until this girl is identified. Detective Slidell will not stop until her killer is caught. You lied to us about knowing Story. You must have had a reason to do so, and that ties you in.”

“And remember, asshole.” Thrusting his face into Rockett’s, Slidell hiked his brows up, then down. “I’m fucking crazy.”

Without another word we walked out and drove away.

And that was it.

For the next ten days I would learn nothing about the girl with the pink purse and barrette lying in the morgue cooler.

PART TWO

SATURDAY I WOKE WITH BED linens wrapping me like a constrictor. If I’d been thrashing in my dreams, I remembered nothing.

Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

I pulled the clock into bleary view. 8:45.

When breakfast is late, my cat either chews my hair or rattles a silk plant I keep on the dresser. He’s good. Either ploy annoys me enough to get up.

Weird that Bird hadn’t tortured me into consciousness. Too heavy-handed with the oatmeal and eggs?

But I’d bought his favorite on my way home the previous night. Iams. He didn’t know I fed him the weight-control formula.

I rose on one elbow and looked around.

No cat.

Then I smelled coffee.

And heard muted music. “Good Day Sunshine”?

Puzzled, I pulled on sweats and headed for the stairs.

A box of donuts sat on the dining room table. Napkins. Plates and utensils. Butter and jam.

In the study, the Beatles were singing about needing to laugh.

I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Pete was at the counter, pouring juice from a carton.

“Sugarbritches.” Big Pete grin. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Is there a nonsarcastic answer to that question? My brain conjured none.

“What are you doing here?”

Then, panic.

Which must have shown on my face.

“Don’t worry.” Pete raised a calming hand. “Katy’s fine.”

“You’ve talked to her?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Pete stowed the carton in the fridge and turned back to me. A smile twitched his lips as he took in my attire and disheveled hair. Probably a bed crease denting one cheek.

“Don’t start.” I gave him my squinty-eye warning.

“What?” Boyish innocence.

“It’s much too early for a fashion critique.”

“You look terrific, sugarbritches.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Here.” Pete thrust a glass toward me. “It’s loaded with vitamins.”

“You sound like Anita Bryant.” Accepting the OJ.

“She was right.” Pete took a sip. Clarified. “About oranges. Cheers.”

Pete tapped his brim to mine. We both knocked back our juice.