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

Slidell swung into the lot and parked two doors down from the taquería. Only three other cars were present: a red Mini Cooper, a gray Lexus, and a jacked-up Chevy pickup with windows as dark as the glass in the shops.

“Mixed Coat All.” Slidell was shaking his head at the sign. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mixcoatl is the Aztec god of the hunt.”

The restaurant was small and smelled of grilled meat. Inside the entrance, to the right, was a board filled with flyers, announcements, and posters, all in Spanish. On the left was a cash register counter. The tables were wood, the chairs high-backed, carved, and painted primary colors.

At midafternoon the place was deserted. Slidell and I held a moment, then seated ourselves by the front window.

In seconds a woman stepped through beads strung from a doorjamb to block the view into the kitchen. She wore a getup that looked vaguely Mexican. Puffy-sleeved white cotton blouse. Brightly colored textile skirt.

“Buenos días,” I said.

“Sorry you must wait,” the woman replied.

“We’re in no hurry.” Big smile.

The woman handed us menus. They were laminated and featured pictures of standard Mexican fare.

“I know exactly what I want.” I aimed another friendly grin her way. “Chicken enchiladas verdes and a Jarritos lime soda.”

The woman nodded.

Slidell ordered a beef burrito and a Dr Pepper. One brow formed a comma as the woman clacked through the beads.

“Buenos días?”

“I wanted to get her talking.”

“Think she’s our gal?”

I gestured “Who knows?”

Thought a moment.

“The call came into my voicemail around one thirty. This place doesn’t look like a big operation.”

I scanned the restaurant, saw no landline or portable at the register.

“The phone must be in back.”

“Meaning employee access only.” Slidell got my meaning. Short list of possible callers.

Our food arrived quickly. Though I was friendly as hell, the woman ignored my attempts to engage her in conversation. In either language.

As she withdrew, I tried peering through the beads closing behind her. Caught a glimpse of an old man working the grill. His face looked bronzed by a thousand hours in the sun. A white apron looped his neck and was tied at the small of his back.

As we ate, my gaze drifted to the window, to the parking lot dimly visible on the far side. The Mini was gone, and the Lexus had been replaced by an SUV. The pickup hadn’t budged. From this angle I could see what looked like a silhouette behind the wheel.

“—by the tracks you’ve got the Bronco Club. Can’t tell me those ladies don’t do double duty.”

Slidell was still channeled on the idea that the hit-and-run victim was a hooker.

“There is no evidence the kid was turning tricks.”

“Yeah? How about bingo-bingo on the DNA?” Slidell took a slug of his soda, smacked the can down. “I don’t have all day. Let’s do this thing.”

Before I could stop him, he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop to summon the waitress. She appeared and crossed to us.

“How ’bout a check?”

The woman pulled a small tablet from her skirt pocket. As she totaled our bill, Slidell went straight for the kill.

“So, señorita. Made any interesting phone calls lately?”

The woman’s eyes rolled up. She looked at Slidell, at me, then placed the check on the table and hurried back to the kitchen.

“That was not smart,” I said.

“Yeah? Think she bolted because she ain’t the happy dialer?”

“I think she bolted because you frightened her.” Whispered, but angry. “Or she didn’t understand the question.”

“She understood.”

“If that’s true, I hope your haven’t freaked her so much she refuses to talk.” I snatched up the bill. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

I rose and walked to the cash register, hoping for the woman, not the old man. Once Slidell had left, she appeared.

“I apologize for my companion,” I said in Spanish.

The woman gazed at me across the barrier of the counter, brows tight to each other over her nose.

Instead of presenting the check, I withdrew a card from my purse and positioned it facing her.

The woman glanced down, then her eyes rose and held mine. And I knew. Slidell was right.

“I’m Dr. Brennan,” I said gently. “You phoned me last Friday.”

The dark eyes revealed nothing.

“You saw a girl’s picture in the paper. Perhaps on a flyer. That girl was hit by a car and left to die on the roadside.”

The woman went very still. A vein pulsed in the hollow at the base of her throat, softly lifting and dropping a tiny heart-shaped birthmark.

“We don’t know who she is. I think maybe you do.”

“No.”

“But you know something about her. And it troubles you.”

The woman’s eyes slid toward the kitchen. So did mine. Through the beads I could see the old man looking at something above what appeared to be a dairy case. Flickering light on his face suggested he was watching a wall-mounted TV.

The woman held out her hand. “Please. You pay.”

“The man I am with is a police detective. He traced the call to this restaurant. He can tie you to it.” Unlikely, but I knew Slidell was probably getting antsy. “If you have information and refuse to reveal it, he can charge you with obstruction of justice. Do you understand what that is?”

The woman shook her head. As I explained the term in Spanish, her eyes grew wide.

“What’s your name?”

“Rosalie.” Barely audible.

“Rosalie . . . ?”

“D’Ostillo. Rosalie D’Ostillo. Please. I am legal. I have—”

“I don’t care about that, Rosalie.”

Again her eyes flicked toward the kitchen.

“Or about anyone else’s immigration status. A young girl is dead. It’s my job to find out who she is and what happened to her. Every detail is important.”

I touched her wrist gently.

“Rosalie . . .”

She yanked her hand free. For a moment I thought she was about to bolt.

“I . . . I make calls. Two.”

“You did the right thing.”

She allowed the slightest dip of her chin. I didn’t push, just allowed her to speak at her own pace.

“I saw her picture. On a pole. I think to myself, Rosalie, you know this girl.”

Again I waited.

“She was here. I remember because the”—she touched her hair, miming a clipping motion—“the pink thing.”

“A barrette?” I felt a fizz in my chest. “Shaped like a cat?”

“ Sí. I remember this cat when I see it in the photo. The face look different, but it is this girl who was here. She eat a cheese enchilada. They all do.”

“Did the girl also have a pink purse shaped like a cat?” Fighting to keep my voice calm.

“A purse, yes. Pink like hair thing.”

“When was this?”

Rosalie’s eyes narrowed in thought.

“Dos semanas.”

Two weeks. Around the time of Jane Doe’s death.

“Did she come here often?”

“No. Just once.”

“Was she with someone?”

Slidell chose that moment to stick his head through the door.

“Not getting any younger out here, doc.”

“Just a few more minutes.” I gave him my squinty-eye look.

Slidell sighed but didn’t object. When the door closed, I urged Rosalie to continue.

“Three girls, one man. They eat, they leave. He pay.”

“What was the mood?”

Rosalie looked at me, not understanding.

“Did the girls seem happy?”

Rosalie shook her head. “Nerviosas.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They look at table, not my eye. No smile. No talk.”