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

My breath caught in my throat.

The woman’s mouth gaped wide. Too wide.

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, no.”

Despite the blood, I could see that the woman’s mouth was empty.

I stared, shocked and sickened. Knowing. The woman’s tongue had been severed, packaged, and left on my doorstep. Had I met her?

The woman’s features were too distorted to allow recognition. If I even knew her.

I ran my gaze down the supine body. The clothing was unremarkable, a jacket, dark pants, sensible shoes.

I worked my way back up.

The jacket was stained with what I assumed to be blood.

My gaze fell on the woman’s neck.

One heartbeat. Two. A dozen.

The icy needles burned hotter.

I grabbed my hand lens. Focused.

Saw a heart-shaped mark in the hollow of the woman’s throat.

My fist slammed the desk.

Goddammit! Goddammit! Goddammit!

Tears burned the backs of my lids.

I got up. Paced. Furious. Miserable.

Culpable?

When the phone rang I nearly ignored it.

“What!” More expletive than question.

“You okay, doc?” Slidell.

“I . . . Are you near a computer?”

“Can be.”

“I’m forwarding a photo to your e-mail.”

“Could take a minute.”

“Call as soon as you get it.” I prayed my voice didn’t reveal how gutted I felt.

“I thought you wanted—”

“Do it!”

More pacing.

The phone rang twelve minutes later.

“Citizenjustice. Who is this dickwad?”

I listened to Slidell’s breathing, knew he was studying the image.

“It’s D’Ostillo,” I said.

“The waitress at the Mixcoatl?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“See the birthmark on her throat?”

Slidell grunted.

“It’s D’Ostillo. She talked to us and was killed.”

“Now don’t go thinking this is your fault.”

“Really? Whose is it? Whose idea was it to go to that restaurant?”

“She’s the one called you.”

“And for being a good Samaritan she gets her tongue hacked out!”

I was close to tears. And hating it. Especially when talking to Slidell.

Slidell was silent for so long I thought he’d disconnected. Given my rudeness, I wouldn’t have blamed him.

“Getting sicker and sicker,” he said.

“Whoever did this plays for bigger stakes than one teenage hooker.”

“You’re thinking Candy and D’Ostillo are connected?”

“You don’t? Candy was killed near the taquería. D’Ostillo told us she’d seen Candy in there, said she worked at the Passion Fruit. D’Ostillo’s dead, Candy’s dead.”

“Still liking Rockett?”

“Right now he’s topping my list.”

“I’ll send the e-mail over to cyber crimes, see if they can capture an ISP. Techs can analyze the image. Filter it or enlarge it or whatever the fuck they do. Maybe we can nail the location.”

“What are the chances the body’s still there?”

Slidell made one of his Slidell noises. Then, “The Passion Fruit belongs to an outfit called SayDo, LLP.”

“What?”

He started to repeat. I cut him off.

“Who are the owners?”

“They’re not really into talking about themselves.”

“Someone’s looking into it?”

“As we speak. In the meantime, I got the warrant.”

“When do you hit?”

“Tonight. Putting a team together now.”

“I want in.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

THE NIGHT WAS COOL, THE air tainted with the smell of diesel and at least one peeved skunk. A full moon hung in the eastern sky, crossed by wispy fingers of black.

“Nice night for a raid.”

Slidell spoke from behind the wheel of a police cruiser. A uniformed cop named Rodriguez rode shotgun. I was in back.

Ours was one of four vehicles idling in an industrial lot on Griffin, a bump north and fifty yards west of the Passion Fruit Club. Three Chevy Suburbans held three SWAT guys each. Slidell had come loaded for bear. His words.

My heart hammered inside my Kevlar vest. Slidell’s idea. The thing was bulkier than the IBA I’d worn in Afghanistan. My ankle ached inside its boot.

Words spit from a radio clipped to Slidell’s vest. He looked at Rodriguez. Rodriguez nodded.

We got out. The others did the same, helmeted figures carrying AR-15 Bushmasters and Remington 700P .308 sniper rifles equipped with night vision. Bear.

“Place has two doors.” Slidell’s face was hard to see in the dark, but the edge to his voice told me he was amped. “We’re going in pincers-style, Alpha and Charlie through the front, Beta and Delta through the rear.”

“Any weapons inside?”

“Proceed as though the place is an arsenal.”

“We know how many are in there?”

“Negatory. You’ve been briefed on persons of interest. If Ray Majerick or Dominick Rockett is on the premises, bag ’em. By the book. No rough stuff. We don’t want some asshole pinstripe arguing brutality.”

We returned to our vehicles. Slidell cranked the engine, but not the lights. The armada rolled forward, silent but for the low growl of four motors and the crunch of sixteen tires on gravel.

As planned, two units stopped outside the tattoo parlor. Two others circled the buildings. A single car sat in front of the Passion Fruit.

Slidell cocked his head and pressed the transmit button on his rover. “Team Bravo in advance position?”

“Affirmative.”

“Charlie?”

“Affirmative.”

“Delta?”

“Affirmative.”

“Alpha says green light. Let’s boogie.”

A million headlamps and cherries lit the night. Our car shot forward, stopped so fast the rear end lurched left. Slidell and Rodriguez fired from their seats.

I opened my door. Slidell pivoted and jabbed a finger in my face.

“Your cheeks stay glued to that seat!”

“Fine!”

That was the deal. Remain in the car or get left behind.

Slidell and Rodriguez crouch-ran forward, Glocks double-gripped and pointed up at the sides of their helmets. Charlie team joined them outside the Passion Fruit, one to either side, one in front of the door.

Slidell spoke into his rover, not so quietly now.

“Go!”

One Charlie guy booted the door. I heard metal bang an inside wall. Glass shatter.

Slidell and Rodriguez steamrolled in. Charlie team followed.

Something boomed. A rear door?

I heard Slidell’s muffled bellow.

“Police! Everyone freeze!”

Someone screamed, high and shrill.

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.