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

“The Saturn dealerships and the pizzerias.”

“You got it. But the bros weren’t exactly circling the drain. They’d diversified. And buried their investments in layers and layers of umbrella LPs and LLPs and other legal bullshit.”

“What does this have to do with Candy and Rosalie?” Ryan’s visit had left me drained. I wanted to curl up and sleep until the pain receded.

No. What I wanted was a drink. Cabernet or pinot noir until euphoria, then oblivion. But I knew how a binge would end. Knew the self-loathing that would follow. I’d been down that road. Wouldn’t travel it again.

“Will you let me finish?” Slidell snapped.

My sigh conveyed impatience equal to his.

“Turns out one of these little shelters is SayDo.”

That got my attention. “The Passion Fruit Club.”

“The Passion Fruit and four other massage joints. Names are real magic. I’ll spare you.”

“Holy shit.” Facts were winging. John-Henry Story. The US Airways club card in Candy’s purse. The Passion Fruit.

“Yeah. Holy shit.”

“How did we miss that?”

“It took time to untangle the mess. The guy I had working it got diverted to another case. And I got sidelined with the damn MP.”

“Now what?”

“Now I figure out how to get to Archer Story.”

“Just bring him in.”

“I do that, he’ll lawyer up tighter than a frog’s nuts.”

I ignored the metaphor. “You can’t even question him?”

“Based on what? He owns skin joints and we think maybe the personnel director offed one of the hookers?”

“What about a nasty habit called human trafficking?” I felt like screaming.

“The raid turned up dick.”

“Of course it did. Someone tipped Tarzec, so she moved the girls and sanitized the place.”

Silence.

“Will you at least check out the other massage parlors?”

“I got nothing to get a warrant. And, needless to say, my credibility took a nosedive after the fiasco at the Passion Fruit.”

“Jesus, Slidell. These people killed Candy. And D’Ostillo. They’ll kill again if they feel threatened. These girls mean nothing to them.”

Slidell was silent a moment.

“There’s a SayDo joint up in NoDa. I’ll swing by tonight. Unofficial like.”

“Keep me looped in.”

“If it makes you any happier, I dropped in on Rockett for a little more face time.”

Slidell didn’t seize the opportunity for humor on that. Good sign.

“And?”

“He told me I could suck his dick.”

When we’d disconnected, I went upstairs for a long, hot bath. And realized I still hadn’t seen Birdie. I’d been distracted by Slidell’s call. Then Ryan showed up. Then Slidell phoned again.

Had the scamp slipped through the open door while Ryan and I were on the sidewalk? Stupid not closing it. He loves to sneak out, I suspect mainly to get my attention. I always find him in the shrubbery, within inches of the foundation.

Cursing, I trudged back downstairs and out the front door. Called his name. No cat.

I circled the building, my annoyance increasing each time my summoning went unanswered. Eventually, I expanded my search onto the grounds.

After fifteen minutes, I gave up. Told myself to relax. He’d done this before. He’d come home when hungry.

The bath was a bust. I lay in bubbles up to my chin, sadness and worry foreclosing any relaxation.

Lily, dying before her twentieth birthday.

Ryan, excluding me in his time of sorrow. Forever?

Katy, fighting in Afghanistan.

Pete, marrying a bimbo with a boob size exceeding her IQ.

D’Ostillo, trying to do right, getting murdered and mutilated.

Candy, perishing on a two-lane, alone and terrified.

How had Candy ended up on that dark stretch of road? Was she trafficked? Lured by someone she trusted? Stolen and caged like stock?

What fate awaited her had she lived? To be brutalized, her body a commodity exploited until its value was gone? What then?

Were others out there suffering the same hell?

My mind was in overdrive. I had to do something to squelch the terrible thoughts and images ping-ponging in my skull.

I got out, dried off, and pulled on sweats. Yanked my hair into a pony and headed downstairs.

I shouted through both the front and kitchen doors. Shook a bag of his favorite treats. Still no Birdie. My annoyance was joined by a tickle of apprehension. Why?

Ping.

Blanton had mentioned my cat. He’d been waiting just a block from the annex.

Paranoia, Brennan .

I brewed coffee, went to the study closet, and pulled out a large erasable board I use for structuring lectures. Then I got Scotch tape and a marker from the desk.

After propping the board on the mantel in the parlor, I collected every picture I’d accumulated over the past two and a half weeks. Snapshots, crime-scene photos, Polaroids, printouts, mug shots.

I started by taping up a picture of Candy, the hit-and-run victim whose real name we still didn’t know. Beside it I placed one of the snapshots I’d liberated from John-Henry’s Tavern. Pictured was John-Henry Story, the man whose US Airways club card Candy had inside her purse lining.

Using the marker, I drew a line between Candy and John-Henry.

Next I posted the second “borrowed” snapshot, Dominick Rockett at the tavern with John-Henry Story. Rockett, the smuggler who traveled to South America and made mysterious trips to Texas. Rockett, customer or maybe more than a customer at the Passion Fruit Club, owned by John-Henry and his brother, Archer, via SayDo. And employer of Candy.

I drew lines connecting Candy and Rockett, Rockett and John-Henry Story.

After jotting the name Passion Fruit on the right side of the board, I drew lines connecting the massage parlor to Candy, Rockett, and John-Henry.

Next in the lineup went the mug shot of CC Creach. Creach’s semen was found on Candy. Creach was a patron of the Passion Fruit, and said Candy and the other girls were afraid of Rockett. And of Ray Majerick, who was often there.

I added Majerick to the row. Majerick’s semen was also found on Candy. Majerick had a history as a sexual predator.

I drew lines between Candy and Creach, Candy and Majerick, Majerick and Creach, Majerick and Rockett, Majerick and John-Henry Story. Then between both Creach and Majerick and the words “Passion Fruit.”

I paused to consider.

Majerick had been seen at the Passion Fruit and had sex with Candy. Did that mean he knew John-Henry Story? I erased parts of that line, converting it to a dotted connector.

The last photo to go up was Rosalie D’Ostillo. My stomach still tightened on seeing the hideous mutilation.

D’Ostillo saw Candy at the Mixcoatl. The taquería was located close to the Passion Fruit. Like Creach, D’Ostillo thought Candy and the other girls spoke Spanish. D’Ostillo was murdered within hours of talking to me. Her tongue was left on my doorstep.

I drew a line from D’Ostillo to Candy, a dotted link to the words “Passion Fruit.”

Then I stepped back and surveyed my work.

The board showed a maze of interconnections. Which ones were meaningful? Which were spurious? Was Candy’s killer one of the men whose pictures I’d posted? Was I staring at his face right now?

How did the lines link up?

I moved my eyes from photo to photo.

Candy, lying on her morgue gurney. How did John-Henry Story’s US Airways club card end up in her purse? How did semen from Creach and Majerick end up on her skin? Turning tricks? Voluntary sex? Rape?

Dom Rockett and John-Henry Story sharing a beer. The two were partners in S&S. How had Rockett acquired the money to invest? Aware of his illegal trafficking in antiquities, did Story approach Rockett about doing the same with humans? Rockett was a smuggler, knew the routes, the cops and agents who could be bribed, the border-crossing points most easily breached.