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

Or had it gone the other way? Had Rockett proposed a moneymaking scheme to John-Henry, knowing Story had the infrastructure to make it work?

I thought of something. Jotted the identifier citizenjustice on the left side of the board.

The bearer of that name had sent threatening e-mails to me. Had that same person murdered D’Ostillo and delivered her tongue as a warning?

I stared at D’Ostillo’s ravaged face. Wondered. Who was the man in the hat and upturned collar she’d served in the taquería? Rockett was only a best guess.

Ray Majerick? Someone of whom we were unaware? A male counterpart to Mrs. Tarzec?

I jotted Mrs. Tarzec’s name and drew lines to Candy, John-Henry, and the words “Passion Fruit.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Pinched the bridge of my nose.

A tiny itch in my brain kept pestering. Asking to be scratched.

What was I missing?

The lines were crisscrossing like an Etch A Sketch pattern gone wrong. What threads were important? What intersections?

Clearly the Passion Fruit. A lot of lines converged there. Candy. Creach. Majerick. Story. Rockett. D’Ostillo. Tarzec.

Ditto for Candy. Every line led to her.

Still the itch.

What was the subliminal memory I couldn’t call up? What hidden data byte dozed in my id?

I stared at the crazy quilt of photos, names, and lines, willing the answer to make itself known. Stared at Candy’s bloodless face, frustrated, desperate to fulfill my promise to her.

What was eluding me?

Rockett. Why did he make trips to Texas and come back empty? Or did he?

John-Henry Story. Why was his lounge card in Candy’s purse? Was Story really dead?

Discouraged, I got a hand lens from the study and started moving from picture to picture.

Candy, face bruised and fractured. Blond hair bound by the little-girl barrette.

No. No tears .

I sipped some coffee, now tepid, checked on Charlie, then turned back to the photos.

Story and Rockett at John-Henry’s Tavern, neither man smiling. Story rodent-lean. Rockett’s mangled features shadowed by a hat pulled down to his brows.

I moved the lens across the snapshot, taking in details.

A brass rail paralleled the right edge of the bar, a strip of brightness lighting the curvature of its surface.

“Camera flash,” I muttered to no one.

Beyond the table, a jukebox. On the wall above, three or four decals, none larger than a man’s palm.

No, not decals. Military patches. I hadn’t noticed them on my visit with Slidell. The patches were similar to the ones I’d seen at the Green Bean at Bagram.

Was that the heads-up my hindbrain was offering?

I raised and lowered the lens, trying to make out unit totems or names. The image quality was too poor. Tomorrow I’d take the photo to the MCME and view it under higher power with the dissecting scope.

My eyes continued tracking across the magnified image.

Suddenly stopped.

I nearly dropped the glass.

The photo’s upper left corner caught a section of the old mirror in the main eating area. The glass was angled, not flush with the wall. I guessed it hung by a horizontal wire placed a bit too low.

The mirror reflected a ten-foot bubble of space in front of the table at which Rockett and Story were seated. In it stood a man, arms raised, elbows flexed, face largely obscured by a small box camera and the sunburst of its flash.

The man’s body was visible from the neck down. He was in jeans and a dark T-shirt. And had a tattoo I’d seen before.

I felt adrenaline start to seep into my blood.

All my theories skidded sideways.

IMPOSSIBLE.

Yet there he was.

Coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidence.

But how did he work it?

Didn’t matter.

I retrieved a brown corrugated file from the study, emptied the contents onto the dining room table, and began reading every page.

It didn’t take long.

How had I missed it?

Oblivious to the possibility.

Careless?

Sudden realization. Another possibility overlooked?

I went to the parlor, took Candy’s photo from the lineup, and studied it again under magnification.

The dusky skin. The dark-rooted blond hair.

Rosalie D’Ostillo spoke Spanish to the girls but got no response. Fear of their handler? Or another explanation?

My mind was on fire now, spitting data forgotten since the time it was stored.

I raced upstairs and snatched a photo from the bureau. Sat on the bed. Placed the bureau photo on my knees beside the morgue shot of Candy. Looked from one to the other, forcing the lens steady in my hand.

Holy shit.

I flipped the bureau photo. Read the handwritten list on the back.

Holy free-flying shit.

I grabbed the phone and dialed.

Got Slidell’s voicemail.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

My eyes flew to the clock. 10:40. Slidell was probably at the massage parlor in NoDa.

I left a message. Call me ASAP. It’s urgent.

I disconnected. Tossed the handset onto the bed. Got up and paced.

Everyone carries a mobile. Why couldn’t Slidell keep his turned on?

10:45.

Come on. Come on .

More pacing.

10:50.

Keep busy .

I double-stepped down the stairs and made myself more coffee, knowing caffeine was the last thing I needed. To keep my mind occupied, I returned to the papers covering the dining room table.

Verified.

Thought about the implications.

Of course. That had to be it.

11:05.

Where the hell was Slidell?

I ran to the study. Punched speed dial on that handset.

“ ’Lo.” Pete sounded groggy.

“It’s Tempe.”

“Yes.” Pete yawned. “I know that.”

“I need a favor.”

A woman spoke in the background, words also sleepy thick.

“You’re up late. Partying?”

“Does it sound like there’s a party here?” I snapped.

“Whoa. Bad day?”

“I have a question for you.”

“Bring it on.”

I asked.

“Maria . . . no, Marianna. Mariette? No, definitely Marianna.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Is it important to know this now?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on.”

I heard bed linens swish. A whiny protest from Summer. Then the ambient sound changed, as though Pete had moved to another room.

In moments I had my answer.

“Thanks, Pete. I have to . . .”

“You okay? You sound strange.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got to go. Thanks.”

11:10.

I disconnected and called Slidell again. Left the same message.

It all made sense. Terrible, improbable sense.

I returned to the lineup on the mantel. Stared at the photo from John-Henry’s Tavern. At the man hidden by the camera flash.

“You vile sonofabitch,” I whispered under my breath.

But now what? It was nearing midnight.

Wait to hear from Slidell? Wait until morning?

Other girls were in danger. I knew it in my gut. If they weren’t dead already. Like Candy.

Or had they been taken to another town, another state? To disappear forever into the pipeline.

No. They were still in Charlotte. I was certain.

A million places to hold girls prisoner.

Two million to bury their bodies.

Slidell had talked to Rockett, to Tarzec. These animals knew the knot was tightening. And had zero respect for human life.

If alive, would the girls survive to see daylight?

Where the hell was Slidell?

Where the hell was Birdie?

I dashed outside for another look. Another round of shouting. No cat.

I pictured e-mails. Citizenjustice. A tongue in a box.