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

“I’m sure the Peruvian government is thrilled you recovered their artifacts.”

“Which brings up a good point. Their head archaeologist is quite anxious to have the specimens returned promptly. And he very much hopes your examination can be as noninvasive as possible.”

“Of course. I’m hoping I can see all that I need to with X-rays.”

There was a long pause. Then, “I suppose I can share some facts, since you are involved in the case. The mummy bundles arrived as part of a shipment of pottery. Apparently Mr. Rockett thought we couldn’t tell bones from ceramics.”

“Seems pretty amateurish. Has Rockett been in the import business for long?”

“Since the early nineties.”

“In all that time he’s never been caught with illegal goods?”

“Mr. Rockett has either been straight, careful, or extraordinarily lucky. But the gentleman’s luck ran out on this one. The bundles turned up in a random check.”

“What’s his explanation?”

“He says he bought them from a farmer who owns the land where his son dug them up.”

“If he’s a successful importer, why risk smuggling antiquities?”

“He claims he had no idea they were old.”

Dew made one of those thinking-with-your-lips-or-teeth sounds. Deciding how much more to share?

“Are you familiar with Mr. Rockett’s background?”

“Only that he collects and sells indigenous arts and crafts from South America.”

“Have you met him, Dr. Brennan?”

“No.”

“Seen him?”

“No.” What the hell?

“Mr. Rockett is a veteran of Desert Storm. 1990.”

“The first Gulf War.”

“I’m not certain of the whole story. Perhaps a Scud missile, perhaps burning oil. Rockett suffered severe burns, leaving him badly scarred.”

I said nothing.

“War is cruel, Dr. Brennan. Mr. Rockett returned to a country where no one would hire him because of his disfigurement. Or so he believes.”

Still, I just listened.

“He couldn’t find a job. He was frustrated. Then Mr. Rockett remembered the souks of the Middle East, the goods available for next to nothing. Jewelry. Clothing. Household items. He formulated a plan. Buy overseas, sell stateside at tenfold the purchase price. Trinkets for the undiscerning.”

“Wouldn’t Rockett have a military pension, and disability?”

“Of course. But his import business provides a nice subsidy.”

“But the mummy bundles came from Peru.”

“Some time back, Mr. Rockett shifted his focus to South America.”

“Why?”

“Geographic proximity? Ease of operation? Personal safety?” I heard the swish of fabric, pictured impeccably clad shoulders rising in a shrug. “I really couldn’t say.”

“Americans aren’t popular in the Middle East these days.”

“Uprisings, revolutions, civil wars, kidnappings. Political instability negatively impacts any enterprise. Perhaps upheaval in the Middle East made South America more appealing.”

“Let me ask you something.” Casual, as though the thought had just entered my mind. “I’ve got a girl here, fourteen to fifteen years old, possibly Latina, possibly undocumented. She was killed in a hit and run near Old Pineville Road last night. We’re having trouble getting an ID.”

“Go on.”

“She had a pink kitty purse and hair barrette, and was wearing a short denim skirt, red blouse, and embroidered boots.”

“Sounds like any teenager. What makes you think she’s illegal?”

“She had a note in her purse about English language classes at a local Catholic church. The note was written in Spanish, and the parish also holds Spanish language mass. That, plus the fact that she had no form of ID, no keys, makes the lead investigator suspect she’s Latina.”

“Sorry, but I do artifacts, not people. I specialize in the illicit importation and distribution of cultural property, and the illegal trafficking of artwork. Besides, if this girl has not been determined with reasonable certainty to be illegal, ICE would not be involved.”

“Is there a colleague you could ask?”

“I’d help if I could. But unless you know your victim was undocumented . . . And even then . . .” Dew sounded distracted. “It’s not as if we have a list of every person who enters the country illegally. It’s quite the opposite. Sorry.”

“Sure.”

“When might you complete your examination of the mummy bundles?”

“Soon.”

“Please keep me posted.”

“Will do. And thanks for your time, Agent Dew.”

My fingers lingered on the cradled receiver.

And my nerves buzzed with frustration.

Dew was a dead end.

Slidell had his mind glued to a theory.

Time to call it a day. A lousy one.

Again, the nagging thought. Had I missed something?

Without making a conscious decision, I got up and walked to the cooler, my rubber soles squeaking softly in the stillness. Cold air whooshed when I pulled open the heavy steel door, enveloping me in the smell of refrigerated flesh. I flipped on the light.

Six gurneys lined the walls, three holding occupied body bags. I checked tags until I found the one marked MCME 580-13. Unknown .

I was glad no next of kin ever saw this frigid crypt. No mother ever viewed her child stiff from the cold. No husband ever gazed on his wife labeled with digits and letters.

I swallowed. Partially unzipped MCME 580-13.

The girl’s hair trailed like seaweed across her forehead, tangled and yellow.

Somehow wrong with her olive skin and dark lashes and brows. I looked closely at her roots. Noted a quarter inch of black at her scalp.

The girl’s hair was bleached. Could Slidell be right?

On reflex, I brushed wayward strands from the girl’s face. The pink barrette loosened and fell to the side of her head.

An image popped. Katy, blond curls in dual ponies, plastic barrettes holding unruly escapees.

I retrieved the girl’s lone possession and clipped it firmly in place. My hand lingered as it had on the phone.

“You have my promise.” My voice sounded brittle in the small icy space. “I will find your family. I will send you home.”

Wanting to take a headshot, I reached for my iPhone.

Empty pocket.

My mobile was in my purse.

In my car.

In the courthouse parking lot.

The car I couldn’t retrieve because I had no ride.

The car I couldn’t drive because I had no key.

Cursing, I rousted up the Polaroid. After snapping the girl’s picture, I spent one more silent moment studying her features, then rezipped the bag.

Back in my office, I scanned the photo and e-mailed it to myself. Then I gophered through my desk drawers, hoping for peanut butter crackers or a stale granola bar. Lunch at the courthouse had been a Snickers.

My food quest turned up zip.

Great. I’d return hungry and empty-handed to my town house. To a peeved cat. And an empty fridge.

I was Googling for locksmiths and taxi services when the phone rang again. The call changed my plans.

I DON’T NORMALLY TENSE AT the sound of Pete’s voice.

Janis “Pete” Petersons. My ex. Sort of. Long story.

I fell for Pete in college. He was wrapping up law school, a post-fratboy charmer. Good mind, good body, good prospects. Good talker.

Our marriage was dandy for almost twenty years. Might have lasted if Pete hadn’t started sharing his charms with other women.

That aside—big aside, there—once we separated and time soothed the anger and hurt, I grew to like Pete’s company again. In the parlor, not the bedroom. Though, truth be told, the old embers can still smolder now and again.