Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

“A bad combination.”

“Scarborough’s handle doesn’t come from his name. He once put a scar on a girl’s face the size of my hand. Used a hot poker.”

“Think Ruben might attempt to hook up with him?” I asked.

“I think she’d try Forex first. But who knows.”

“What now?” I asked neither of them in particular.

“Now we wait for my guys to sniff Ruben out. I’ve booked two rooms at the Best Western. That’s about a block from here. You want to check in or grab something to eat?”

“I’m famished,” I said.

“Gourmet or cheap?”

“Quick.”

“Burgers all right?”

“Perfect.”

* * *

At ten-thirty P.M. the Burger Express hosted only two other customers: an old geezer I suspected might have cadged his meal, and a teen with a backpack and no visible eyes.

The kid manning the counter looked like an escapee from rehab. Scuzzy teeth. Ratty hair. Nightmare acne.

Didn’t diminish my appetite. I ordered the mastodon burger. Or whatever the colossus was called. Onion rings. Diet Coke.

As we ate, Ollie filled us in on Susan Forex.

“She was collared twice after filing the report on Ruben. Once as part of a general sweep—that time she skated. Once for soliciting—that bought her a year of probation.”

“Then straight back to the life.” Ryan sounded disgusted.

“Something like that.” Ollie’s tone could have frozen peas.

“Guess she missed the constant round of parties and gallery openings.”

“Forex is different from most girls on the stroll.”

“Meaning?”

“Forget it.”

Ryan turned to me. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

I was already regretting my menu selections. And the speed with which I’d ingested the damn things.

Ryan left to score caffeine. Perhaps to light up. Though he’d kicked cigarettes years back, recently I’d smelled smoke on his clothes and hair. That along with the uncharacteristic surliness meant he was edgy as hell.

We were shoving waxy wrappers back into grease-stained bags when Ollie’s mobile buzzed. While he took the call, I crossed to an overfilled trash bin and mashed our contribution into the mix.

When I returned to the booth, Ollie looked like a kid who’d found his lost puppy after a very long search.

“Forex is at a bar over near the Coliseum.”

“Is Ruben with her?’

“She’s alone. And working.”

“You’re thinking surprise visit?”

“Popping in during business hours might make her more forthcoming.”

We both smiled, then I started toward the door. Halfway there, a hand caught my arm. I turned.

Ollie was wearing that face men don when they’re about to go macho.

“You often think about”—he gestured from his chest to mine—“us?”

“Never.”

“Sure you do.”

“There was no,” I hooked finger quotes, “us.”

“We had a hell of a time.”

“Mostly you were a jerk.”

“I was young.”

“And now you’re a wise old sage.”

“People change.”

“You got a girlfriend, Ollie?”

“Not currently.”

“Why’s that?”

“Haven’t found the right one.”

“The love of your life.”

Ollie shrugged.

“We should go,” I said.

“Don’t want to keep Detective Douchebag waiting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The guy’s not the best company.”

“You deliberately provoke him.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Ollie.” I drilled him with a look that said I meant business. “Did you discuss”—I mimicked his gesture—“us with Detective Ryan?”

“I may have mentioned that I knew you.” The flicker in his gaze was all the tell I needed.

“You unprincipled bastard.”

Before I could react, Ollie pulled me close and pinned my body to his chest. “When we wrap this up, you know you’re going to want me,” he whispered in my ear.

Pushing hard with both palms, I disengaged. “Never gonna happen.”

I whipped around, hot-wired with revulsion.

Ryan was standing outside the door, staring in through the glass. In the garish neon, his face looked drawn and gaunt.

Shit. Shit. Shit .

Uncertain how much he’d seen, I gave a thumbs-up and smiled brightly. Good news!

Ryan walked into the shadows, features so tight, they looked painted on his bones.

OLLIE DROVE. I RODE SHOTGUN. RYAN SAT IN BACK.

A light rain had begun to fall. As we wound through the city, a kaleidoscope of blurred color and shadow slipped past my window. The wipers beat a slow metronome on the windshield.

Ten minutes out, Ollie turned onto a street lined with bars, strip clubs, and fast-food joints, all lit and open for business. Fragmented neon glistened on the pavement and splashed across signs, cars, and taxis.

A few small businesses elbowed for position: an auto supply outfit, a pawnshop, a liquor store. Their windows were dark and barred against vandalism and theft.

A handful of men in sweatshirts and windbreakers moved in both directions, heads down, shoulders hunched. Here and there smokers lingered in doorways, enduring the wind and damp for a nicotine fix.

Ollie pulled to the curb in front of a two-story brick building with XXX Adult Store painted on one side. In addition to the world’s largest collection of movies and images, the enterprise offered twenty-five-cent peep shows twenty-four/seven.

“Your heart’s desire right here, for a price.” Ollie swept a hand across the squalid scene around us. “Drugs. Women. Boys. Weapons. You want a hit man, you can probably find that, too.”

“How about Susan Forex?” I said.

“Let’s see what we can do.”

Ollie punched a number on his speed dial and put the phone to his ear.

I heard a voice on the other end but couldn’t make out the words.

“In front of the triple-X,” Ollie said after several seconds.

Pause.

“How long?”

Pause.

“Anything on Ruben?”

Pause.

“Call me the minute you do.”

Snapping the lid, he said, “Lucky break. The lady’s not having a profitable evening.”

We all got out. As Ollie wheep-wheep ed the locks, I slipped on a jacket I’d pulled from my roll-aboard.

The air smelled of fried food, gasoline, and wet concrete. Muffled music pulsed from a building to our right, boomed as a patron emerged, grew muted again when the door swung shut.

Ollie led us fifty yards north to a stucco box whose sign identified it as the Cowboy Lounge. The neon cowgirl wore nothing but a ten-gallon hat.

“I do the talking.” Ollie aimed that at Ryan. “She knows me. I’m less threatening.”

Ryan said nothing.

“You good with that, Detective?”

“I’m good with that, Sergeant.”

Ollie entered. I followed. Ryan brought up the rear. We all stopped a few feet inside the entrance.

The first thing to hit me was the smell, a noxious blend of stale beer, cigarette smoke, reefer, disinfectant, and human sweat. The stink invaded my nose as my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

To the left, the crack of pool balls drifted from a room set off by swinging half-doors. The bar was straight ahead, a carved wooden affair with an ornate mirror behind and stools in front.

At midbar, a plaid-shirted man drew beer from a long-handled tap. He had moles on his face and jittery eyes that landed on us a nanosecond, then moved on.

A dozen mismatched tables filled the space to the right. Framed posters covered the walls around them—Gene Autry, John Wayne, the Cisco Kid.