Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel

TAQUERÍA MIXCOATL WAS LOCATED ON a grotty little spur coming off Griffin Road, a two-lane winding west from Old Pineville to dead-end at the Charlotte Marriot Executive Park. The restaurant sat between a tattoo parlor and an auto-parts discounter. All three businesses had barred windows and grimy glass through which it was impossible to see.

Slidell swung into the lot and parked two doors down from the taquería. Only three other cars were present: a red Mini Cooper, a gray Lexus, and a jacked-up Chevy pickup with windows as dark as the glass in the shops.

“Mixed Coat All.” Slidell was shaking his head at the sign. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mixcoatl is the Aztec god of the hunt.”

The restaurant was small and smelled of grilled meat. Inside the entrance, to the right, was a board filled with flyers, announcements, and posters, all in Spanish. On the left was a cash register counter. The tables were wood, the chairs high-backed, carved, and painted primary colors.

At midafternoon the place was deserted. Slidell and I held a moment, then seated ourselves by the front window.

In seconds a woman stepped through beads strung from a doorjamb to block the view into the kitchen. She wore a getup that looked vaguely Mexican. Puffy-sleeved white cotton blouse. Brightly colored textile skirt.

“Buenos días,” I said.

“Sorry you must wait,” the woman replied.

“We’re in no hurry.” Big smile.

The woman handed us menus. They were laminated and featured pictures of standard Mexican fare.

“I know exactly what I want.” I aimed another friendly grin her way. “Chicken enchiladas verdes and a Jarritos lime soda.”

The woman nodded.

Slidell ordered a beef burrito and a Dr Pepper. One brow formed a comma as the woman clacked through the beads.

“Buenos días?”

“I wanted to get her talking.”

“Think she’s our gal?”

I gestured “Who knows?”

Thought a moment.

“The call came into my voicemail around one thirty. This place doesn’t look like a big operation.”

I scanned the restaurant, saw no landline or portable at the register.

“The phone must be in back.”

“Meaning employee access only.” Slidell got my meaning. Short list of possible callers.

Our food arrived quickly. Though I was friendly as hell, the woman ignored my attempts to engage her in conversation. In either language.

As she withdrew, I tried peering through the beads closing behind her. Caught a glimpse of an old man working the grill. His face looked bronzed by a thousand hours in the sun. A white apron looped his neck and was tied at the small of his back.

As we ate, my gaze drifted to the window, to the parking lot dimly visible on the far side. The Mini was gone, and the Lexus had been replaced by an SUV. The pickup hadn’t budged. From this angle I could see what looked like a silhouette behind the wheel.

“—by the tracks you’ve got the Bronco Club. Can’t tell me those ladies don’t do double duty.”

Slidell was still channeled on the idea that the hit-and-run victim was a hooker.

“There is no evidence the kid was turning tricks.”

“Yeah? How about bingo-bingo on the DNA?” Slidell took a slug of his soda, smacked the can down. “I don’t have all day. Let’s do this thing.”

Before I could stop him, he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop to summon the waitress. She appeared and crossed to us.

“How ’bout a check?”

The woman pulled a small tablet from her skirt pocket. As she totaled our bill, Slidell went straight for the kill.

“So, señorita. Made any interesting phone calls lately?”

The woman’s eyes rolled up. She looked at Slidell, at me, then placed the check on the table and hurried back to the kitchen.

“That was not smart,” I said.

“Yeah? Think she bolted because she ain’t the happy dialer?”

“I think she bolted because you frightened her.” Whispered, but angry. “Or she didn’t understand the question.”

“She understood.”

“If that’s true, I hope your haven’t freaked her so much she refuses to talk.” I snatched up the bill. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

I rose and walked to the cash register, hoping for the woman, not the old man. Once Slidell had left, she appeared.

“I apologize for my companion,” I said in Spanish.

The woman gazed at me across the barrier of the counter, brows tight to each other over her nose.

Instead of presenting the check, I withdrew a card from my purse and positioned it facing her.

The woman glanced down, then her eyes rose and held mine. And I knew. Slidell was right.

“I’m Dr. Brennan,” I said gently. “You phoned me last Friday.”

The dark eyes revealed nothing.

“You saw a girl’s picture in the paper. Perhaps on a flyer. That girl was hit by a car and left to die on the roadside.”

The woman went very still. A vein pulsed in the hollow at the base of her throat, softly lifting and dropping a tiny heart-shaped birthmark.

“We don’t know who she is. I think maybe you do.”

“No.”

“But you know something about her. And it troubles you.”

The woman’s eyes slid toward the kitchen. So did mine. Through the beads I could see the old man looking at something above what appeared to be a dairy case. Flickering light on his face suggested he was watching a wall-mounted TV.

The woman held out her hand. “Please. You pay.”

“The man I am with is a police detective. He traced the call to this restaurant. He can tie you to it.” Unlikely, but I knew Slidell was probably getting antsy. “If you have information and refuse to reveal it, he can charge you with obstruction of justice. Do you understand what that is?”

The woman shook her head. As I explained the term in Spanish, her eyes grew wide.

“What’s your name?”

“Rosalie.” Barely audible.

“Rosalie . . . ?”

“D’Ostillo. Rosalie D’Ostillo. Please. I am legal. I have—”

“I don’t care about that, Rosalie.”

Again her eyes flicked toward the kitchen.

“Or about anyone else’s immigration status. A young girl is dead. It’s my job to find out who she is and what happened to her. Every detail is important.”

I touched her wrist gently.

“Rosalie . . .”

She yanked her hand free. For a moment I thought she was about to bolt.

“I . . . I make calls. Two.”

“You did the right thing.”

She allowed the slightest dip of her chin. I didn’t push, just allowed her to speak at her own pace.

“I saw her picture. On a pole. I think to myself, Rosalie, you know this girl.”

Again I waited.

“She was here. I remember because the”—she touched her hair, miming a clipping motion—“the pink thing.”

“A barrette?” I felt a fizz in my chest. “Shaped like a cat?”

“Sí. I remember this cat when I see it in the photo. The face look different, but it is this girl who was here. She eat a cheese enchilada. They all do.”

“Did the girl also have a pink purse shaped like a cat?” Fighting to keep my voice calm.

“A purse, yes. Pink like hair thing.”

“When was this?”

Rosalie’s eyes narrowed in thought.

“Dos semanas.”

Two weeks. Around the time of Jane Doe’s death.

“Did she come here often?”

“No. Just once.”

“Was she with someone?”

Slidell chose that moment to stick his head through the door.

“Not getting any younger out here, doc.”

“Just a few more minutes.” I gave him my squinty-eye look.

Slidell sighed but didn’t object. When the door closed, I urged Rosalie to continue.

“Three girls, one man. They eat, they leave. He pay.”

“What was the mood?”

Rosalie looked at me, not understanding.

“Did the girls seem happy?”

Rosalie shook her head. “Nerviosas.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They look at table, not my eye. No smile. No talk.”

“Did you speak to them?”

“I say hola, they say nothing. I say buenos días, they say nothing.”

“Did they talk to the man? Did he talk to you?”

“The man order cheese enchiladas. No friendly. Muy frío.”

“What did he look like?”

She shook her head. “Hat.” She placed both hands level above her brows, like a visor. “I no see good.”

“Was he tall, short, fat, skinny?”

She waggled a hand. “Not so tall, not so skinny or fat.”

I pulled the mug shots of Creach and Majerick from my purse. Rosalie studied them, slowly shaking her head.

“The hat. And—” She mimed pulling up a collar. “And he no look into my eyes.” She shrugged. “No face.”

Great. A medium-size guy in a hat. Slidell would love that description.

“Did the man and the girls come by car?”

“Walking.”

“Did you see where they went?”

Rosalie nodded. “After they leave I watch. From window.”

With another quick glance toward the kitchen, she came around the counter, pushed open the door, and pointed to a storefront half a block up on the opposite side of the street.

“There. They walk there.”

“What is it?”

She struggled, then, “Sala de masaje.”

I had to think about that. Seeing my noncomprehension, Rosalie pantomimed rubbing her neck and shoulders.

“Massage parlor?”

“Yes.” Her lips went thin. “Only men. Men go in, men come out. No women. But girls.”

“The one with the pink barrette.”

“Sí.” She let the door swing shut, returned to the counter, and held out a hand. I gave her a twenty.

“May I ask one more question?”

She looked at me.

“Did you give the girl with the barrette a note about St. Vincent de Paul Church?”

“Sí. I think maybe these girls don’t talk because they have no English.” She shrugged. “Maybe, I think, they talk to Jesus.”

“That was very kind.”

“They don’t say gracias. They don’t say nothing.”

She handed me change, slammed the register drawer, and drew in a breath. I sensed she had something further to say.

“I think those girls is scared. Then one is dead. I have to—” A hand rose to the heart-shaped splotch of brown at her throat. “I call you. Something is bad. Something is wrong.”

“You did the right thing, Rosalie. Detective Slidell and I will find out who this poor girl is. Because of you she will go home to her family. And we will discover who hurt her. If other girls are being hurt, we will help them, too.”

The door whipped open and two kids slouched through. Each wore an athletic jersey and jeans large enough for a party of four.

“Está abierto?”

“Sí.” To me. “I go now.”

“You have my number. Please call if you remember anything else or if you see the man in the hat again.” I collected the printouts. “Or either of these two men.”

Outside, Slidell was leaning against the Taurus.

“This better be good.” He yanked open the door and slid behind the wheel.

“Drive past that building.” I pointed to the massage parlor, then relayed what Rosalie had said about it.

“So the kid was turning tricks.”

Was that it? Had Rosalie observed a meal shared by working girls and their pimp? I hated to admit it, but Slidell’s theory was starting to have legs.

The massage parlor stood between a tattoo shop and a liquor store. Like its neighbors, the building was dirty-white brick with a glass door and large front window. Unlike its neighbors, every inch of glass was curtained. A small sign identified the place as the Passion Fruit Club.

Slidell and I observed in silence. No one entered or left any of the businesses.

After ten minutes, I said, “We should check the place out.”

“Because a waitress disliked the look of the clientele?”

“She did see our Jane Doe enter the place.” Testy.

Skinny didn’t favor that with a reply.

Slidell was right. Still, it peeved me.

We watched another five minutes, then, without asking, Slidell put the car in gear and turned toward Griffin.

As we drove, I briefed him on everything I’d learned from D’Ostillo.

I’d barely finished when a phrase she’d used triggered a cerebral chain.

No face.

A hat pulled low and a collar raised high.

Who would hide their features?

A person with a disfigured face?

A vet with a disfigured face?

A vet involved in smuggling?

Dom Rockett?

Why would Rockett be in a taquería with a group of young girls?

One of whom now lay dead in our cooler.