Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel

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.

An icy hand clutched my chest.

Had these bastards taken my cat?

I slammed inside. Paced the parlor, frantic what to do.

Breathe.

Breathe.

To keep from going crazy, I opened the bright yellow file lying on the desk in the study.

I began with the crime-scene shots. A lonely road. A vinyl boot. A pathetic little mound under a red wool blanket.

I moved to the autopsy photos. X-rays showing a fractured chin and crushed hand. White cotton panties with pale blue dots. A shoulder, bruised in a pattern of dashes.

The last half dozen photos were new to me. Larabee or Hawkins had taken the close-ups from different angles. They showed a skull peeled bare of its face and hair. A blood-coated object shaped like a long, slender triangle.

I stared at the sliver Larabee had removed from Candy’s scalp.

Ivory, not bone.

How had Candy ended up with ivory in her head?

I’d seen a carved tusk in Dominick Rockett’s home. Did ivory often pass through his hands?

I got my laptop and Googled the phrase “ivory uses.”

Statuary, carvings, decorative embellishments, billiard balls, bathroom handles, piano keys, signature seals, radar and airplane guidance components.

Useless.

I decided to try another tack.

Where had Candy been seen? The Taquería Mixcoatl. The Passion Fruit Club. The Yum-Tum convenience store. They all clustered in a fairly tight radius not far from the Rountree–Old Pineville intersection where her body had been found.

Were the missing girls being held in that area?

I clicked over to Google Maps and zoomed in on the Passion Fruit. Around it spread a warren of roofs and empty lots.

The roofs varied in size and shape but revealed nothing of what lay below them. Most properties were fenced. Some fences were topped with razor wire.

Pausing the cursor generated labels on a few of the buildings. A storage facility. A warehouse. The Bronco Club.

It was the kind of district that exists in most cities. A place where things are manufactured, stashed, or left to rust.

Had the girls been taken to a location somewhere in that maze?

Frustrated, I returned to the file.

Gran’s clock ticked softly as I worked through the pages.

Ten minutes later, I heard a soft noise, like scratching. Elated, I flew to the front door. No feline sat on the porch.

I tried the kitchen door. Empty stoop.

I was on the patio, calling Bird’s name, when headlights swept the drive. Seconds later, a cruiser passed. I waved. The cop waved. Dejected, and frightened for my cat, I went back inside.

The amber light on the landline was flashing.

Sonofabitch!

Slidell’s message was short. The massage parlor in NoDa was closed and padlocked. That was it. Nothing else.

I hit redial. Got his goddamn voicemail.

Dismayed and exhausted, I forced myself to read the last printout in the yellow file. An FBI report.

I was skimming through jargon about solvents and binders and pigments and additives when I remembered something Slidell had said.

Methyl this and hydrofluoro that.

Hydrofluorocarbons?

I took a closer look at the list of components found in the smear on Candy’s purse.

Difluoroethane.

The dispatcher in my subconscious sat up and took notice.

Sudden flash. Pete on the phone in his Beemer. Summer, fixing up antique bottles for the tables at her wedding.

Difluoroethane.

In vehicular paint?

I Googled the term. Pulled out the relevant and dismissed the background noise.

. . . propellant necessary . . . initially chlorofluorocarbons, banned in 1978 . . . propane and butane abandoned in the ’80s . . . since 2011, hydrofluorocarbons such as difluoroethane and tetrafluororethane . . .

My pulse kicked up a notch.

I closed my eyes. Saw a building. A NO TRESPASSING sign in the rain.

Facts toggled.

Images cascaded.

My lids flew open.

I shot to my feet. Raced for the phone.

Again, my call rolled to Slidell’s voicemail.

Mother of God!

“I know where the trafficked girls have been taken. I’m going there.” I left the address and disconnected.

Adrenaline pounding, I grabbed a jacket, shoved a flashlight into one pocket, snatched up keys, and bolted for my car.