“Sí. I think maybe these girls don’t talk because they have no English.” She shrugged. “Maybe, I think, they to 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.
IT WAS LATE afternoon when slidell dropped me back at the MCME. My ankle was kicking up, so at five I gathered what correspondence I hadn’t gotten through along with my copies of the files on Creach and Majerick and headed home.
Pleasant surprise. Pete had returned Birdie. The cat met me at the door, wound my legs, then positioned himself for the stare-down bit.
Though it was early, I fed him. What the hell? I hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks.
I watched the cat eat, then we both went to the study for some quality time on the sofa. I rubbed his ears. He purred. I scratched the base of his spine. He raised his tail and arched his back in approval.
My eyelids grew heavy. I yawned. Swung my feet up and laid my head on the armrest. The cat curled on my chest.
The landline rang. Softly. Too softly.
I rose and got the handset from the desk. Not seated squarely in its charger, the thing was dead.
Cursing, I positioned it properly, trudged up to the bedroom, and brought that handset down. The little screen identified the caller as Pete. Certain he’d try again, I lay back down. Birdie recurled on my chest.
Moments later the ring came again, this time at full volume.
“Mm.”
“Welcome home, sugarbritches.”
“What do you need?” Groggy. And fighting pulmonary compression caused by fifteen pounds of cat.
“Well, that’s a fine thank-you.”
“Thank you.”
“You are graciously welcome.”
“I mean it, Pete. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. The little guy’s not bad company.”
“Mm.”
“Are you napping, princess?”
“Jet lag.”
“You claim to never get jet lag.”
“I never get jet lag.”
“Here’s something to snap you awake. I just had a call from Hunter Gross. The Article 32 investigating officer has recommended that charges be dropped.”
“That’s great.” Yawning.
“Did you hear what I said? John Gross is going to be cleared.”
“I figured the hearing would go his way.”
“You don’t exactly sound over the moon.”
“I’m happy for him.”
“Of course, his career’s probably in the toilet.”
“Really?”
“Hell, what do I know?”
“Gross is one squared-away guy,” I said.
“Imagine the stress he was feeling.”
Pete was right. On two levels. Yes, I wasn’t exactly over the moon. Somehow Gross had rubbed me wrong. Too cocky. Too tightly wound. And, yes, the pressure must have been dreadful. Especially for someone with his psychological makeup.
“Glad I could do my part,” I said.
“You know you’re famous.”
“What?” That got me upright. To Birdie’s annoyance.
“Google your name and Stars and Stripes.”
“The military newspaper?”
“No. Old Glory.”
I put Pete on speaker and set the handset on the cushion. Then I dug out and booted my laptop, followed his suggestion, and clicked on the link that came up.
FORENSIC EXPERT TESTIFIES ON BEHALF OF ACCUSED MARINE
The whole story was there. My name, as promised.
Dr. Temperance Brennan, working with NCIS, traveled to Afghanistan and performed dual exhumations, and provided key testimony at the Article 32 hearing at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina …
I read no further. Two press mentions in a week. So much for keeping a low profile.
I snapped the computer shut.
“Hello-o.”
I snatched up the phone. “Is Gross’s attorney responsible for this?”
“Weren’t journalists present at the hearing?”
“Could have been. There were a couple of spectators.” Petulant.
“Come on. You saved the guy’s ass. Enjoy the glory.”
I rolled my eyes. Wasted, since Pete couldn’t see me.
A few beats, then, “Did you leave a PC on my desk?”
“I did. It’s acting sluggish, so I’m running a virus check.”
“Have you considered the fact that the thing’s an antique?”
“I only use it for personal e-mail. All my files are on the firm’s system.”
“Go crazy, Pete. Buy a new one.”
“Maybe.”
“Why here? Why can’t you run your virus check at home?”
“Summer has every outlet tied up.”
“What? She cooking meth?” That image brought a smile to my lips.
“She’s charging some kind of weird little lights for the wedding reception. Must be a billion.”
“Did you hang out at my place while I was gone?”
“I may have watched a little football.”
“Thanks for the provisions.”
“My pleasure, buttercup.”
“How old is the lasagna?”
“Purchased yester
day. Get some shut-eye. You sound like you need it.”
When we disconnected, I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Katy. Nothing from Ryan.
“Of course not.” Louder than I’d intended.
Bird raised his head from his paws but said nothing.
The icon on my junk-mail folder showed seventy-four items. I deleted them one by one, expelling pent-up frustration with each irritated jab.
Until a subject line stopped my finger in midair.
You’ll die, too, fucking slut.
What caused me to pause? Not the expletives. I’d just deleted several at least as obscene. Die? Die, too?
Ignoring the warning voice in my head, I opened the thing.
Blank.
I checked the delivery date. Yesterday. The Stars and Stripes piece had also been posted yesterday.
The e-mail’s sender was
[email protected] A political group? A crackpot? A kid with too much Web access and too little parental supervision?
Or was it personal? A threat specifically meant for me?
I had messages from several accounts routed into one central mail program. The e-mail had come through the ME system, not through my personal Gmail account. The address was easily obtainable. It was on my business cards. Hell, I’d posted it on flyers up and down Old Pineville Road and South Boulevard.
Was citizenjustice a disgruntled ex-con? Someone who’d served time because of my testimony? The reverse? A friend or family member unhappy that my findings had contributed to an acquittal? To loss of monetary recovery in a civil suit?
I racked my brain for other possibilities.
A student unhappy with a grade? A neighbor who doesn’t like my cat? A psycho stranger I’d passed on the street?
I stared at the crude message. Tell Slidell? Screw it. I didn’t need his skepticism. Or, worse, his paternalistic hovering.
It was probably nothing.
I closed the computer, ate the lasagna, took an aspirin for my ankle, and crawled into bed.
Sleep dropped like a curtain at the end of a play.
Sheee-chunk!
My lids flew up.
I listened, unsure if I’d dreamed or actually heard the sound.
Sheee-chunk!
The noise was definitely real. And inside the house.
My pulse kicked into high.
I blinked, urging my eyes to adjust. Held my breath.
I searched the room, alert to the slightest movement. Saw nothing but shadows. Heard only stillness.
The bedside clock read 2:38.
Sheee-chunk!
My pulse jackhammered harder.
The noise was coming from downstairs, a sound like a typewriter carriage slamming home.
I reached for the phone. Damn! I’d left the portable in the study, my iPhone in my purse.
I eased from bed and crept to the door, careful to avoid boards I knew would creak.
Breath suspended, I listened.
No stealthy footsteps. No whisper of fabric brushing a wall. No movement at all.
Something feathery touched my bare calf. I flinched and inhaled sharply. Looked down.
Two round eyes gleamed in the darkness.
I gestured at the cat with a downturned palm. Stay. He slipped through the door as the sound fired again.
Sheee-chunk!
A phrase flashed in my mind. Printed words.
You’ll die, too, fucking slut.
Adrenaline shot through my body.
I glanced over my shoulder, searching the room for something to use as a weapon.
The troll from Norway? The LSJML mug? The MacKenzie-Childs vase?
I settled on the bronze of two monkeys holding hands. Heavy. Sharp.
Sculpture clutched in one hand, I inched into the hall. In the dimness, the wall mirror provided a ghostly view of the stairs.
No figure crouched below, knife or gun at the ready.
Birdie was poised on the first riser. Hearing me approach, he rose and started gliding down.
Sheee-chunk!
The cat froze. His tail flicked. Then he shot back up and disappeared into the bathroom.
Barely breathing, I took the treads one by one. My ankle floated little warning twinges.
At the bottom, I stopped to listen again.
Sheee-chunk!
Louder.
Jesus. What the hell was it?
I squinted into the parlor, the dining room beyond.
Seeing nothing alarming, I moved toward the study. The sound seemed to come from that direction.
I pushed open the door.
SHEEE-CHUNK!
My eyes darted, searching for a phone. One handset lay on the sofa. The other stood upright on the desk. The charger’s tiny red light cast a patch of radiance across the blotter.
Something flicked in the glow. Flicked again.
My eyes flew to Pete’s laptop.
As I watched, the CD tray spit forward, then quickly withdrew.
SHEEE-CHUNK!
What the hell?
I lowered the bronze primate, crossed to the desk, and lifted the top of the Dell to its full open position. On-screen, bright yellow script scrolled across a deep purple background.
PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED!
For once, my Luddite ex had been right. His computer had a virus.
I shut down, rebooted, and waited out the whole annoying Windows startup performance. The script was gone. The CD tray stayed put.
“You owe me, big guy,” I whispered under my breath.
I was crossing the dining room when movement again caught my attention. A subtle alteration in shadows mottling the carpet. Below the window, on the far side of the table.
I paused. Was the adrenaline rush playing tricks with my brain? The whacked-out computer?
No. Like the sound of the tray, the shadowy ripple was real.
Back to the wall, I slid to the drapes and peeked out.
The night was moonless, the grounds of Sharon Hall dark as a tomb.
But there, below the magnolia. A wink of paleness. A silhouette?
I crouched a full minute, watching. But that was it. I saw nothing more. If I’d seen anything at all.
Sudden thought.
Had I locked up properly? Engaged the alarm? I’d been surprised to see Birdie. Distracted and exhausted, had I forgotten? Wouldn’t be the first time. Though I’m conscientious when leaving, I’m often lax about security when at home.
My gaze fell on the files I’d dumped on the table. Creach and Majerick. Both burglars. One a violent offender.
I checked every door and window and set the alarm. As I grabbed a handset from the study, faint but distinct, I heard a car engine turn over.
A little uneasy, I returned to bed.
AGAIN MA BELL rang me awake. I think I was setting some sort of record.
“We bagged Cecil Creach.” Slidell sounded almost chirpy.
“Where?”
“Moosehead, over on Montford.”
I’d been to the pub, knew the owner had a zero-tolerance policy.
“Creach wasn’t dealing in that place,” I said.
“Dumbass was drinking and shooting the breeze. With himself. Freaked the other customers, so the bouncer tossed him. Creach sat in the parking lot wailing about the injustice of life. Bouncer called the cops. Creach had a bellyful of booze, but wasn’t holding.”
“When was this?”
I heard paper rustle.
“Booked in just past one A.M.”
If I’d had a nocturnal visitor, it hadn’t been Creach. I debated telling Slidell about the previous night’s incident. Tell him what? I’d been punked by a PC prankster?
“Did Creach resist?”
A snort from Slidell.
“What now?”
“I let him cook a while, then I sweat him.”
“I want to be there.”
“Show kicks off in an hour.”
“Don’t start without me.”
/> Slidell made a noise that might have been agreement.
I fed Birdie, showered, and dressed. One coffee and a dollop of cold lasagna, and I was good to go. Despite the interrupted sleep, I actually felt energized. We were making progress.
I jammed the untouched files into my laptop case, grabbed my purse and keys, and opened the kitchen door.
And stopped.
A box sat on the mat, the kind you use for gifting a sweater or shirt. The top had no label, no printed or written name or address.
There was nothing overtly threatening about the thing. No wires. No sounds from inside. Still, every instinct went on alert.
The shadow play in the night. The movement under the tree.
And something else.
A ruby-brown blossom spread from the box’s bottom up and across its left side.
I looked around.
My Mazda was sitting where I’d left it. No car idled curbside or looped the drive. The grounds were empty. Across the street, Myers Park Baptist Church was deserted. A few vehicles waited out the stoplight at Selwyn.
My eyes dropped back to the box. Inhaling deeply, I set down my laptop case and drew gloves from an outer pocket. After pulling them on, I crouched and carefully teased off the lid.
The box contained one single item. Gray-brown and shriveled, it looked like a hunk of mummified meat. The cardboard below it was dark and shiny.
At first I had no idea.
I turned the thing over with a fingertip. Took in detail.
Then comprehension.
Although the day was warm, I felt a chill run my spine.
“Jesus …”
I shot to my feet, stomach roiling. My hand flew to my mouth.
“Oh, Jesus …”
I swallowed. Swallowed again. Raised my chin and let the cool morning air play over my face. Willed myself calm.
One more check of my surroundings, then I replaced the cover, brought the box into the kitchen, and closed the door.
With a shaking hand, I pulled my iPhone from my purse and punched a speed-dial button.
Slidell picked up on the second ring.
“Where the hell are you?”
“Get over here. Now.”
Slidell read the urgency in my voice.
“You okay, doc?”
“Yes. No. Just, please come now. And you may want to notify CSS.”