Bones of the Lost

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