Bones of the Lost

looked like it specialized in mold, and a dozen other shitholes holding on by suction cups. Welding shop was my personal favorite. Chick at the desk must’ve spent a whole lotta time sucking fumes. Could’ve waltzed the corpse in with me and Dumbella wouldn’t have taken notice.”
    “No one recognized the photo?” I’d sent Slidell a copy of my cooler Polaroid.
    “No one knew shit.”
    “Did you visit a convenience store called the Yum-Tum?”
    “Yeah. That was a treat.”
    “Did you ask about security tapes?”
    “Camera’s broke because the owner’s broke. Fuckwit actually said that.”
    “Did any other businesses have CCTV or security cameras? Maybe one that might have caught the road, maybe even the accident?”
    “Same story everywhere. The tapes are reused every twenty-four hours.”
    “What about the vehicle? Did you get a lab report back on the paint?”
    “Oh, yeah. They put it right at the top of the priority list and sent the report over by limo.”
    “Did you try body shops? Ask if anyone brought in a car with damage consistent with a pedestrian hit?”
    “You been drinking a lot of coffee this morning?”
    Ignoring that, I told Slidell about my NamUs and Doe Network searches.
    “No surprise there. Larabee sent her through every system on the planet. I checked MP cases. No one’s reported a kid missing that fits her profile.”
    “How far back did you go?”
    “Far enough. Clearly she ain’t local.”
    “She could be a runaway.”
    For several beats no one said anything. I could hear muted traffic noises in the background. Slidell spoke first.
    “The kid’s moving under the radar. Carrying no papers. No keys. Nothing. The odds we hang a name on her ain’t real good. What are ya gonna do?”
    “We’ve still got to try.”
    “Chief’s got my balls in a sling with this woman’s gone missing.”
    “Double task, detective.”
    Slidell made a noise, then disconnected.
    11:02. So much for Skype.
    I typed an e-mail to Katy.
Sorry to miss you. Everything okay? Suggest another time. Love, Mom
.
    On to the dogs.
    But instead of heading upstairs to get dressed, I got more coffee and returned to my desk.
    What are ya gonna do?
    I dialed the SBI Crime Lab in Raleigh. Asked for Josie Cromwell in the Forensic Biology and DNA section. After a short delay she picked up.
    “Ms. Cromwell.”
    “Hey, Josie. Tempe Brennan.”
    “How you doing, girl?”
    “Good. And you?”
    “Can’t complain. Still know where all the bodies are buried?”
    “A few. Are you busy up there?”
    “Just sitting around, keeping my nails clean.”
    We both laughed. It was a quote from a man she’d recently beaten out for a project manager spot.
    “How’s it feel being boss?” I asked.
    “Has its perks. So, what’s happening? You coming up to Raleigh?”
    “Sadly, no. I’m calling to ask a favor.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “I’ve got a young girl, midteens, a hit-and-run victim. Struck from behind and left to die.”
    “Lord in heaven.” I could see Josie shaking her head, short black dreads bobbing with the motion.
    “I’m not sure how committed the lead detective is. He thinks she’s illegal, probably in the life.”
    “Just another dead hooker.”
    “We’ve got prints, but the kid’s not in any system. We can’t find an MP with her profile. We swabbed for DNA, of course.”
    “Which is useless until you have a name so we know who to contact for comparison.”
    “Exactly. But the pathologist found semen. We’re hoping that might lead somewhere.”
    “I hear you. But the backlog here is freaking out those higher up the pay scale.”
    “Any chance you can goose my girl up the queue?”
    “I’ll do what I can. Which is probably not much.”
    “Tim Larabee is submitting the samples.” I gave her the pertinent case information. “I’m in your debt.”
    “You better believe it.”
    Still, I didn’t log out to head to the lab.
    I returned to my e-mail and opened the picture I’d scanned and sent to myself and Slidell the previous night. The girl lay in her body bag, pale and still.
    I wondered how she’d looked in life, when her spirit still lived in her face, and her quirks and mannerisms made her unique. The squint of an eye, the tilt of a brow, the lopsided upturning of one lip.
    I opened a file labeled MCME 580-13, and saved the image to it. Then I attached and emailed a copy to Allison Stallings, a crimereporter at the
Charlotte Observer
. A few years back, Stallings had followed a