Bones of the Lost

saloon. I nosed mine into the herd and got out.
    No one answered my knock at the first six units. I slipped flyers under the doors and moved on.
    Numbers 7 and 8 were opened by dark-skinned women claiming
no comprendo
. Ditto when I posed my questions in Spanish. Eyes fearful, they took their flyers and quickly withdrew.
    At unit 9, a bare-chested man cracked, then slammed the door before I could speak. At 10, a voice bellowed, “Get the fuck gone!”
    I did.
    Driving Old Pineville and the small network of arteries surrounding Rountree, I tacked the girl’s picture to trees, fences, and utility poles, to a barrier leading into woods where the Rountree pavement ended. I left her image at every business Slidell had visited. Most accepted my handiwork with skepticism. A few asked questions. The majority did not.
    Discouraged, I worked my way along South Boulevard, then hit the three light-rail platforms closest to the spot where the girl had died.
    I was
wheep-wheeping
my Mazda when my iPhone announced an incoming call.
    “Temperance Brennan.” Sliding behind the wheel and clicking the belt with my free hand.
    “Luther Dew.”
    “How can I help you, Agent Dew?”
    “I had hoped you would be in your office.” Reproachful?
    “I’m on my way now.”
    “I wonder if I might stop by, perhaps in half an hour?”
    “I haven’t completed my analysis of the mummy bundles.”
    As in, I haven’t started.
    “Have you done radiography?”
    “Yes.” I’d asked Joe Hawkins to X-ray the crap out of everything.
    “I’m wondering if I might have the films to aid me in composing my report.”
    “You’re welcome to take photographs, but our office must retain the originals.”
    “That will be sufficient.”
    “Do you know where the MCME facility is located?”
    “Yes. Half an hour, then.”
    Dead air.
    And you have a nice day, too, Agent Dew.
    As my palm smacked the gearshift, a warning growl rose from my gut.
    Quick time check. Almost two. I’d catch a bite when Dew left. Maybe hop out for a burger and fries.
    Who was I kidding? The chance of lunch was less probable than that of finding Birdie in an apron cooking dinner tonight.
    Grab something at the Yum-Tum? I wasn’t that hungry. Never would be.
    I popped in a Scott Joplin CD, cranked the volume, and tapped the wheel to the beat of the “Maple Leaf Rag.”

    Twenty minutes and a Circle K stop later, I swung into the MCME lot. Mrs. Flowers buzzed me through, smiling as always.
    I waited for her usual decorous briefing.
    “You have no new phone messages. Dr. Larabee is out. No one else has requested time with you.” The “i” in
time
was three miles long.
    “Thank you. Someone from Immigration and Customs Enforcement will be here shortly. Special Agent Luther Dew.”
    “The mummified dogs?” The penciled brows lifted a millimeter on the powdered forehead.
    “Has Joe completed the X-rays?”
    “He placed them in the small autopsy room.”
    “Thanks. Please give me a heads-up before sending Dew back.”
    “Of course.”
    En route to my office, I glanced at the case board. Nothing new for me.
    I was checking my inbox when the phone rang.
    Great.
    “Your special agent is here.” No tremble, no quivery breathing.
    Point of information. Though as refined as any Daughter of Dixie, in the presence of the tall, dark, and handsome, Mrs. Flowers not only blushes, she goes all Marilyn breathless.
    So. Dew wasn’t much to look at.
    “Can you hold him ten minutes before sending him back?”
    “Certainly.”
    In the small autopsy room, each light box held a film, and large brown envelopes lay beside three of the four plastic tubs.
    Shifting from box to box, I flicked switches and viewed X-rays of the contents of the first bundle.
    Good.
    Removing those images, I moved on through the other three series. I was peering at the last film when footsteps clicked down the corridor.
    I turned.
    A pink beluga filled the open doorway. No fedora, bow tie, or suspenders.
    Dew wore a white shirt, blue tie, and pinstriped navy suit. A very large one. I put him at six two, minimally three hundred pounds.
    I stepped forward and extended a hand. “Tempe Brennan.”
    “Luther Dew.” Firm grip, but not a testosterone crusher.
    Dew’s eyes flicked past me, came back.
    “Thank you for making time.” The high voice sounded wrong emanating from the supersize body.
    “Of course.”
    Again, Dew’s gaze went to the X-rays. I noted that his eyes had oddly violet