Bones of the Lost

dogs.”
    Dew was barely through the door when I hit Slidell on speed dial.
    “Yo.” In the background, Waylon Jennings was advising a trip to Luckenbach, Texas.
    “Can you trace a number?”
    “Lemme guess.
Dancing with the Stars
finally rang and you lost ’em.”
    I told him about my flyers, then about the anonymous caller. Braced for a lecture. Which didn’t come.
    “Shoot.”
    I shot.
    “Gimme five.”
    Three minutes later, Slidell was back. Sans Waylon.
    “Pay phone. Who knew they still existed? Most of those booths are now pissing—”
    “Where?”
    “Seneca Square Shopping Center.”
    “South Boulevard, near Tyvola.” My heart threw in a few extra beats. Seneca Square wasn’t far from the site of the hit and run.
    “Ee-yuh. I’ll float a few questions. But unless your tipster dialed naked in a tiara, the chances of anyone noticing are probably zilch.”
    Slidell was right. Which irritated the hell out of me.
    “Any news on the vehicle?”
    “No.”
    “What about the smear on her purse?”
    “The FBI’s mostly a jokefest of Fuckaround Frankies. But their paint data’s the shits.”
    Slidell really did have a way with words.
    “Forty thousand freakin’ samples, but ours didn’t hook up.”
    “What we sent wasn’t paint?”
    “Yeah, it was paint. But not from a car.”
    “From what, then?”
    “Fuck if I know.”
    “What did the report say?” Barely masking my annoyance.
    “Bunch of crap about solvents, and binders, and pigments, and additives. Methyl this and hydrofluoro that. Why can’t these fart-wads just speak English?”
    “You’ll have someone figure out what the stuff is?”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    “How long will it take?”
    “As long as it takes.”
    When we’d disconnected, I closed my eyes and replayed the mysteriouscall in my head. Female, saying the hit-and-run vic was scared. Accent? The connection was too lousy to tell.
    Did the woman know my Jane Doe? If so, why not give me her name?
    Scared of what?
    The caller sounded frightened herself.
    Frightened of what?
    Everyone has access to a mobile or landline these days. Why use a pay phone? To maintain anonymity? Erroneously thinking the call couldn’t be traced?
    Had the woman disconnected or had someone cut her off? Had she meant to say more?
    At that moment my stomach definitely said more. Loudly.
    I fired to the kitchen for a Diet Coke, returned, pulled the top item from the stack in my inbox, and read as I chewed the PowerBar I’d scored at the Circle K.
    The form reported on human bones discovered on the shore of Mountain Island Lake. Amelogenin testing showed the remains were those of a male. Definitely not Edith Blankenship, a missing woman the cops thought they’d found. Terrific. So where was Edith? And who was the guy from the lake?
    I wrote a brief report, attached the form, and placed both in a bright yellow folder in my outbox. No reason for the color, except that I liked it.
    Next I responded to an invitation to the upcoming meeting of FASE, the Forensic Anthropology Society of Europe. Sounded great, but who had the time?
    Enough paperwork.
    Bunching my PowerBar wrapper, I shifted to the small autopsy room to undertake a more detailed examination of the mummy-bundle X-rays. I was on pooch three when the phone rang.
    “Your special agent is back.” Mrs. Flowers was speaking with lips close, hand cupping the receiver. “Shall I send him to you?”
    What the hell? Dew had been gone little more than two hours.
    “Yes, please.”
    Dew and I reached my office door at the same time. Again I noticed that, despite his size, the man’s every move was executed with grace and efficiency.
    I dropped behind my desk and gestured to the chair opposite. With Dew again in it, the thing looked as if it had been designed for toddlers.
    “Long see, no time.”
    Dew either missed or chose not to acknowledge my joke.
    “I have information that might be of interest to you.”
    “About my Jane Doe?”
    “About Dominick Rockett.”
    “The somewhat less than legal importer.”
    Still not the slightest hint of a smile.
    “Dr. Brennan, you are an accomplished professional. In our very brief encounters I have sensed that you care deeply about your work. More importantly, I believe you are a moral and honorable person. Opening the mummy bundles would have made your job infinitely simpler. Yet you chose not to. I respect you for that. And I trust you.”
    Straight Capote, effeminate and proper.
    “I feel duty-bound