Bones of the Lost

front of the neighbors?”
    “You see any neighbors?”
    Slidell crossed his arms and spread his feet. “Or we could do it uptown.”
    “You got a warrant?”
    “Should I have a warrant?”
    “You tell me.”
    The two men locked eyeballs. Which were at about the same level. But Rockett’s neck was thick, his body all muscle. The definition under his tee spoke of hours in a gym.
    Mimicking his unwanted caller, Rockett crossed his arms and set his feet wide.
    A flush darkened Slidell’s face.
    “This really won’t take long.” I smiled, trying to defuse the macho standoff.
    “Who the hell are you?” Holding his gaze on Slidell.
    “Dr. Temperance Brennan. I—”
    “Lady works at the morgue.”
    Rockett’s right cheek may have twitched slightly at Slidell’s response. A beat. Then he inhaled through his good nostril, exhaled slowly. I thought he’d send us packing.
    “Ten minutes.” Rockett stepped back.
    Slidell spit his gum into the grass and entered. I followed, into a windowless foyer with checkerboard flooring, folding doors on the left, wall pegs on the right. A knitted cap hung from one, a black windbreaker from another.
    Rockett led us into a parlor with a picture window that was curtained against daylight. The room’s only illumination came from a flat-screen TV the size of a billboard. Sports highlights played soundlessly, bathing the room in jumpy, kaleidoscope patterns.
    A brown leather couch sat opposite the television. Flanking it were distressed wood-and-iron tables, maybe Restoration Hardware. Angled beside it was an elephantine recliner. The TV remote lay abandoned on one arm.
    The room’s back wall held shelving half-filled with equipment relating to the audio-visual setup. A ship in a bottle. A combo thermometer-barometer device. Photos, mostly of men in uniform. A framed patch. I recognized the Marine Corps anchor and eagleembroidered on a red circle at center. The words DESERT STORM arced above, and TASK FORCE RIPPER arced below.
    To either side of the shelving, lining the baseboard, were larger objects. A metal breastplate. A carved tusk. A painted ceramic vessel. A battle ax. Each artifact looked seriously old.
    I caught Slidell’s eye. He nodded. He’d noticed, too.
    Rockett gestured toward the sofa but remained standing. So did Slidell. So did I.
    “Clock’s running,” Rockett said to Slidell.
    “Save the attitude.”
    Rockett’s spine, rigid as a mast, went even straighter.
    “What’d you say your name was?”
    “Slidell.”
    “Fire away, Slidell.”
    “How ’bout we talk stolen dogs.”
    Something flickered in Rockett’s good eye. Surprise? Relief? He said nothing.
    Slidell waited.
    At length, Rockett snorted, a dry, wheezy sound like air through a filter.
    “You been talking to that fruit fly Dew?”
    Slidell neither confirmed nor denied.
    “You want me to react?” Rockett asked.
    “You want to react?”
    “Will it get you and Sister Wide Eyes out of here sooner?”
    “Might.”
    “
Stolen
is the wrong word,” Rockett said.
    “Enlighten me.”
    “I bought the dogs from a farmer. Guy was so eager to sell he nearly peed his gauchos.”
    “ICE don’t look kindly on relic smuggling.”
    “I didn’t know they were old.”
    “That your hobby? Buying up mummified pets?”
    “Dew’s got no case.”
    I knew Slidell was leading Rockett, getting him to believe we were there because of illegal antiquities. Target lulled into overconfidence, Slidell would pounce.
    As the men spoke I glanced across a corridor into what the architect had probably intended to be the dining room. Instead of table, chairs, and buffet, the room held a bench press, weights, chin bar, punching bag, treadmill, and elliptical.
    “ICE thinks you’re dirty,” Slidell said.
    “They’ve got nothing.”
    “Yeah?” Slidell jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You get that shit at the Walmart?”
    “Everything I own is legal and documented. Someone wants to sell, I buy. Someone wants to buy, I sell.”
    “Could be that’s the case. But from now on, you hit a border, a latex glove goes right between your cheeks.”
    “I’ll say I’m a virgin, ask for gentle.”
    “You think you’re smarter than me?” Slidell’s tone indicated tightly controlled anger.
    “Donkey piss is smarter than you.”
    That’s when Slidell crossed the line.
    “You got all your tax ducks in a row, asshole? ’Cause Dew is fine-combing your 1040s, your bank accounts, your credit scores, every