Bones of the Lost

time the gizmo seemed well positioned, I pulled up sharply.
    I was on my zillionth loop-and-yank when a voice boomed at my back.
    “Step away from the vehicle.”
    Shit
.
    Clutching the wire firmly in one hand, I turned.
    A uniformed parking attendant stood three yards from me, feet spread, palms up and pointed my way. His expression was one of nervous excitement.
    I smiled what I hoped was a disarming smile. Or at least calming.
    The attendant did not smile back.
    “Step away from the vehicle.” The guy’s hair was blond, his face flushed a shade of red just a tick down from that of my blisters. I guessed his age at maybe eighteen.
    I beamed a “silly me” charmer. “I’ve locked myself out of my car.”
    “I’ll need to see ID and registration.”
    “My purse is inside. The keys are in the ignition.”
    “Step away from the vehicle.”
    “If I can manage to catch the lock I can show you—”
    “Step away from the vehicle.” Blondie had quite the repertoire.
    I did as ordered, still holding on to the wire. Blondie gestured me further back.
    Eyes rolling, I increased the distance. Let go. The wire slid inside onto the car seat.
    Irritation overcame my resolve to be pleasant.
    “Look, it’s my car. I’ve just left jury duty. My registration and license are inside. I need to get to work. At the medical examiner’s office.”
    If I hoped the last reference would do it, I was wrong. Blondie’s expression said dirty barefoot woman with burglary tool. Dangerous?
    “Call the ME office,” I snapped.
    A beat. Then, “Wait here.”
    Like I was a flight risk with no shoes and no wheels.
    Blondie hurried off.
    I leaned against the Mazda, fuming, shifting from damaged foot to damaged foot, alternating between checking my watch and scanning the pavement for my bracelet. I began to pace the parking lot. Finally I heard the sound of an engine.
    Seconds later, a white Ford Taurus rolled up the ramp.
    Could this day get any worse?
    It just had.

PULLING CLOSE, ERSKINE “skinny” slidell removed his knock-off Ray-Bans, lowered his window, and eyed my flopping pant legs, devastated feet, and disheveled hair. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Though the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit has more than two dozen detectives, somehow I always end up with Skinny. And the pairing is always a test of my fortitude.
    It’s not that Slidell’s a bad investigator. Quite the opposite. But Skinny views himself as “old-school.” In his mind that means Dirty Harry Callahan, Popeye Doyle, and Sergeant Friday. I’ve seen Slidell question witnesses. Always expect “just the facts, ma’am.” But Skinny’s not a “sir” and “ma’am” kind of guy.
    Several years back, Slidell’s partner, Eddie Rinaldi, was killed in a sidewalk shoot-out. No one blamed Slidell. Except Slidell. Thinking Skinny could use some diversity awareness, the department partnered him with a Latina lesbian named Theresa Madrid. To the surprise of all, the two got along.
    Recently, Madrid and her partner had adopted a Korean infant, and Madrid had taken maternity leave. Slidell was temporarily working solo. Which he liked.
    “Whoo-hee.” The dolt actually said that.
    “Detective—”
    “You piss someone off?”
    Later I might have chuckled about this episode. At that moment, I saw nothing but lousy choices. Argue with the parking twerp. Hike to a phone, then wait for AAA. Deal with Slidell.
    “How did you know I was here?” Cool.
    “I was with Doc Larabee when he got a call.” Slidell leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. “Get in.”
    Drawing a lungful of fresh air, I slid into the seat.
    “Lord in heaven, doc. Don’t know I’ve seen anyone that ratty in years.”
    “You should get out more.”
    “What the hell were you—”
    “Mud wrestling. Pull over there.” I pointed to where my car was.
    “Hate to see the other guy.”
    “I’ll post a video on YouTube.” I jabbed an impatient finger in the direction of the big SUV.
    Slidell proceeded as directed.
    “Stop!” My hand came up. “No, up behind that van.”
    “I know what happened. Some dude tuned you up for trying to boost his car.”
    “If I could boost a car, I wouldn’t be here.” I hopped out. The blisters looked like two red eyes staring up at my face.
    If the bracelet hadn’t been a gift from Katy, I’d have cut my losses and split. Someday I’d tell her about this. Then we’d laugh. Maybe.
    I slid between