Bones of the Lost

himself a ladies’ man.” The scritching halted momentarily, resumed. “He’s a charmer, all right. Like Charlie Manson, or Al Bundy.”
    “Ted.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind. Go on.”
    “Majerick’s jacket’s as thick as a phone book. Starts out tame, but turns ugly real quick. Battery. Assault with a deadly, B and E.”
    Slidell stopped to suck blood from his thumb.
    “Could you stop that, please?”
    Slidell rolled his eyes, but returned the pin to my desk.
    “A few years back, Majerick busts into a home in Beverly Woods, slits the screen on a sliding glass door. Woman of the house is there alone, but gets lucky, manages to trip an alarm. We show up, Majerick’s got her hog-tied in the basement. Inside a gym bag we find rope, pliers, and enough knives to start a circus act.”
    “Sounds like a torture kit.”
    “Ee-yuh. Ole Magic had a nasty little party planned.”
    “Why’s he not in jail?”
    “Suit got him off on straight B and E.”
    “Are you kidding me?”
    “Asshole argued that word on the street was the house had cash in a safe, said the items in Majerick’s kit were tools of the trade. Turned out there was a safe in a bedroom closet. The jury bought the story. Majerick served a nickel and walked.”
    “I assume you’re looking for these two.” I gestured at the printouts.
    “Issued BOLOs the minute I got the reports.” Slidell used the cop term for “be on the lookout.” “Checked LSAs, talked to the neighbors. Creach has a couple of sisters, but they knew nothing. Or wouldn’t give it up. Couldn’t find anyone who’d admit to knowing Majerick. These scumbags probably change addresses more often than I change shorts.”
    I refused that image entry into my mind.
    “So Creach and Majerick are both in the wind.”
    “Yeah.” Slidell raised the thumb to his mouth. Saw my face. Dropped the hand to his lap. “But not for long.”
    “We may have another lead.”
    I hit speakerphone and played the woman’s message. As Slidell listened, I plucked a tissue and swept the bone-tester-turned-manicure-pin into the trash.
    When the message ended, Slidell raised a questioning brow.
    “I think it’s the same woman who called once before.”
    “Think she’s legit?”
    “I do.”
    Slidell twirled a finger, directing me to play the voicemail again. I did.
    When it ended, he said, “Sounds scared shitless.”
    “Yes. Can you trace the number?” Sliding him the sequence of digits I’d jotted.
    Slidell glanced at the paper, unclipped his mobile, and punched a series of buttons. A voice answered. Slidell asked for an extension. Waited. Another voice answered.
    “Slidell here. I need a trace.” The voice said something. “No. I was hoping for next Thanksgiving.”
    The voice gave a decidedly clipped reply.
    “Yeah? I’ll see you get a medal.
    “Moron,” Slidell mouthed to me. I felt sympathy for the person on the other end of the line.
    A full minute passed before the voice sounded again.
    Slidell gestured for a pen. I handed him one. He shoulder-cupped the mobile as he wrote.
    “Mixcoat-all?”
    The voice responded.
    “Spell it.”
    The voice did.
    “I owe you one.”
    The voice had already gone silent.
    “Call came from a Mexican joint off Old Pineville Road. Taqueria Mixed Coat All.”
    “Holy shit.”
    “Ay, caramba.”
    I was so jazzed I didn’t bother to correct his Spanish. Old Pineville. The place my Jane Doe had died.
    I yanked my purse from the drawer and shot to my feet.
    “Up for a taco, detective?”
    “Sí, señorita.”

TAQUERíA MIXCOATL WAS located on a grotty little spur coming off Griffin Road, a two-lane winding west from Old Pineville to dead end at the Charlotte Marriot Executive Park. The restaurant sat between a tattoo parlor and an auto-parts discounter. All three businesses had barred windows and grimy glass through which it was impossible to see.
    Slidell swung into the lot and parked two doors down from the taquería. Only three other cars were present: a red Mini Cooper, a gray Lexus, and a jacked-up Chevy pickup with windows as dark as the glass in the shops.
    “Mixed Coat All.” Slidell was shaking his head at the sign. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Mixcoatl is the Aztec god of the hunt.”
    The restaurant was small and smelled of grilled meat. Inside the entrance, to the right, was a board filled with flyers, announcements, and posters, all in Spanish. On the left was a cash register counter. The tables were