Bones of the Lost

wood, the chairs high-backed, carved, and painted primary colors.
    At midafternoon the place was deserted. Slidell and I held a moment, then seated ourselves by the front window.
    In seconds a woman stepped through beads strung from a doorjamb to block the view into the kitchen. She wore a getup that lookedvaguely Mexican. Puffy-sleeved white cotton blouse. Brightly colored textile skirt.
    “Buenos días,” I said.
    “Sorry you must wait,” the woman replied.
    “We’re in no hurry.” Big smile.
    The woman handed us menus. They were laminated and featured pictures of standard Mexican fare.
    “I know exactly what I want.” I aimed another friendly grin her way. “Chicken enchiladas verdes and a Jarritos lime soda.”
    The woman nodded.
    Slidell ordered a beef burrito and a Dr Pepper. One brow formed a comma as the woman clacked through the beads.
    “Buenos días?”
    “I wanted to get her talking.”
    “Think she’s our gal?”
    I gestured “Who knows?”
    Thought a moment.
    “The call came into my voicemail around one thirty. This place doesn’t look like a big operation.”
    I scanned the restaurant, saw no landline or portable at the register.
    “The phone must be in back.”
    “Meaning employee access only.” Slidell got my meaning. Short list of possible callers.
    Our food arrived quickly. Though I was friendly as hell, the woman ignored my attempts to engage her in conversation. In either language.
    As she withdrew, I tried peering through the beads closing behind her. Caught a glimpse of an old man working the grill. His face looked bronzed by a thousand hours in the sun. A white apron looped his neck and was tied at the small of his back.
    As we ate, my gaze drifted to the window, to the parking lot dimly visible on the far side. The Mini was gone, and the Lexus had been replaced by an SUV. The pickup hadn’t budged. From this angle I could see what looked like a silhouette behind the wheel.
    “—by the tracks you’ve got the Bronco Club. Can’t tell me those ladies don’t do double duty.”
    Slidell was still channeled on the idea that the hit-and-run victim was a hooker.
    “There is no evidence the kid was turning tricks.”
    “Yeah? How about bingo-bingo on the DNA?” Slidell took a slug of his soda, smacked the can down. “I don’t have all day. Let’s do this thing.”
    Before I could stop him, he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop to summon the waitress. She appeared and crossed to us.
    “How ’bout a check?”
    The woman pulled a small tablet from her skirt pocket. As she totaled our bill, Slidell went straight for the kill.
    “So, señorita. Made any interesting phone calls lately?”
    The woman’s eyes rolled up. She looked at Slidell, at me, then placed the check on the table and hurried back to the kitchen.
    “That was not smart,” I said.
    “Yeah? Think she bolted because she ain’t the happy dialer?”
    “I think she bolted because you frightened her.” Whispered, but angry. “Or she didn’t understand the question.”
    “She understood.”
    “If that’s true, I hope your haven’t freaked her so much she refuses to talk.” I snatched up the bill. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
    I rose and walked to the cash register, hoping for the woman, not the old man. Once Slidell had left, she appeared.
    “I apologize for my companion,” I said in Spanish.
    The woman gazed at me across the barrier of the counter, brows tight to each other over her nose.
    Instead of presenting the check, I withdrew a card from my purse and positioned it facing her.
    The woman glanced down, then her eyes rose and held mine. And I knew. Slidell was right.
    “I’m Dr. Brennan,” I said gently. “You phoned me last Friday.”
    The dark eyes revealed nothing.
    “You saw a girl’s picture in the paper. Perhaps on a flyer. That girl was hit by a car and left to die on the roadside.”
    The woman went very still. A vein pulsed in the hollow at the base of her throat, softly lifting and dropping a tiny heart-shaped birthmark.
    “We don’t know who she is. I think maybe you do.”
    “No.”
    “But you know something about her. And it troubles you.”
    The woman’s eyes slid toward the kitchen. So did mine. Through the beads I could see the old man looking at something above what appeared to be a dairy case. Flickering light on his face suggested he was watching a wall-mounted TV.
    The woman held out her hand. “Please. You pay.”
    “The man I am with is a police