Bones of the Lost

detective. He traced the call to this restaurant. He can tie you to it.” Unlikely, but I knew Slidell was probably getting antsy. “If you have information and refuse to reveal it, he can charge you with obstruction of justice. Do you understand what that is?”
    The woman shook her head. As I explained the term in Spanish, her eyes grew wide.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Rosalie.” Barely audible.
    “Rosalie …?”
    “D’Ostillo. Rosalie D’Ostillo. Please. I am legal. I have—”
    “I don’t care about that, Rosalie.”
    Again her eyes flicked toward the kitchen.
    “Or about anyone else’s immigration status. A young girl is dead. It’s my job to find out who she is and what happened to her. Every detail is important.”
    I touched her wrist gently.
    “Rosalie …”
    She yanked her hand free. For a moment I thought she was about to bolt.
    “I … I make calls. Two.”
    “You did the right thing.”
    She allowed the slightest dip of her chin. I didn’t push, just allowed her to speak at her own pace.
    “I saw her picture. On a pole. I think to myself, Rosalie you know this girl.”
    Again I waited.
    “She was here. I remember because the”—she touched her hair, miming a clipping motion—“the pink thing.”
    “A barrette?” I felt a fizz in my chest. “Shaped like a cat?”
    “Sí. I remember this cat when I see it in the photo. The face look different, but it is this girl who was here. She eat a cheese enchilada. They all do.”
    “Did the girl also have a pink purse shaped like a cat?” Fighting to keep my voice calm.
    “A purse, yes. Pink like hair thing.”
    “When was this?”
    Rosalie’s eyes narrowed in thought.
    “Dos semanas.”
    Two weeks. Around the time of Jane Doe’s death.
    “Did she come here often?”
    “No. Just once.”
    “Was she with someone?”
    Slidell chose that moment to stick his head through the door.
    “Not getting any younger out here, doc.”
    “Just a few more minutes.” I gave him my squinty-eye look.
    Slidell sighed but didn’t object. When the door closed, I urged Rosalie to continue.
    “Three girls, one man. They eat, they leave. He pay.”
    “What was the mood?”
    Rosalie looked at me, not understanding.
    “Did the girls seem happy?”
    Rosalie shook her head. “Nerviosa.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “They look at table, not my eye. No smile. No talk.”
    “Did you speak to them?”
    “I say hola, they say nothing. I say buenos días, they say nothing.”
    “Did they talk to the man? Did he talk to you?”
    “The man order cheese enchiladas. No friendly. Muy frío.”
    “What did he look like?”
    She shook her head. “Hat.” She placed both hands level above her brows, like a visor. “I no see good.”
    “Was he tall, short, fat, skinny?”
    She waggled a hand. “Not so tall, not so skinny or fat.”
    I pulled the mug shots of Creach and Majerick from my purse. Rosalie studied them, slowly shaking her head.
    “The hat. And—” She mimed pulling up a collar. “And he no look into my eyes.” She shrugged. “No face.”
    Great. A medium-size guy in a hat. Slidell would love that description.
    “Did the man and the girls come by car?”
    “Walking.”
    “Did you see where they went?”
    Rosalie nodded. “After they leave I watch. From window.”
    With another quick glance toward the kitchen, she came around the counter, pushed open the door, and pointed to a storefront half a block up on the opposite side of the street.
    “There. They walk there.”
    “What is it?”
    She struggled, then, “Sala de masaje.”
    I had to think about that. Seeing my noncomprehension, Rosalie pantomimed rubbing her neck and shoulders.
    “Massage parlor?”
    “Yes.” Her lips went thin. “Only men. Men go in, men come out. No women. But girls.”
    “The one with the pink barrette.”
    “Sí.” She let the door swing shut, returned to the counter, and held out a hand. I gave her a twenty.
    “May I ask one more question?”
    She looked at me.
    “Did you give the girl with the barrette a note about St. Vincent de Paul Church?”
    “Sí. I think maybe these girls don’t talk because they have no English.” She shrugged. “Maybe, I think, they to talk to Jesus.”
    “That was very kind.”
    “They don’t say gracias. They don’t say nothing.”
    She handed me change, slammed the register drawer, and drew in a breath. I sensed she had something further to say.
    “I think those girls is scared. Then one is dead. I