Bones of the Lost

interrogation room.”
    Some interviewers like to put their subjects at ease, gain their trust, then take advantage. Not Slidell. He believes in going straight for the kill.
    “You’re on parole, ain’t that right?”
    Creach nodded.
    “A drunk and disorderly violates. Am I right again?”
    No reaction.
    “You don’t cooperate, CC, your skinny black ass is back in the joint. I hear you’re a popular guy inside.”
    Creach’s eyes began jumping around the room.
    “Look at me, dipshit. You lose focus, I lose patience. You don’t want that.”
    “You got it wrong, man.”
    “Do I? Let’s try this. Passion Fruit Club.”
    Creach looked genuinely confused.
    “Ever get your pipe cleaned at the Passion Fruit?”
    “What?”
    “You need I should spell it out real slow?”
    Creach opened his lips, but said nothing.
    “I asked a question, asshole. You get your joystick tuned up at the”—Slidell hooked quotation marks—“massage parlor?”
    Creach couldn’t sit still. His fingers picked at the table edge. His sneaker went rat-tat-tat on the tile.
    Slidell sighed and began gathering his papers.
    Creach’s hands flew up. “Fine, then. Yeah. I been there.”
    “When?”
    “Couple times. Maybe three.”
    “When?”
    “Like, a date?”
    “Yeah, dipshit. Like a date.”
    “I’m not so good with dates.”
    “Dig real deep, CC.”
    Creach’s eyes stilled as he thought about his recent timetable.
    “A few weeks ago, maybe.”
    Slidell tipped his head.
    “A Monday? Yeah. I remember. Two weeks ago Monday. I was with this guy Zeno. Zeno said they got fresh stuff dancing at the Bronco Club.”
    I grabbed my iPhone and opened the calendar. Two Mondays back. The day our Jane Doe died.
    “What do you mean, ’fresh stuff?”
    “The owner brings new dancers in the first Monday of every month. When we’re flush, Zeno and me go to check out the titties.”
    “How old are these titties?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Slidell drilled Creach with a look.
    “The ones come those special Mondays, they’re young.”
    “Kids?”
    “Look, man. I don’t ask their IDs.”
    “And sometimes these young ladies rock your world.”
    “No way.” Creach’s head wagged too fast and too many times. “One of them complained about something, it wasn’t me. Or if they’s underage or something.”
    “Uh-huh. Let me guess. You can’t afford poontang at the Bronco, so you go down market to the Passion Fruit. What, the chicks a little older there? Maybe got all their molars?”
    “No. They’s young, too.” Creach was too thick to catch Slidell’s sarcasm. “I don’t like old pussy.”
    “You’re a real discriminating guy, CC.”
    Slidell sounded as revolted as I felt. After pausing a moment, he pulled a photo of Jane Doe from his assortment and whipped it across the table.
    “You know her?”
    Creach scratched an ear as he eyed the image. “Yeah.”
    Slidell’s eyes rolled up to the camera.
    I held my breath.
    “What’s her name?”
    “Candy.”
    “Tell me about her.”
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    “Dead serious.”
    “The Passion Fruit’s not a place for shooting the shit.”
    Slidell crossed his arms.
    Creach shrugged. “She didn’t speak no English, man. None of them did. They talked Spanish or some shit.”
    Slidell slid Ray Majerick’s mug shot across the table.
    Creach studied the face but said nothing.
    “I’m gonna say something here maybe I shouldn’t.” Slidell inhaled deeply, exhaled through his nose. “I think you’re trying, CC. But so far, it ain’t enough. You give me something to work with, I’ll do what I can to make the drunk-and-disorderly beef disappear.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    Creach tapped the photo. “This guy was always there.”
    “At the Passion Fruit.”
    “Yeah.”
    “He work there?”
    “I don’t know. Honest to fuck, I don’t. The girls called him Magic. Acted scared of the dude.”
    “Why?”
    “No fucking clue.”
    I hadn’t noticed the pumping foot go quiet. Until it started again.
    “This shit’s all confidential, right? It gets out I talked to you, it’s my balls to the wall.”
    Slidell flipped a pen and tablet across the table. “Write it down.”
    “I gave it up. Come on. We’re talking my ass!”
    Slidell was already heading for the door. He turned.
    “Do yourself a favor. Calm the fuck down.”
    “Hey! Wait! What happens to me?”
    I met Slidell in the hall.
    “What do you think, doc?”
    “His story seems to track.”
    “So