Bones of the Lost

their helmets. Charlie team joined them outside the Passion Fruit, one to either side, one in front of the door.
    Slidell spoke into his rover, not so quietly now.
    “Go!”
    One Charlie guy booted the door. I heard metal bang an inside wall. Glass shatter.
    Slidell and Rodriguez steamrolled in. Charlie team followed.
    Something boomed. A rear door?
    I heard Slidell’s muffled bellow.
    “Police! Everyone freeze!”
    Someone screamed, high and shrill.
    Men shouted.
    Then nothing.
    No bullets. No cries from disgruntled patrons. No shrieks from terrified women.
    Seconds passed. A minute. A lifetime.
    The quiet was deafening.
    “Screw this.” I launched myself from the car and ran toward the building.
    Through the open door I could see a waiting room with taupe walls, orange plastic chairs, fake ferns, coffee and end tables scarred by cigarette burns.
    One of the Charlie guys was there.
    “Clear?” I panted, high on adrenaline.
    “Yeah.” He tipped the barrel of his Remington toward a doorway on the right. “Party’s down there.”
    I followed a corridor toward the back of the building. As in the waiting area, the walls were taupe. Doors ran its length, all painted yellow. Three on the left, three on the right. Every door was open.
    I glanced through each as I hurried past.
    The rooms had plywood walls that didn’t make it to the ceiling. Three were closet size and held only a bed, neatly made, and a straight-back chair. Two had your standard massage-table-and-boom-box setup. All were deserted.
    Muffled voices emanated from the sixth room, the last on the right. One belonged to Slidell. The pitch and tenor told me he was barely containing his anger.
    I entered.
    This room was also cubicle size. It held a desk, a ratty upholstered chair, and an ancient rabbit-eared TV. A door stood open in one corner. Through it I could see stairs descending into gloom.
    Another SWAT guy was in the room, Delta team, I think. His eyes followed me from below the rim of his helmet.
    I pointed to the stairs.
    He nodded.
    The basement was dank and dismal. And, to my disgust, showed signs of habitation. Four cots, each with a tattered blanket. A mini-fridge. A hot plate. A sideboard with cabinets above and below. Atable holding a lamp, a mug jammed with pens and pencils, empty ashtrays, a stack of magazines.
    A wheeled clothes rack butted up to the sideboard. Every hanger was empty. A door opened onto a bath at the cellar’s far end.
    Slidell was glaring down at a woman who stood maybe five feet tall. She was returning the glare, clearly not backing off. In one hand she clutched a paper I guessed was the warrant.
    Rodriguez was also present. Two more SWAT guys. I assumed the others were positioned outside the building, or checking adjacent properties.
    “And you run this dump all by yourself?”
    “Someone comes in to clean.”
    “Where are they, Mrs. Tarzec?” Slidell was looming over the woman. The man is a spectacular loomer.
    “I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mrs. Tarzec sounded like decades of cigarettes. Her appearance matched her voice. Her hair was thin and fried, her skin sallow and wrinkled due to the diminished blood flow caused by smoking.
    “I think you do.”
    Mrs. Tarzec shrugged.
    Slidell’s eyes rolled to Rodriguez.
    Rodriguez gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
    Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged so large they jostled his helmet strap. “Who dimed you?”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Slightly accented English. “We do massage therapy. Only massage therapy.”
    “Yeah?” Slidell made a show of looking around. “Where are the masseurs?” It came out
massers.
    “It’s Wednesday. Business is slow. It’s costing me more to keep the lights on than I’m taking in, so I gave the girls the night off. Girls. Making the proper term
masseuse.
”
    “The proper term is whorehouse.”
    “I love the way you do macho, officer. What are you? Four hundred pounds?”
    “With my gun on.” Slidell’s face was hard, his cheeks the color of claret.
    “You seem tense, officer. You might benefit from one of our aromatherapy packages.”
    “You might benefit from a little time in the box.”
    Mrs. Tarzec took two steps back, wagged her head slowly, and smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and seemed oddly small for her mouth.
    “You going to arrest me?”
    Slidell said nothing.
    “I didn’t think so. Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here. Never was. You