Bones of the Lost(13)

“Sorry, but I do artifacts, not people. I specialize in the illicit importation and distribution of cultural property, and the illegal trafficking of artwork. Besides, if this girl has not been determined with reasonable certainty to be illegal, ICE would not be involved.”

“Is there a colleague you could ask?”

“I’d help if I could. But unless you know your victim was undocumented . . . And even then . . .” Dew sounded distracted. “It’s not as if we have a list of every person who enters the country illegally. It’s quite the opposite. Sorry.”

“Sure.”

“When might you complete your examination of the mummy bundles?”

“Soon.”

“Please keep me posted.”

“Will do. And thanks for your time, Agent Dew.”

My fingers lingered on the cradled receiver.

And my nerves buzzed with frustration.

Dew was a dead end.

Slidell had his mind glued to a theory.

Time to call it a day. A lousy one.

Again, the nagging thought. Had I missed something?

Without making a conscious decision, I got up and walked to the cooler, my rubber soles squeaking softly in the stillness. Cold air whooshed when I pulled open the heavy steel door, enveloping me in the smell of refrigerated flesh. I flipped on the light.

Six gurneys lined the walls, three holding occupied body bags. I checked tags until I found the one marked MCME 580-13. Unknown.

I was glad no next of kin ever saw this frigid crypt. No mother ever viewed her child stiff from the cold. No husband ever gazed on his wife labeled with digits and letters.

I swallowed. Partially unzipped MCME 580-13.

The girl’s hair trailed like seaweed across her forehead, tangled and yellow.

Somehow wrong with her olive skin and dark lashes and brows. I looked closely at her roots. Noted a quarter inch of black at her scalp.

The girl’s hair was bleached. Could Slidell be right?

On reflex, I brushed wayward strands from the girl’s face. The pink barrette loosened and fell to the side of her head.

An image popped. Katy, blond curls in dual ponies, plastic barrettes holding unruly escapees.

I retrieved the girl’s lone possession and clipped it firmly in place. My hand lingered as it had on the phone.

“You have my promise.” My voice sounded brittle in the small icy space. “I will find your family. I will send you home.”

Wanting to take a headshot, I reached for my iPhone.

Empty pocket.

My mobile was in my purse.

In my car.

In the courthouse parking lot.

The car I couldn’t retrieve because I had no ride.

The car I couldn’t drive because I had no key.

Cursing, I rousted up the Polaroid. After snapping the girl’s picture, I spent one more silent moment studying her features, then rezipped the bag.

Back in my office, I scanned the photo and e-mailed it to myself. Then I gophered through my desk drawers, hoping for peanut butter crackers or a stale granola bar. Lunch at the courthouse had been a Snickers.

My food quest turned up zip.

Great. I’d return hungry and empty-handed to my town house. To a peeved cat. And an empty fridge.

I was Googling for locksmiths and taxi services when the phone rang again. The call changed my plans.





I DON’T NORMALLY TENSE AT the sound of Pete’s voice.

Janis “Pete” Petersons. My ex. Sort of. Long story.

I fell for Pete in college. He was wrapping up law school, a post-fratboy charmer. Good mind, good body, good prospects. Good talker.

Our marriage was dandy for almost twenty years. Might have lasted if Pete hadn’t started sharing his charms with other women.

That aside—big aside, there—once we separated and time soothed the anger and hurt, I grew to like Pete’s company again. In the parlor, not the bedroom. Though, truth be told, the old embers can still smolder now and again.

Like many former spouses, Pete and I remain permanently linked. There’s our daughter, Katy, of course. And pets. When Pete travels, his dog, Boyd, is a guest at my town house. My cat, Birdie, bunks with Pete when I’m out of town. Sharing custody helps on both sides.

Over the years, Pete’s ring tone has come to signal a discussion of Katy, or the exchange of details concerning animal transfer. Occasionally a request that our daughter wants filtered through her old man the softy.

Tonight was not the ordinary call.

Pete never dialed my office line.

Oh, God!

I saw the girl zipped in the bag across the hall. The girl who’d been left to die on the roadside.

I saw Katy.

“What is it? Has something happened?” Fingers death-gripping the receiver.

“Relax. Katy’s fine. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been phoning you all afternoon.”

“It’s a long story. You’re sure Katy’s okay?”