Bones of the Lost(17)
“We don’t know who she is.”
“Jesus. Larabee’s case?”
I nodded. “There are a couple of leads. If Slidell would get off his fat ass. In his mind—”
“Which is small.”
I smiled. “In his small mind, she’s an illegal turning tricks.”
“Proof?”
“A pink purse, needle tracks, and bad teeth.”
“That’s it?”
“Bleached hair, a dark complexion, and a Spanish note in her purse.”
“Skinny thinks she’s from south of the border.”
I nodded.
Pete chuckled and shook his head. He’d met Slidell, knew how pigheaded the man could be.
The clamor of voices hushed. Then a multi-throated groan filled the room. Some sporting event was not going well for the home team.
Pete’s ribs were stripped and stacked when he laid down his utensils and wiped his mouth.
“Can I roll something by you?”
“Sure.”
“I have a friend, Hunter Gross. I don’t think you know him. His nephew, John, is a marine second lieutenant.”
“Semper fi.” I snapped a salute.
Pete had served in the Corps, still kept the Marine flag on a small stand in his office. Every November tenth, he celebrated its birthday with his old OCC buddies.
“Until a few months ago, John was serving as a platoon leader in Afghanistan. As I understand the story, he and his men were ordered to search a village.” Pete stopped, an odd expression on his face. “I’m not sure of the details, but the kid’s been accused of murdering unarmed civilians.”
“Jesus.”
“Hunter says no way he’s guilty.”
“Your friend. The uncle.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your take?”
Pete shrugged. “I’m not sure what to think. Hunter says the kid’s a good marine, had plans to make a career of it, but I don’t know him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Cooling his heels at Camp Lejeune pending completion of an inquiry.”
“Relieved of duty?”
Pete nodded.
“Hard.” For something to say.
“Yeah. Hell on the family.”
Cold-blooded killer? Incompetent leader? Good soldier, bad decision in the heat of battle? Tough one.
In the same place Katy was posted.
Pete bunched and tossed his napkin. Looked at me. Read my mind.
“You’re thinking of Katy, right?”
I didn’t respond.
“Katy’s a private. She won’t be leading anyone anywhere.”
“She’s in artillery.”
“Behind the lines.”
“Launching rockets at people who hate us.”
“Not everyone in Afghanistan hates Americans.”
“I know. But life’s so . . . unpredictable over there. She could be killed on her way to breakfast.”
“So could I.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Katy is a survivor.”
He said it with such confidence I could almost believe him. Still. The images. Katy lying by a burning Humvee on a bleak desert road. In a body bag.
Like the girl in the cooler.
The hit-and-run victim had a mother somewhere, wondering where she was. Why she wasn’t calling. Was someone assuring her that her little girl was well?
I gulped the last of my Perrier, now mostly melted ice.
“My car—”
“Off we go!”
Pete pantomimed writing. April and her teeth reappeared with the check.
We did our usual lunge. Pete got there first, paid cash, including a tip that could have financed a presidential campaign.
Five minutes of Rihanna, and we were at the courthouse parking deck. I got out and circled to Pete’s side of the car. He lowered his window.
“So. Tomorrow we’re officially free.” Christ. Did I really say that?
“Yeppers.” Equally lame.
We shared a clumsy through-the-opening hug. Lasting a moment too long?
“All the best to you and Summer.”
“Thanks. Keep in touch?”
“Of course.”
“Do you want me to wait until you’re wheels-up?”
“I’m a big girl.”
“But lousy with keys.”
I dug out and dangled the spares from my desk. Returned his loaner.
Then Pete was gone.
My purse was still in the Mazda. The hated shoes.
Below, passing vehicles made soft whooshing sounds on Fourth Street. In the distance a drunk warbled “Lucy in the Sky.”
I dropped one set of keys into my purse and pulled out my phone.
Slidell answered after two rings.
“Yo, doc.” In the background I could hear the play-by-play of a baseball game.
“How’re you coming on the hit-and-run vic?”
“Tomorrow—”
“Have you canvased the neighborhood? There are a few shops along Old Pineville Road.”