Bones of the Lost(36)

To either side of the shelving, lining the baseboard, were larger objects. A metal breastplate. A carved tusk. A painted ceramic vessel. A battle-ax. Each artifact looked seriously old.

I caught Slidell’s eye. He nodded. He’d noticed, too.

Rockett gestured toward the sofa but remained standing. So did Slidell. So did I.

“Clock’s running,” Rockett said to Slidell.

“Save the attitude.”

Rockett’s spine, rigid as a mast, went even straighter.

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Slidell.”

“Fire away, Slidell.”

“How ’bout we talk stolen dogs.”

Something flickered in Rockett’s good eye. Surprise? Relief? He said nothing.

Slidell waited.

At length, Rockett snorted, a dry, wheezy sound like air through a filter.

“You been talking to that fruit fly Dew?”

Slidell neither confirmed nor denied.

“You want me to react?” Rockett asked.

“You want to react?”

“Will it get you and Sister Wide Eyes out of here sooner?”

“Might.”

“Stolen is the wrong word,” Rockett said.

“Enlighten me.”

“I bought the dogs from a farmer. Guy was so eager to sell he nearly peed his gauchos.”

“ICE don’t look kindly on relic smuggling.”

“I didn’t know they were old.”

“That your hobby? Buying up mummified pets?”

“Dew’s got no case.”

I knew Slidell was leading Rockett, getting him to believe we were there because of illegal antiquities. Target lulled into overconfidence, Slidell would pounce.

As the men spoke I glanced across a corridor into what the architect had probably intended to be the dining room. Instead of table, chairs, and buffet, the room held a bench press, weights, chin bar, punching bag, treadmill, and elliptical.

“ICE thinks you’re dirty,” Slidell said.

“They’ve got nothing.”

“Yeah?” Slidell jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You get that shit at the Walmart?”

“Everything I own is legal and documented. Someone wants to sell, I buy. Someone wants to buy, I sell.”

“Could be that’s the case. But from now on, you hit a border, a latex glove goes right between your cheeks.”

“I’ll say I’m a virgin, ask for gentle.”

“You think you’re smarter than me?” Slidell’s tone indicated tightly controlled anger.

“Donkey piss is smarter than you.”

That’s when Slidell crossed the line.

“You got all your tax ducks in a row, asshole? ’Cause Dew is fine-combing your 1040s, your bank accounts, your credit scores, every plumbing bill you ever paid.”

Rockett simply glared. With a hair less confidence than before?

“Screw with the IRS, you’re looking at hard time.” Slidell’s face was hard. “You know Dew’s wife is Peruvian? For him this is personal. And he’s got contacts down there. You skate this bust, and I ain’t putting money on those odds, you may want to think about shifting your base of operations. Maybe to Mars.”

I doubted the wife story. And was certain Dew would disapprove. But I didn’t interrupt.

“Every penny you ever earned, every dime you ever spent, Dew’s running his pencil down the columns. He’s calling your buyers, your suppliers, subpoenaing their records. Think Farmer Gaucho and his amigos will go to the slammer for you? Only question is how fast can they hablo to save their own asses.”

Silence followed Slidell’s rant. Rockett finally broke it.

“Why’s my customs beef a concern of the Charlotte PD?”

“My turf, my call.”

Rockett glanced at his watch, back at Slidell. “That it?”

“No. That ain’t it. Tell me about your buddy, John-Henry Story.”

“Don’t know him.” Rockett’s face remained carefully blank. But the fingers of his unscarred hand curled inward.

“Lying to a police investigator will bring you serious grief.”

What the hell? Slidell had already inflamed the situation. I pulled out the bar photos. Rockett glanced at them briefly, but offered no explanation.

“Special Agent Dew is aware of your position in S&S Enterprises,” I said. “Of your association with John-Henry Story.”

“No comment.” Through lips barely open.

“You got any comment on how Story managed to torch himself?”

Rockett offered no reply to Slidell’s question.

“Here’s what Dew keeps wondering.” Rainbow fragments of light danced the contours of Slidell’s face. “Where’s a two-bit importer get the bucks to play with the big boys?”