Bones of the Lost(76)
“I do.”
Slidell twirled a finger, directing me to play the voicemail again. I did.
When it ended, he said, “Sounds scared shitless.”
“Yes. Can you trace the number?” Sliding him the sequence of digits I’d jotted.
Slidell glanced at the paper, unclipped his mobile, and punched a series of buttons. A voice answered. Slidell asked for an extension. Waited. Another voice answered.
“Slidell here. I need a trace.” The voice said something. “No. I was hoping for next Thanksgiving.”
The voice gave a decidedly clipped reply.
“Yeah? I’ll see you get a medal.
“Moron,” Slidell mouthed to me. I felt sympathy for the person on the other end of the line.
A full minute passed before the voice sounded again.
Slidell gestured for a pen. I handed him one. He shoulder-cupped the mobile as he wrote.
“Mix-coat-all?”
The voice responded.
“Spell it.”
The voice did.
“I owe you one.”
The voice had already gone silent.
“Call came from a Mexican joint off Old Pineville Road. Taqueria Mixed Coat All.”
“Holy shit.”
“Ay, caramba.”
I was so jazzed I didn’t bother to correct his Spanish. Old Pineville. The place my Jane Doe had died.
I yanked my purse from the drawer and shot to my feet.
“Up for a taco, detective?”
“Sí, señorita.”
TAQUERÍA MIXCOATL WAS LOCATED ON a grotty little spur coming off Griffin Road, a two-lane winding west from Old Pineville to dead-end at the Charlotte Marriot Executive Park. The restaurant sat between a tattoo parlor and an auto-parts discounter. All three businesses had barred windows and grimy glass through which it was impossible to see.
Slidell swung into the lot and parked two doors down from the taquería. Only three other cars were present: a red Mini Cooper, a gray Lexus, and a jacked-up Chevy pickup with windows as dark as the glass in the shops.
“Mixed Coat All.” Slidell was shaking his head at the sign. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mixcoatl is the Aztec god of the hunt.”
The restaurant was small and smelled of grilled meat. Inside the entrance, to the right, was a board filled with flyers, announcements, and posters, all in Spanish. On the left was a cash register counter. The tables were wood, the chairs high-backed, carved, and painted primary colors.
At midafternoon the place was deserted. Slidell and I held a moment, then seated ourselves by the front window.
In seconds a woman stepped through beads strung from a doorjamb to block the view into the kitchen. She wore a getup that looked vaguely Mexican. Puffy-sleeved white cotton blouse. Brightly colored textile skirt.
“Buenos días,” I said.
“Sorry you must wait,” the woman replied.
“We’re in no hurry.” Big smile.
The woman handed us menus. They were laminated and featured pictures of standard Mexican fare.
“I know exactly what I want.” I aimed another friendly grin her way. “Chicken enchiladas verdes and a Jarritos lime soda.”
The woman nodded.
Slidell ordered a beef burrito and a Dr Pepper. One brow formed a comma as the woman clacked through the beads.
“Buenos días?”
“I wanted to get her talking.”
“Think she’s our gal?”
I gestured “Who knows?”
Thought a moment.
“The call came into my voicemail around one thirty. This place doesn’t look like a big operation.”
I scanned the restaurant, saw no landline or portable at the register.
“The phone must be in back.”
“Meaning employee access only.” Slidell got my meaning. Short list of possible callers.
Our food arrived quickly. Though I was friendly as hell, the woman ignored my attempts to engage her in conversation. In either language.
As she withdrew, I tried peering through the beads closing behind her. Caught a glimpse of an old man working the grill. His face looked bronzed by a thousand hours in the sun. A white apron looped his neck and was tied at the small of his back.
As we ate, my gaze drifted to the window, to the parking lot dimly visible on the far side. The Mini was gone, and the Lexus had been replaced by an SUV. The pickup hadn’t budged. From this angle I could see what looked like a silhouette behind the wheel.
“—by the tracks you’ve got the Bronco Club. Can’t tell me those ladies don’t do double duty.”
Slidell was still channeled on the idea that the hit-and-run victim was a hooker.
“There is no evidence the kid was turning tricks.”
“Yeah? How about bingo-bingo on the DNA?” Slidell took a slug of his soda, smacked the can down. “I don’t have all day. Let’s do this thing.”