Bones of the Lost(78)
Rosalie shook her head. “Nerviosas.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They look at table, not my eye. No smile. No talk.”
“Did you speak to them?”
“I say hola, they say nothing. I say buenos días, they say nothing.”
“Did they talk to the man? Did he talk to you?”
“The man order cheese enchiladas. No friendly. Muy frío.”
“What did he look like?”
She shook her head. “Hat.” She placed both hands level above her brows, like a visor. “I no see good.”
“Was he tall, short, fat, skinny?”
She waggled a hand. “Not so tall, not so skinny or fat.”
I pulled the mug shots of Creach and Majerick from my purse. Rosalie studied them, slowly shaking her head.
“The hat. And—” She mimed pulling up a collar. “And he no look into my eyes.” She shrugged. “No face.”
Great. A medium-size guy in a hat. Slidell would love that description.
“Did the man and the girls come by car?”
“Walking.”
“Did you see where they went?”
Rosalie nodded. “After they leave I watch. From window.”
With another quick glance toward the kitchen, she came around the counter, pushed open the door, and pointed to a storefront half a block up on the opposite side of the street.
“There. They walk there.”
“What is it?”
She struggled, then, “Sala de masaje.”
I had to think about that. Seeing my noncomprehension, Rosalie pantomimed rubbing her neck and shoulders.
“Massage parlor?”
“Yes.” Her lips went thin. “Only men. Men go in, men come out. No women. But girls.”
“The one with the pink barrette.”
“Sí.” She let the door swing shut, returned to the counter, and held out a hand. I gave her a twenty.
“May I ask one more question?”
She looked at me.
“Did you give the girl with the barrette a note about St. Vincent de Paul Church?”
“Sí. I think maybe these girls don’t talk because they have no English.” She shrugged. “Maybe, I think, they talk to Jesus.”
“That was very kind.”
“They don’t say gracias. They don’t say nothing.”
She handed me change, slammed the register drawer, and drew in a breath. I sensed she had something further to say.
“I think those girls is scared. Then one is dead. I have to—” A hand rose to the heart-shaped splotch of brown at her throat. “I call you. Something is bad. Something is wrong.”
“You did the right thing, Rosalie. Detective Slidell and I will find out who this poor girl is. Because of you she will go home to her family. And we will discover who hurt her. If other girls are being hurt, we will help them, too.”
The door whipped open and two kids slouched through. Each wore an athletic jersey and jeans large enough for a party of four.
“Está abierto?”
“Sí.” To me. “I go now.”
“You have my number. Please call if you remember anything else or if you see the man in the hat again.” I collected the printouts. “Or either of these two men.”
Outside, Slidell was leaning against the Taurus.
“This better be good.” He yanked open the door and slid behind the wheel.
“Drive past that building.” I pointed to the massage parlor, then relayed what Rosalie had said about it.
“So the kid was turning tricks.”
Was that it? Had Rosalie observed a meal shared by working girls and their pimp? I hated to admit it, but Slidell’s theory was starting to have legs.
The massage parlor stood between a tattoo shop and a liquor store. Like its neighbors, the building was dirty-white brick with a glass door and large front window. Unlike its neighbors, every inch of glass was curtained. A small sign identified the place as the Passion Fruit Club.
Slidell and I observed in silence. No one entered or left any of the businesses.
After ten minutes, I said, “We should check the place out.”
“Because a waitress disliked the look of the clientele?”
“She did see our Jane Doe enter the place.” Testy.
Skinny didn’t favor that with a reply.
Slidell was right. Still, it peeved me.
We watched another five minutes, then, without asking, Slidell put the car in gear and turned toward Griffin.
As we drove, I briefed him on everything I’d learned from D’Ostillo.
I’d barely finished when a phrase she’d used triggered a cerebral chain.
No face.
A hat pulled low and a collar raised high.
Who would hide their features?
A person with a disfigured face?
A vet with a disfigured face?