Bones of the Lost(86)
I squeezed my eyes tight. The heartbreaking images remained.
Children jammed in a pen, hands clutching the wire, eyes begging for help. A girl with bound wrists, face devoid of hope. Young boys on mats in a filthy basement.
I hovered at the edge of a deep well of helpless rage.
An e-mail pinged me back.
I noted the sender. Read the subject line.
Felt needles of ice dance my skin.
You’re next, bitch.
citizenjustice@hotmail.com.
“Bring it on, you bastard!”
I opened the vile thing.
A single image filled my screen, a .jpg transmitted as an attachment.
The picture showed a woman lying on her back, a dark puddle on the pavement below her head. The woman’s eyes were open and fixed on nothing. Her face was swollen and discolored and streaked with blood.
My breath caught in my throat.
The woman’s mouth gaped wide. Too wide.
“Oh, Jesus. Oh, no.”
Despite the blood, I could see that the woman’s mouth was empty.
I stared, shocked and sickened. Knowing. The woman’s tongue had been severed, packaged, and left on my doorstep. Had I met her?
The woman’s features were too distorted to allow recognition. If I even knew her.
I ran my gaze down the supine body. The clothing was unremarkable, a jacket, dark pants, sensible shoes.
I worked my way back up.
The jacket was stained with what I assumed to be blood.
My gaze fell on the woman’s neck.
One heartbeat. Two. A dozen.
The icy needles burned hotter.
I grabbed my hand lens. Focused.
Saw a heart-shaped mark in the hollow of the woman’s throat.
My fist slammed the desk.
Goddammit! Goddammit! Goddammit!
Tears burned the backs of my lids.
I got up. Paced. Furious. Miserable.
Culpable?
When the phone rang I nearly ignored it.
“What!” More expletive than question.
“You okay, doc?” Slidell.
“I . . . Are you near a computer?”
“Can be.”
“I’m forwarding a photo to your e-mail.”
“Could take a minute.”
“Call as soon as you get it.” I prayed my voice didn’t reveal how gutted I felt.
“I thought you wanted—”
“Do it!”
More pacing.
The phone rang twelve minutes later.
“Citizenjustice. Who is this dickwad?”
I listened to Slidell’s breathing, knew he was studying the image.
“It’s D’Ostillo,” I said.
“The waitress at the Mixcoatl?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“See the birthmark on her throat?”
Slidell grunted.
“It’s D’Ostillo. She talked to us and was killed.”
“Now don’t go thinking this is your fault.”
“Really? Whose is it? Whose idea was it to go to that restaurant?”
“She’s the one called you.”
“And for being a good Samaritan she gets her tongue hacked out!”
I was close to tears. And hating it. Especially when talking to Slidell.
Slidell was silent for so long I thought he’d disconnected. Given my rudeness, I wouldn’t have blamed him.
“Getting sicker and sicker,” he said.
“Whoever did this plays for bigger stakes than one teenage hooker.”
“You’re thinking Candy and D’Ostillo are connected?”
“You don’t? Candy was killed near the taquería. D’Ostillo told us she’d seen Candy in there, said she worked at the Passion Fruit. D’Ostillo’s dead, Candy’s dead.”
“Still liking Rockett?”
“Right now he’s topping my list.”
“I’ll send the e-mail over to cyber crimes, see if they can capture an ISP. Techs can analyze the image. Filter it or enlarge it or whatever the fuck they do. Maybe we can nail the location.”
“What are the chances the body’s still there?”
Slidell made one of his Slidell noises. Then, “The Passion Fruit belongs to an outfit called SayDo, LLP.”
“What?”
He started to repeat. I cut him off.
“Who are the owners?”
“They’re not really into talking about themselves.”
“Someone’s looking into it?”
“As we speak. In the meantime, I got the warrant.”
“When do you hit?”
“Tonight. Putting a team together now.”
“I want in.”
“Yeah, I figured that.”
THE NIGHT WAS COOL, THE air tainted with the smell of diesel and at least one peeved skunk. A full moon hung in the eastern sky, crossed by wispy fingers of black.
“Nice night for a raid.”
Slidell spoke from behind the wheel of a police cruiser. A uniformed cop named Rodriguez rode shotgun. I was in back.
Ours was one of four vehicles idling in an industrial lot on Griffin, a bump north and fifty yards west of the Passion Fruit Club. Three Chevy Suburbans held three SWAT guys each. Slidell had come loaded for bear. His words.