Bones of the Lost by Kathy Reichs

curling at the corners. I stopped to read a few through the grimy glass.
    Missing cats and dogs, one parakeet. Good luck with that. An ad for a wet T-shirt contest at some bar probably long since belly-up. An author hawking her self-published book, Mind over Weight . Seriously? At Fat Cells R Us?
    King was behind the counter, thumbing through a copy of OK! magazine. The clotted lids lifted when I jingled through the door.
    “Hi, Shannon.”
    “Hey.” Noncommittal.
    “Wondered if I might post some of these?” I handed her a flyer.
    She eyed the picture, read the few details I’d included about the accident, the victim, my contact information at the ME office, Slidell’s at the CMPD.
    “Okay.” She hooked a thumb in the direction of the Motel 6. “Creepoids from the apartments might have seen something.”
    She dug below the counter, produced a roll of tape with hairs curling from the sticky side.
    “Put it in the window.”
    “May I also hang one on the door?”
    The dark brows puckered.
    “You have my card. If the manager objects, tell him to call me,” I said.
    “What the fuck. I’ll tell him the coroner insisted.” She placed the flyer to one side of the counter, facing out. “I’ll keep one here, you know, watch how people react. If they look, like, guilty or something.”
    Great. I had a kid in a cooler and my daughter in a war zone. I didn’t need a bimbo junior investigator.
    “That’s fine, Shannon. But just observe. Don’t engage anyone in conversation.”
    “You think I’m a moron?”
    “Of course not.”
    I felt goth eyes on my back as I posted the notices and left.
    The day was warming, the cloud cover starting to fragment. The sun’s brief appearances warmed my shoulders and hair.
    After removing my jacket, I drove to the Motel 6.
    The complex, called the Pines, consisted of a long, rectangular box that appeared to have little motivation to remain standing. Paint that had once covered the cinder-block walls now looked like irregular bloodred sores. Each of the ten units had a single curtained window and faded blue door.
    Rooms to let fifty cents  . . .
    I guessed that tenants at the Pines were mostly short-term, either hoping to move up or dropping down hard.
    A few battered cars waited on the strip of pavement fronting the rectangle, like swayback horses tied outside a saloon. I nosed mine into the herd and got out.
    No one answered my knock at the first six units. I slipped flyers under the doors and moved on.
    Numbers 7 and 8 were opened by dark-skinned women claiming no comprendo . Ditto when I posed my questions in Spanish. Eyes fearful, they took their flyers and quickly withdrew.
    At unit 9, a bare-chested man cracked, then slammed the door before I could speak. At 10, a voice bellowed, “Get the fuck gone!”
    I did.
    Driving Old Pineville and the small network of arteries surrounding Rountree, I tacked the girl’s picture to trees, fences, and utility poles, to a barrier leading into woods where the Rountree pavement ended. I left her image at every business Slidell had visited. Most accepted my handiwork with skepticism. A few asked questions. The majority did not.
    Discouraged, I worked my way along South Boulevard, then hit the three light-rail platforms closest to the spot where the girl had died.
    I was wheep-wheeping my Mazda when my iPhone announced an incoming call.
    “Temperance Brennan.” Sliding behind the wheel and clicking the belt with my free hand.
    “Luther Dew.”
    “How can I help you, Agent Dew?”
    “I had hoped you would be in your office.” Reproachful?
    “I’m on my way now.”
    “I wonder if I might stop by, perhaps in half an hour?”
    “I haven’t completed my analysis of the mummy bundles.”
    As in, I haven’t started.
    “Have you done radiography?”
    “Yes.” I’d asked Joe Hawkins to X-ray the crap out of everything.
    “I’m wondering if I might have the films to aid me in composing my report.”
    “You’re welcome to take