Bones of the Lost by Kathy Reichs Page B

hit-and-run victim we discussed remains unidentified.”
    Dew looked down at me blankly.
    “The girl that Detective Slidell suspects is undocumented. Would you like to view the body?”
    “I really don’t see how that can be useful.”
    “We’re here. She’s here. What can it hurt?”
    Before Dew could object I led him into the cooler, centered the proper gurney, and unzipped the bag.
    To his credit, Dew didn’t leave. Nor did he show any emotion.
    A moment passed. Then, “This is very sad, but I really can’t help. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
    I rezipped the girl and we moved to my office. Dew filled a good hunk of it. I waited for him to divulge what was on his mind.
    “As part of its investigation, ICE has begun examining Dominick Rockett’s finances.”
    Dew took my lack of response as nonunderstanding.
    “We are looking at Mr. Rockett’s bank records, purchase histories, tax returns, for example. Among other things.”
    The guy talked like he was reading from a training manual.
    “The gentleman has assets difficult to explain by the totality of his pension and disability income combined with the proceeds from his import business.”
    “Meaning?” I knew what it meant. But it seemed Dew needed feedback.
    “Dominick Rockett may be a larger player than we suspected.”
    “You think he’s a smuggler?”
    Dew shifted a lot of poundage in a surprisingly elegant manner. “These dogs may be the tip of a very lucrative and disturbing iceberg.”
    My stomach chose that moment to voice another notice of need.
    I reddened. Dew might have. I couldn’t tell, his face was already so flushed.
    “But I’ve engaged you too long.” Dew rose.
    “You’ll keep me in the loop?” I asked.
    “Certainly. You’ve been very cooperative.”
    Cooperative? What was I, a suspect?
    “Thank you.” I pulled a flyer from my purse. “Perhaps you’ll float a few questions about my Jane Doe?”
    Dew was studying the photo when the landline shrilled.
    “I’m sorry to interrupt.” Mrs. Flowers sounded tense. “But the caller is insistent. And sounds rather upset.”
    An image of Katy flashed in my mind.
    “I’ll take it.” Mouth dry.
    As I mimed “sorry” to Dew, the ambient sound on the line changed.
    “—picture on the flyer?” The voice was low, the connection awful.
    “Are you referring to the notice about the hit-and-run victim?” I asked, baffled.
    “—girl dead?” The caller sounded female.
    “Yes. She is dead.”
    “—hurt her—scared—”
    “Scared of what?”
    Garbled static.
    “—all were—”
    “Ma’am. Can you hang up and call me back?”
    “—wrong—had to tell someone.”
    “Do you know who the girl is?”
    Click.
    Dial tone.

“I F YOU ’ D LIKE TO MAKE a call, please hang up and—”
    I depressed and released the button, then punched in Mrs. Flowers’s extension.
    Busy.
    Again.
    Still busy.
    Come on. Come on .
    The caller had sounded guarded. Did she break the connection? Did someone else?
    “I’m sorry.” To Dew. “That may have been a tip on my Jane Doe.”
    “I understand.”
    This time Mrs. Flowers answered.
    “I apologize f—”
    “The last caller. Do you have a number?”
    A pause, then, “I do.”
    Dew watched as I jotted the digits. Then, “Again, thank you, Dr. Brennan.”
    “I’ll let you know when you can collect the dogs.”
    Dew was barely through the door when I hit Slidell on speed dial.
    “Yo.” In the background, Waylon Jennings was advising a trip to Luckenbach, Texas.
    “Can you trace a number?”
    “Lemme guess. Dancing with the Stars finally rang and you lost ’em.”
    I told him about my flyers, then about the anonymous caller. Braced for a lecture. Which didn’t come.
    “Shoot.”
    I shot.
    “Gimme five.”
    Three minutes later, Slidell was back. Sans Waylon.
    “Pay phone. Who knew they still existed? Most of those booths are now pissing—”
    “Where?”
    “Seneca Square Shopping Center.”
    “South Boulevard, near