Bones of the Lost Read Free

told my boss, Tim Larabee, that I’d be at the lab before noon. In the jury lounge, I’d phoned to update my ETA to 1:00 P.M. My watch now said 2:00. Larabee would be wondering about the mummified remains awaiting my evaluation.
    Maybe it wasn’t Larabee.
    Hell. So now what? There was no one I wanted to tell I was standing shoeless on a parking deck, locked out of my car.
    But you gotta keep your head up …
    Right.
    I scanned the lot. Full of vehicles. Devoid of people.
    Break the car window? With what? Frustrated, I glared at the glass. It countered with an image of an angry woman with really bad hair. Clever.
    But it was. My eyes took in the glass that no longer snugged tight to the frame. A worn or missing tooth in the window regulator, Jimmy, my mechanic, had said. Dangerous. Enough gap for some kid to drop a wire and be halfway to Georgia before you realize your car’s been boosted.
    Seriously? I’d said. A ten-year-old Mazda?
    Parts, he’d said solemnly.
    Was a coat hanger too much to ask? I scanned the detritus collected where the deck’s pavement met its back wall. Pebbles, cellophane wrappers, aluminum cans. Nothing likely to get me into the car.
    I moved along the wall, gingerly positioning my feet. Though the blisters now looked like patches of ground beef, I soldiered on, cuffs dragging on the filthy concrete.
    Mummified bones at the lab growing older by the minute.
    Given all the delays, I’d be at the ME office until well into the evening. Then home to a cranky cat. Microwaving whatever was left in the freezer.
    But you gotta keep your …
    Can it.
    Then I spotted a glint in the debris two yards ahead. Hopeful, I inched toward it.
    My prize was a two-foot segment of wire, perhaps once part of a jerry-rigged arrangement such as the one I envisioned.
    After a fast hobble back to the Mazda, I created a small loop at one end and fed the wire through Jimmy’s gap.
    Working two-handed, face flat to the window, I tried to drop the loop over the button. Each time the gizmo seemed well positioned, I pulled up sharply.
    I was on my zillionth loop-and-yank when a voice boomed at my back.
    “Step away from the vehicle.”
    Shit
.
    Clutching the wire firmly in one hand, I turned.
    A uniformed parking attendant stood three yards from me, feet spread, palms up and pointed my way. His expression was one of nervous excitement.
    I smiled what I hoped was a disarming smile. Or at least calming.
    The attendant did not smile back.
    “Step away from the vehicle.” The guy’s hair was blond, his face flushed a shade of red just a tick down from that of my blisters. I guessed his age at maybe eighteen.
    I beamed a “silly me” charmer. “I’ve locked myself out of my car.”
    “I’ll need to see ID and registration.”
    “My purse is inside. The keys are in the ignition.”
    “Step away from the vehicle.”
    “If I can manage to catch the lock I can show you—”
    “Step away from the vehicle.” Blondie had quite the repertoire.
    I did as ordered, still holding on to the wire. Blondie gestured me further back.
    Eyes rolling, I increased the distance. Let go. The wire slid inside onto the car seat.
    Irritation overcame my resolve to be pleasant.
    “Look, it’s my car. I’ve just left jury duty. My registration and license are inside. I need to get to work. At the medical examiner’s office.”
    If I hoped the last reference would do it, I was wrong. Blondie’s expression said dirty barefoot woman with burglary tool. Dangerous?
    “Call the ME office,” I snapped.
    A beat. Then, “Wait here.”
    Like I was a flight risk with no shoes and no wheels.
    Blondie hurried off.
    I leaned against the Mazda, fuming, shifting from damaged foot to damaged foot, alternating between checking my watch and scanning the pavement for my bracelet. I began to pace the parking lot. Finally I heard the sound of an engine.
    Seconds later, a white Ford Taurus rolled up the ramp.
    Could this day get any worse?
    It just