Bones of the Lost Read Free Page A

had.

PULLING CLOSE, ERSKINE “skinny” slidell removed his knock-off Ray-Bans, lowered his window, and eyed my flopping pant legs, devastated feet, and disheveled hair. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Though the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit has more than two dozen detectives, somehow I always end up with Skinny. And the pairing is always a test of my fortitude.
    It’s not that Slidell’s a bad investigator. Quite the opposite. But Skinny views himself as “old-school.” In his mind that means Dirty Harry Callahan, Popeye Doyle, and Sergeant Friday. I’ve seen Slidell question witnesses. Always expect “just the facts, ma’am.” But Skinny’s not a “sir” and “ma’am” kind of guy.
    Several years back, Slidell’s partner, Eddie Rinaldi, was killed in a sidewalk shoot-out. No one blamed Slidell. Except Slidell. Thinking Skinny could use some diversity awareness, the department partnered him with a Latina lesbian named Theresa Madrid. To the surprise of all, the two got along.
    Recently, Madrid and her partner had adopted a Korean infant, and Madrid had taken maternity leave. Slidell was temporarily working solo. Which he liked.
    “Whoo-hee.” The dolt actually said that.
    “Detective—”
    “You piss someone off?”
    Later I might have chuckled about this episode. At that moment, I saw nothing but lousy choices. Argue with the parking twerp. Hike to a phone, then wait for AAA. Deal with Slidell.
    “How did you know I was here?” Cool.
    “I was with Doc Larabee when he got a call.” Slidell leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. “Get in.”
    Drawing a lungful of fresh air, I slid into the seat.
    “Lord in heaven, doc. Don’t know I’ve seen anyone that ratty in years.”
    “You should get out more.”
    “What the hell were you—”
    “Mud wrestling. Pull over there.” I pointed to where my car was.
    “Hate to see the other guy.”
    “I’ll post a video on YouTube.” I jabbed an impatient finger in the direction of the big SUV.
    Slidell proceeded as directed.
    “Stop!” My hand came up. “No, up behind that van.”
    “I know what happened. Some dude tuned you up for trying to boost his car.”
    “If I could boost a car, I wouldn’t be here.” I hopped out. The blisters looked like two red eyes staring up at my face.
    If the bracelet hadn’t been a gift from Katy, I’d have cut my losses and split. Someday I’d tell her about this. Then we’d laugh. Maybe.
    I slid between my car and the blue mammoth, eyes on the pavement. Bingo. The bracelet lay beneath the two abutting mirrors, in the least accessible spot possible.
    Sucking in my gut, I wedged between the door handles and down into a squat. Shoulders twisted sideways as far as they would, I reached out and snagged the bracelet. Then, careful not to set off alarms, I hauled myself up and made for the Taurus.
    Slidell watched my performance without comment. Apparently I’d crossed the line from amusing to pitiable.
    I got in and slammed the door.
    “Where to?”
    “The ME office.” Snapping the bracelet onto my wrist.
    “Happy to swing by your crib.”
    “My house key is in my purse. In my car.”
    “Shoe store?”
    “No, thank you.” Curt.
    “No problemo. I’m headed back there anyway.”
    I could have asked why. Instead I sat facing the side window, attention focused on blocking the olfactory record of Slidell’s passion for the deep-fried and overgreased. Of coffee supporting white colonies of mold. Of sweaty sneakers and oil-stained caps. Of stale smoke. Of Skinny himself.
    But I wasn’t exactly aromatic either.
    Slidell exited the deck, kinked over to East Trade, and hung a left.
    Several minutes passed in silence. Then, “Who snuffed Fluffy, eh?”
    I had no idea what that meant.
    “Who popped the pooch?”
    Great. Slidell knew about my mummy bundles. More grist for the comedy mill.
    “Who capped the—”
    “I’ve been asked to examine four sets of