Free Bones of the Lost by Kathy Reichs Page B

beaten out for a project manager spot.
    “How’s it feel being boss?” I asked.
    “Has its perks. So, what’s happening? You coming up to Raleigh?”
    “Sadly, no. I’m calling to ask a favor.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “I’ve got a young girl, midteens, a hit-and-run victim. Struck from behind and left to die.”
    “Lord in heaven.” I could see Josie shaking her head, short black dreads bobbing with the motion.
    “I’m not sure how committed the lead detective is. He thinks she’s illegal, probably in the life.”
    “Just another dead hooker.”
    “We’ve got prints, but the kid’s not in any system. We can’t find an MP with her profile. We swabbed for DNA, of course.”
    “Which is useless until you have a name so we know who to contact for comparison.”
    “Exactly. But the pathologist found semen. We’re hoping that might lead somewhere.”
    “I hear you. But the backlog here is freaking out those higher up the pay scale.”
    “Any chance you can goose my girl up the queue?”
    “I’ll do what I can. Which is probably not much.”
    “Tim Larabee is submitting the samples.” I gave her the pertinent case information. “I’m in your debt.”
    “You better believe it.”
    Still, I didn’t log out to head to the lab.
    I returned to my e-mail and opened the picture I’d scanned and sent to myself and Slidell the previous night. The girl lay in her body bag, pale and still.
    I wondered how she’d looked in life, when her spirit still lived in her face, and her quirks and mannerisms made her unique. The squint of an eye, the tilt of a brow, the lopsided upturning of one lip.
    I opened a file labeled MCME 580-13, and saved the image to it. Then I attached and e-mailed a copy to Allison Stallings, a crimereporter at the Charlotte Observer . A few years back, Stallings had followed a string of satanic killings I was working.
    Actually, Stallings had stalked Slidell and me. But she’d reported the facts accurately and fairly. In the end, I’d liked her.
    After waiting ten minutes, I dialed Stallings’s number.
    “Who is she?” she said by way of greeting.
    I repeated what I’d told Josie Cromwell, adding a few more specifics about time of death and the body recovery site.
    “What do you want?”
    “Can you run the picture and a short article? Might scare up a witness, or someone who knows her.”
    “Hang on.”
    I did. Far down the line, indecipherable snippets sounded like chatter from another galaxy. Stallings was back in less than five minutes.
    “Sorry. My editor says not yet. If your kid’s still a Jane Doe a week from now, he’ll reconsider. But nothing front page.”
    “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
    We traded good-byes and disconnected.
    Okay. Dogs.
    As I was pulling on jeans, a blouse, and ballet flats, my brain posted an image of Slidell talking disdainfully of wetbacks and hookers.
    Was he right? Was she illegal?
    What are ya gonna do?
    Firing back downstairs, I e-mailed the girl’s photo to Luther Dew at ICE. Another long shot, but it couldn’t hurt.
    I sat a moment, thinking. About Slidell and his missing single mom. About my phone conversation with Luther Dew.
    And I realized the obvious.
    For my Jane Doe to have a name, I’d have to take the initiative.
    I added text to the girl’s photo and sent my work to the printer.
    Flyers in hand, I set out.

T HE ONLY CAR IN THE Yum-Tum’s lot was the grungy Ford Escort from the night before, probably Shannon King’s.
    Grabbing a handful of flyers from the passenger seat, I got out and walked toward the door. A car rattled by behind me. Gravel crunched underfoot.
    In daylight I could identify some of the neighbors. A tool and die company, an outfit with its lawns full of cast concrete, a screen printer’s shop, a crumbling sprawl that looked like an old Motel 6 converted to apartments.
    No phone, no pool, no pets . . .
    Thanks, Mr. Miller.
    The Yum-Tum’s front window was blanketed with notices, some fresh, most yellowed and