Free Bones of the Lost by Kathy Reichs Page A

name?”
    “We don’t know. We’re trying to find out.”
    “I wish I could help.” She started to slide the photo toward me on the counter. Stopped. “I could keep it. Show it around. You want I should do that?”
    I considered, decided against it. Not with her alone here at night. No way I wanted her alerting the wrong person.
    “I’ll talk to the investigator in charge about getting you a copy.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Detective Slidell.”
    “He’ll call me?”
    “He’ll do that.”
    I handed her my card. “Please phone if you think of anything. Anything at all.”
    My hand was on the door when her question stopped me.
    “What was she doing out here so late?”
    “I don’t know, Shannon. But I will find out.”
    Thirty minutes later I was home in bed.

THAT NIGHT MY dreams were ragged snatches, all forgotten upon waking. Save one.
    Ryan was walking down a shadowy road overhung with dark, intertwined branches. His back was to me.
    I called to him, but he didn’t stop. A car approached from beyond, illuminating his long, lanky form in the brilliance of its headlights.
    Ryan turned. Slowly, his features morphed into Pete’s.
    The Pete/Ryan figure came toward me, twirling a folded umbrella. When close, he poked my side with the tip, again and again.
    I opened my eyes. Felt pressure under my rib cage.
    Reaching beneath me, I felt something hard on the mattress. Retrieved it.
    My Latvian amber ring had slipped from my finger. Or I’d worried it off in the night.
    Either way, one thing was clear. I’d lost weight. Not long ago the fit had been tight. Stress poundage?
    I lay a while, replaying the dream in my head. What would ol’ Sigmund think?
    I pondered the Peruvian dogs. Considered the best approach.
    Then I remembered something far more important. Wednesday morning. Katy and I were scheduled to Skype at oh-nine-hundred, as she’d put it. East coast time.
    My eyes shot to the clock. Seven fifty-five.
    I quickly showered, shampooed, and dried my hair.
    As I exited the bathroom, my iPhone was singing. I reached it too late.
    The phone icon indicated two voice messages. A third landed as I stood with the device in my hand. Seriously? In twenty minutes?
    I ran through the list.
    The vet’s office had called with a reminder about Birdie’s annual checkup.
    Pete. No message. With congratulations on a successful divorce?
    Shannon King. It took a moment for the name to click. The clerk at the Yum-Tum. King left a number and asked that I call her.
    Time check. 8:20 A.M.
    I pulled on sweats, barefooted down to my office, and launched Skype on my Mac. Katy wasn’t online. Made sense. I was forty minutes early. It was only 4:50 P.M. in Afghanistan.
    Birdie jumped up and nudged my hand from the keyboard.
    “Sorry, Bird. Breakfast it is.”
    The cat followed me into the kitchen and watched as I concocted another feline gastronomic delight. Tuna with instant oatmeal. I vowed to hit the PetSmart that day for a case of canned food and a huge bag of crunchers.
    Cat fed, I spooned French roast into the basket, added water, and clicked on the coffeemaker.
    While Mr. Krups did his thing, I phoned Shannon King. She answered, sounding distracted. Or sleepy.
    “Listen. I’m like, combing my mind. Like we said.”
    How long could that take?
    “Good,” I said.
    “But I’m coming up empty. I promise, tonight I’ll be all over this.”
    “That’s great.” I checked my watch.
    “And I was thinking. Like, maybe I could come to the morgue.”
    The morgue.
    “Thank you for offering, but nonprofessional visits aren’t allowed. It’s a question of security and bio-protocol. But please let me know if you remember anything.”
    Returning to the study, I checked Katy’s online status with Skype.
    Nope.
    Fair enough. 8:28 A.M. here. 4:58 P.M. there.
    To kill time I did a quick scan of my e-mail.
    Three donation requests.
    An ad for a natural way to burn fat.
    A picture of Harry with an Irish wolfhound and her