Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(59)

I hurried downstairs. Verified the identity of my visitor by squinting through the peephole. Slidell was working a molar with one thumbnail.

His hand dropped when I opened the door. “Barrow wants Lonergan’s spit on a stick.”

It took me a minute to process that. “Lonergan is Colleen Donovan’s aunt,” I said.

“Yeah.”

A prickle of fear. “Have remains been found?”

“Nah.”

“Why collect Lonergan’s DNA now?”

“The lady don’t have what you’d call a stable lifestyle. Barrow wants her on file. You know. In case she hops it and fails to leave a forwarding.”

In case Colleen turns up.

Slidell’s gaze drifted to the parlor behind me. “Hey, cat.”

I turned. Birdie was watching from the middle of the room. He liked Slidell. No accounting for feline taste.

“I was thinking you might ride along.”

I knew the reason for that. Slidell is revolted by the bodily fluids of others. Loathes the contact needed to obtain them.

“Have you talked to Larabee?” I asked.

“He briefed me on Pomerleau when I picked up the Q-tip. Guess we won’t be lighting no candles for her.”

I didn’t disagree.

“Rodas got any theories who her sidekick might be?”

“No,” I said.

“Let’s roll. It’ll give you a chance to recap the highlights.”

Laura Lonergan lived on Park Road, not far from uptown. Geographically speaking. Economically, the address was light-years away.

En route, Slidell handed me a printout:



AVAILABLE 24/7. Massage. Companionship. For mature men who want a sexy, sensitive female. Real curly hair, spicy tits, juicy butt!!! Call me now! No black men. No texts or blocked numbers. Princess.



Poster’s age: 39.



Location: Uptown Charlotte.





A photo showed a woman in a thong and push-up bra contorted on a bed like a boa on a vine. In another, she was smiling from a notquite-chin-deep bubble bath.

“Where’s this from?” I asked.

“Backpage.com. Under Escorts, Charlotte.”

“She’s very broad-minded.”

“We all got our limits.”

“She goes by Princess?”

“Pure gentry.”

“I guess marketing on the Internet is easier than walking the streets.” Placing the ad on the center console.

“She does her share of that.”

Slidell slowed. Checked his spiral.

The block was lined with two-and three-story buildings, many with apartments converted to accommodate small businesses. Lonergan’s was a six-unit affair with large-leafed vegetation crawling the brick. Maybe kudzu.

“Is she expecting us?” I asked.

“No.” Slidell shifted into park. “But she’s here.”

We got out and entered a postage-stamp lobby. The air smelled of mold and rugs not cleaned in a decade. Of chemicals used to perm and dye hair.

To the right, past an inside door, was a tax accountant’s office with not a single employee or customer present. A narrow stairway lay straight ahead. To the stairway’s left, a hall led to another hall cutting sideways across the back of the building.

Lonergan’s unit was on the second floor, beside a beauty salon and across from an aesthetician who also did nails. Both doors were shut. Beyond them, no indications of human life.

A sign on Lonergan’s door offered massage therapy and instructed patrons to knock. Slidell did.

We waited. My gaze wandered. Landed on a spiderweb that could have made Architectural Digest.

Slidell knocked again.

A voice floated out, female, the words unclear.

Slidell gestured me to one side, out of view. Then he banged again, this time with gusto. After some rattling, the door opened.

Laura Lonergan was a portrait titled The Face of Meth. Fried orange hair. Rawhide skin peppered with scabs. Cheeks sculpted with deep hollows created by the loss of dentition.

Lonergan smiled, lips closed, undoubtedly to cover what unsightly teeth she’d managed to retain. One hand brushed breasts barely altering the topography of a pink polyester tank. Her chin rose, and one shoulder twisted in under it. The coy seductress.

“Save it, Princess.” Slidell held out his badge.

Lonergan studied it for about a week. Then she straightened. “You’re a cop.”

“You’re a genius.”

“I’m closed.” Lonergan stepped back and started to shut the door.

Slidell stopped it with one meaty palm. “Not anymore,” he said.

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“Yes. You do.”

“What have I done?”

“Let’s skip the part where you play innocent.”

“I’m a masseuse.”

“You’re a tweaker and a whore.”

Lonergan’s eyes skittered up and down the hall. Then, softer, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Yes. I can.”

Lines crimped Lonergan’s forehead as she thought about that. “How about you cut me some slack?”

“Maybe.”

A beat as she considered what that might mean. “Yeah?”