Page 118 of Cold, Cold Bones
Slidell looked at me as though I’d suggested ants invented radar.
“Do you think this girl’s death was staged for my benefit?” Wanting to hear his answer. Not wanting to hear it.
Slidell shrugged.
“Let’s think outside the box.” I could feel my hands shaking. Knew the coffee wasn’t helping. “If not at SWI, where might she have died?”
“Rabbit Hollow? Mars? My aunt Fanny’s garden?” Anger leaked between the gaps in Slidell’s words. “How the hell would I know?”
“If not for my benefit,whywas she killed?”
“Same answer. A spurned lover? An irate pimp? A panicked motorist scared of doing time?”
“Why dump her there? Beside that two-lane?”
“It’s remote, there’s little traffic.”
“Which suggests a local familiar with the roads.”
“Or someone who passes through regularly.”
Our eyes met. A trucker?
“I’ll run this Gordon Halsted.”
“Find ou—”
“I’ll lean on him till I know every time he farted.”
On and on. Back and forth.
Who was she?
Who killed her?
Why?
Question after question. No answers.
I told Slidell about my trip to SWI with Henry, Mortella, and Vera. Described Vera’s lack of training. Her keen reaction.
As I spoke, Slidell’s brows drew even closer.
“Why use a rookie?” he asked when I’d finished.
“She was the only dog available.”
Slidell said nothing.
“What?” I asked, seeing his expression.
“That don’t track.”
“What don’t—doesn’t track?”
“I haven’t met Mortella. But every handler I know is streaking his jockeys wanting to work his mutt. They live for that shit.”
“It was Sunday.”
