Page 105 of Cold, Cold Bones
“No handler will be wild about working on Sunday.”
“As soon as possible.”
“Roger that.” Tone undisturbed by any hint of enthusiasm. “Chill till I bell ya.”
Carlos phoned at two. The car was ready and could be picked up any time before four. I was surprised that a mechanic would be working on Sunday. Wondered if this involved some arrangement with Slidell. I thanked him and disconnected.
I was considering a call to Uber when Henry “belled” me. She’d secured a dog and handler for three p.m. Since the garage was on the way to Old Dowd, I asked if she’d mind dropping me there. She agreed. I would then meet her and the handler and dog at the plant.
Slidell’s jotted address took us to a location behind an auto parts store and Jose and Juan’s Taqueria. Both businesses were closed.
Carlos’s garage was called, creatively, Carlos’s Garage. It consisted of a low, cinder-block structure with a small office on the left and a single auto bay on the right. The building’s exterior was painted pink and embellished with images of the Virgin Mary. I think. Maybe Saint Francesca Romana. Wasn’t she the patron of drivers?
I thanked Henry and headed for what appeared to be the customer entrance. The hours of operation were posted on the door in Spanish. Carlos worked hard Monday through Saturday. Though Sunday was not on the schedule, he let me in promptly.
The car was purring. Carlos was beaming. The bill was stunning. Exiting, I made a note to query the impetus behind Slidell’s choice of mechanic.
The SWI lot seemed even bigger under the woolly-white winter sun. It remained as deserted as in my memory.
Passing the main building, I spotted Henry’s Explorer, beside it a blue and white Chevy SUV. Wire mesh covered the SUV’s back windows. The wordsCharlotte-Mecklenburg Policeran along its side, and below that, in smaller letters,K-9 Unit.
Henry was talking to a burly guy with ruddy cheeks and one eyethat refused to open as wide as the other. He wore a black knit cap pulled low to his brows, cargo pants, and a bulletproof vest. Under the vest was a long-sleeved tee. Under the tee were muscles that looked like something SWI had fashioned. Hanging from his person was enough equipment to outfit the Ecuadorian army.
Henry was in acid-washed jeans and a sky-blue puffer today. Her indigo cap, scarf, and gloves were in exactingly coordinated shades.
Both watched me get out and walk toward them. Henry was smiling. The handler wasn’t radiating pleasure.
Henry made introductions. The handler’s name was Michael Mortella. A spiral cord crawled to one of Mortella’s ears from a radio clipped to his vest. A leather leash wrapped one of his gloved hands.
Mortella and I shook. His grip was a bruiser.
“I brought just the one dog.” I heard Wrigley Field and Navy Pier in Mortella’s speech. “Name’s Vera. She’s still in training. She was the only one available.”
“How far into training?” I asked, wary.
Mortella shrugged. “Three weeks. She’s a good nose. She’ll do fine.”
Great. A rookie. A full training course runs at least twelve.
“How about we take a look around first,” I said. “See if we spot anything the cops missed in the dark.”
“Sure,” Henry said.
Mortella said nothing.
Both followed me to where I remembered seeing the hit-and-run. Joined in as I crisscrossed the concrete, eyes glued to the ground. No one found anything suspicious.
“You want I should get the dog?” Mortella asked, pointedly checking his watch.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
We walked back to our vehicles. Mortella unwrapped the leash and crossed to his SUV. Over his shoulder, I saw animated movement behind the wire mesh.
A word about canines on the job.
Patrol. Search. Rescue. Cadaver. Police dogs go by a variety of names and are trained for a variety of tasks. Some sniff out drugs, explosives, and other crime scene evidence. Some attack when commanded by their handlers. Some track living people. Some search for human remains. I’d requested a tracker or cadaver dog, one that specialized in the human scent, alive or dead.
Mortella opened the SUV’s rear door and leaned in, I assumed to attach the leash to Vera’s harness. A short command, then the dog jumped to the ground, tail wagging like a flagman’s arm in a carnival parking lot.
