Page 77 of Cold, Cold Bones

First, I cruised the area looking for Katy’s car. Not spotting it, I parked and walked back toward College Street.

Lacking a plan, I stood for a while on the far side of the street, scanning the action outside the shelter. Stalling?

Two men lingered near the main entrance, smoking and ignoring each other. One wore a green parka and fur-lined trapper hat. The other was in an overly large, extremely ratty plaid topcoat, rubber boots, and a bucket hat that looked like it belonged on a fisherman in Galway.

I fought an impulse to abort and proceed to the MCME. Instead, I crossed the pavement and entered through the front door into an empty lobby smelling of Pine-Sol, cooking grease, and unwashed clothing. A receptionist sat behind a glass barrier on its far side. Gaunt, bleached not quite to her roots, and wearing too much rouge, she looked like she’d been installed there since the sixties.

The receptionist’s name was M. Zucker. She smiled at me all the way to the glass.

“How y’all doing?”

“Good,” I replied. “You?”

“I’m doing so fine it’s scary.”

I ran through my spiel about Katy.

“Oh, no, no.” Shaking her head and looking truly regretful. “I cannot divulge information about our volunteers.”

After persuading M. Zucker that I really was Katy’s mother, and that I really was concerned for her well-being, we spent some time commiserating on the difficulties of motherhood. Giving me a sly, mischievous wink, M. Zucker tapped her keyboard and checked her screen, then provided the answer I’d been dreading. Katy Petersons hadn’t reported for a shift since Monday.

“Volunteers come and go as they please,” M. Zucker added. “Perhaps your daughter needs some me time.”

“Perhaps.” I forced my lips into another conspiratorial girl-to-girl grin. “One other quick question. Do you know a man named Calvin Winkard? Winky?”

Mistake. M. Zucker drew back and squared her scrawny shoulders into rigid alignment. “I cannot, under any circumstances, share information on our clients.”

“I understand.”

Knowing further argument would be futile, I asked for the shelter’s director. Was told the entire administrative staff was in a planning session and unavailable. Thanking M. Zucker, I left my card. She promised to phone should she see Katy.

Trapper Hat and Bucket Hat were still lingering on the sidewalk. I hesitated. Would I jeopardize Katy by approaching them? Put her at a disadvantage by breaching “etiquette”? I didn’t know. I wasn’t a psychologist. Or a detective.

Cut the crap, Brennan. What’s the worst that could happen? They blow you off? Wouldn’t be the first time.

One deep breath, then I walked over to the men. Trapper Hat tracked my approach with undisguised interest. His skin was mahogany, his eyes the color of week-old coffee.

Bucket Hat kept his gaze on his boots.

“Hey.” Up close I could detect a familiar sweet smell wafting from the scruffy green parka.

Trapper Hat smiled, revealing more gaps than teeth. Bucket Hat kept his gaze down.

“I’m Temperance Brennan. I wonder if I could ask you gentlemen a few questions.”

“Whooo-hee!” Trapper Hat stretched the word into at least six syllables. “You hear that, Wink mon? We be gentlemen.” He drew a hit, held the smoke in, then blew a diaphanous cone up over my head.

Bucket Hat’s gaze flicked up, just as quickly dropped. The movement involved a momentary cocking of his chin, but it was enough.

“Winky?” I asked. “I’m Katy Petersons’s mother. You helped us with a chair the day she moved into her home.”

“Whoo-hoo!” Trapper Hat chortled and began dancing an arthritic jig. “The little lady be looking for the Wink mon.”

“Shut it, Eldon.” Winky inspected me as he might a squashed turd on his boot.

Feet still shuffling stiffly, Eldon raised and waggled eight bony fingers, holding his joint between one thumb and pointer.

“Katy’s a volunteer here?” I directed to Winky.