Page 88 of Cold, Cold Bones

“Every one of these recent vics mimics remains I’ve worked in the past.”

Ryan said nothing. Either considering my words or waiting for a patch of clean air.

“What was in the concrete?” he asked.

I told him.

“… esus Christ! Any idea who this asshole is or why he’s targeting you?” The question came through loud and clear. As did Ryan’s anger.

“No.” I’d thought of little else since seeing the snapshot in the concrete.

“… Slidell.”

“Why Skinny?” I asked.

“… still working with the CCU?”

“Yes.”

“He knows…”

The line went dead.

20

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY12

Iawoke at seven-thirty and, before getting out of bed, dialed Charlie. Got rolled to voice mail. I left a message suggesting some urgency. After thirty minutes, a lot of coffee, and several more calls, I still hadn’t connected with him.

A slapdash job with my Sonicare, then I ponytailed up and hurried to my car.

No need for navigation. I knew the way and was there in ten minutes.

Charlotte’s city center is ringed by three districts that are largely residential. To show pride in their history, much of which was displaced at the time these low- and high-rise developments were proposed, the populace still refers to the neighborhoods by their original designations: First, Third, and Fourth Wards. Not sure what’s happening in number Two.

I parked on the border between Fourth and First Wards. Walking along Church Street, I couldn’t help thinking that Charlie’s complex was a poster child for Charlotte’s uptown revival. His unit was midpoint in a row of nine uber-modern townhouses. Party rooms and outdoor terraces on four, bedrooms on three, living and diningrooms, kitchens and dens on two, garages and offices underneath. Elevators to avoid all those pesky stairs.

City-center living with beaucoup amenities. And price tags that were an intergalactic voyage beyond my budget.

Hoping he was as much a creature of habit asmoi, I checked under a rock beside the foundation to the right of the front steps. Bingo.

The key was obviously a survivor of many seasons in the elements. Rust and corrosion prevented it from fitting into the lock. No matter. The door was open.

That seemed wrong.

So did the dried footprints tracking from the porch into the foyer. Charlie was fastidious about his home. At least he’d been in his public defender years when we’d given dating a short-lived whirl. When we’d occasionally ended up here after a night out.

Had Charlie left that mud? Had a visitor?

“Charlie?” I called out, pausing just inside the door.

No answer.

“Charlie?”

Nothing.

I listened for sounds of a presence.