Page 150 of The Bone Code

“You’ve got four hours, then I hit that hostel. My plate’s full, and the chance of anything still being there is one in a million.”

I blew off scheduling the MRI.

The galloping Lord was kind, and traffic was light. By seven that evening I’d offloaded one ferociously peeved cat, set up his litter box, scribbled a note to Anne, and raced into downtown Charleston.

On the way to the hostel, Vislosky explained how she’d found it. Nothing special, just dogged perseverance and rad hair. She’d calledalmost every low-end hotel and B&B in the city. Then, bingo, a clerk remembered a kid with a spiky pink do.

Ten minutes after leaving headquarters, Vislosky pulled to the curb outside a three-story frame residence that had definitely seen better days. Perhaps during the Mesolithic era. Narrow along the street, the building ran deep into the lot, a classic Charleston design. Its yellow paint was faded and peeling. Its shutters, once white, were weathered and dingy gray. Some lacked slats; others hung at angles suggesting hinges well past their shelf lives.

As we took in detail grudgingly revealed by the block’s single streetlamp, the radio spit static.

A side yard bordered the home’s long south-facing wall. Once a garden, the space was now an overgrown tangle of nightshade, chickweed, foxtail, and wild cane.

Overlooking thejardinjungle was a second-story balcony enclosed in scrolly black wrought iron. A saggy porch ran below the balcony, two steps up from ground level.

An ornate wood and glass door sat midway along the porch, with a half dozen ratty wicker chairs positioned helter-skelter to either side. Not terribly inviting, given the perpetual shadow cast by neglected magnolias and live oaks overhanging the property.

“Nothing menacing,” I said.

“Just creepy as hell.”

“Not when you’re young and poor. A stay here costs, what? Ninety bucks a night?”

“Forty-two, Wi-Fi and breakfast included, fleas and bedbugs thrown in gratis. I’m sure customers are busting walls to get in.”

Vislosky disengaged her seat belt. I did the same. We got out and walked a flagstone path to the side steps and climbed to the entrance. A tiny sign saidGarden Hotel. A tinier one asked visitors to ring the bell. With a smiley face. Vislosky did. Without one.

“You wantin’ to check in?” Tinny, like the voice in my dream.

“Detective Vislosky, Charleston PD. I have some questions about one of your boarders.”

“I ain’t sure what I do here.”

“What you do is open the door.”

Locks rattled, and the heavy panel swung inward.

The woman, making a point of blocking the doorway, looked like a house in polyester sweats. Her face was cocoa, her hair black and slicked sideways with a product that made it look waxy. Her plump lips were fire-alarm-red. Hoops the size of pizzas dangled from her ears.

Vislosky badged her. Sweats looked at the shield, back up at us.

“Your name?” Vislosky asked.

“Sondra Tong.” Tong’s lashes were sharply curled and stiff with mascara.

“You own this place?”

“Uh-uh. I jus’ run it.”

“For how long?”

“All day.”

“How long have you managed the hotel?”

Tong shifted her weight. It was a lot to shift. “?’Bout four years. I ain’t big on calendars.”

Vislosky slapped her forearm. Scratched. “We can do this here, Sondra, let the mosquitoes keep snacking. Or maybe we could talk inside?”