The Bone Triangle Read online

  Ah, that was better. I could think with the sun out of my face. The temperature was a breezy eighty degrees, and kids rode everything they had with wheels on it up and down the hilly streets. They talked to me occasionally. I smiled and nodded and went on my way.

  I had thought about trying to call Rostok, but he rarely took calls. He was a man you had to go see personally. And, if you actually managed to make it all the way up to the penthouse and into his physical presence, it was an achievement.

  “Are you Mr. Draith?” asked a feminine voice from behind me.

  I twisted and peered with one eye from beneath my hood. A car purred up and stopped at the curb. It was a red convertible Mercedes—one of the expensive models. I hadn’t really noticed her approach. There were lots of nice cars prowling quietly on these upscale streets.

  The woman at the wheel had spoken. I could see her clearly as the convertible’s soft black top was down. Her hair was a windblown mess, but her face was pretty in an over-forty way. She wore a respectable layer of makeup.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  Every muscle in my body tightened. It was an almost imperceptible shift in my stance, but I was quietly preparing my fight-or-flight responses. In my business, chance meetings might well lead to either possibility.

  “You’re Quentin Draith, aren’t you? I’ve been trying to call you for days, and I just gave up hammering on your door.”

  I stared at her, not letting my mouth so much as twitch. She looked me over in return and shifted her car into park. She nodded at last.

  “You’re Draith,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m not a bill collector.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Have you been looking into my personal affairs?”

  “I like to know who I’m hiring. I prefer motivated, but competent people. I’m here to offer you a job. I understand you’re good at handling strange occurrences.”

  “A job?” I asked, letting a flicker of interest cross my face. “What can I do for you?”

  Already, I was calculating my fee. What would the payment be on a car like this? A thousand a month? She looked like she could afford the best.

  “Get in,” she said. “We’ll talk.”

  I reached out and opened the door. I climbed in beside her and felt a moment of apprehension as I did so. I didn’t like getting into cars with strange women. Sometimes they turned out to be dangerous. I didn’t put my belt on so I could climb back out that much more quickly.

  “I need a good freelancer,” she said, accelerating smoothly away from the curb. “I can already tell you’re the man for the job.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “My car door was locked. You didn’t even bother to make a show of fiddling with it.”

  I waited, but she didn’t ask me how I’d gotten into her locked car. Usually, such activities were met with wide eyes and suspicion. I didn’t know who this lady was, but she obviously knew something about rogues like me.

  “No curiosity about how I got through a locked door?”

  “I don’t know how you operate, Draith, and I don’t care to. What I need are results that no one else can achieve. I need a rogue.”

  I nodded. That’s all she wanted to know—that I had power. I took a deep breath, finding her lack of interest in the details refreshing. I could work with a woman like this.

  The locked car door had opened at my touch because I was wearing Tony Montoro’s sunglasses. They were special, something people in the Community referred to as an “artifact”: an object that had the power to bend physical laws. These powers were generally inexplicable and occasionally very useful. In the case of my dead friend Tony’s sunglasses, they had the power to turn small bits of metal temporarily to a rubbery consistency, allowing me to force locking pins to slip and small gears to derail. I vaguely hoped the lady’s car door latch would work properly after I’d accidentally forced it. Sometimes, mechanical systems didn’t go back together again and never operated properly afterward.

  Deciding not to worry about it, I leaned back in the leather and enjoyed the breeze. We did forty in the twenty-five zones all the way down to the bottom of the hill. When we turned toward the highway, I became a bit more curious.

  “What is it, exactly, that you need me to do for you?” I asked.

  She glanced at me, her gaze sliding over me. “Don’t you even want to know who I am?”

  I shrugged. “I figured you would tell me if you wanted me to know.”

  She nodded. “I like that. Discretion assumed. But I’ll tell you my name anyway, as it can’t hurt and it might help. I’m Karen Swanson.”

  I nodded politely. The name meant nothing to me.

  Karen glanced at me. “I need you to find my daughter, Jacqueline. She’s in Las Vegas somewhere.”

  “Is that where we’re headed now?”

  “Yes,” she said as she spun the wheel and zoomed up an on-ramp. Soon, the wind sounds increased to a whistling roar.

  We left Henderson and headed north, but I didn’t complain. I was mildly curious why she was so certain I would take the job. I guess it was easy to figure out when someone needed money. I decided not to embarrass myself by asking about it.

  “So you want me to find your runaway? Do I have to bring her back or just tell you where she is?”

  “That depends on the circumstances under which you find her. If she’s staying with a friend in secret, just tell me. If she’s in trouble, get her out of it and bring her home. Oh, and she’s not exactly a runaway. She’s twenty-seven.”

  She handed me a photo of a lovely young woman. The daughter had honey-colored hair that circled her face, a big smile, and shining eyes that looked adventurous. I figured it was a college graduation picture as she was sitting inside a new car with a bow on it. I recognized the car instantly. It was a red Mercedes convertible, the same car I was riding in now.

  “This is her car?”

  “Right, returned by the police last week.”

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t an encouraging sign. I wondered how I was going to collect my fee if the girl turned up dead. Under such circumstances, asking for a cashier’s check might seem crass.

  “What about, uh, Daddy?”

  Karen gave me a dark glance. I figured right off that Daddy wasn’t high on her list.

  “He’s useless. He won’t even come out of his lair to find his own daughter. Forget about him.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Getting Jacqueline out of trouble might be difficult,” I said.

  Karen pursed her lips. “I’ll pay half now and half when you find her. I’ll double the final amount if you have to pull her out of anything…unpleasant.”

  “All right,” I said, liking the sound of amounts being doubled. “About the fee—”

  “Forget gouging me, Draith,” she snapped. “I’m a businesswoman, and I like to set the price I pay for services. I’ll give you five thousand now and five thousand when you find her. That will have to pay for all your expenses. Everything.”

  I frowned at her, trying not to show how elated I felt inside. I had been about to ask for three. “Fifteen altogether then, if I have to pull her out of a burning building. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  I took another look at the picture, mentally aging the girl four years or so. There were a thousand lost girls like her in this town, I figured. I hoped this was going to be an easy piece of work. “I’ll do it,” I said. “Can I keep this?”

  “Yes. I have several copies.”

  I looked at her sharply. Was she picking up hounds like me all over town and setting us loose after her daughter? I decided it didn’t matter. I just had to be the one who found her.

  “Cell numbers? Friends’ addresses?”

  Karen shook her head. She looked tired but determined. “We’ve mined all those possibilities already. She’s been missing for a week, and no conventional search has turned up anything.”

  “Where was she last seen?”

&n
bsp; “North central Las Vegas.”

  “The airport district?”

  “Yes, off Washington Avenue. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know it.” The area wasn’t the best neighborhood. In fact, it had a bad reputation. Many of the strange deaths I’d investigated had occurred in that part of town.

  We pulled off the highway at the downtown exit and Karen rummaged in her purse. I glimpsed a fat brown envelope in there. I wanted to stare, but I turned away and tried to look disinterested. We headed toward the neighborhood in question. Apparently, Mrs. Karen Swanson wanted me to start working right away. She pulled over when we hit Washington and reached into her purse.

  “Just a second,” I said. “Tell me one more thing. Why haven’t you simply called the police and filled out a missing person’s report?”

  She gave me a bitter laugh. “You think I haven’t tried that? That’s why you’re joining the hunt a week late, after having lost all that precious time. Oh, sure, they assigned a detective to find Jacqueline. The only trouble is he doesn’t seem to be the least bit interested in discovering what happened to her. I don’t think he could find his own butt with both hands and a flashlight.”

  I nodded. On a hunch, I asked, “What’s this detective’s name?”

  “Jay McKesson,” she said.

  I took her envelope and climbed out of the car. “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Swanson.”

  “Contact information is in the envelope. Don’t run out of money, and don’t call me unless you find something. If you fail, you aren’t going to get anything more.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To find another hunter like you,” she said.

  I nodded and watched her zoom away. I’d gotten the message by now. It was a race. If I found the girl first, there would be more cash forthcoming. Otherwise, I was out of luck. I had to admire Karen’s business sense. She was a good motivator.

  The airport district was in worse shape than I remembered. There were people on the streets, but they looked harried and distrustful. They avoided my gaze and said nothing when I addressed them. I waved at a woman in high heels, pushing the picture of the missing girl in her face. She ducked under it and hurried on, heels clacking faster than ever.

  I shoved the picture and my hands back into my pockets and walked deeper into the run-down neighborhood. The buildings looked tired and every one of them needed a coat of fresh paint. The yards here were all open sand. Even the occasional cactus was yellow and dead.

  I took another turn, and the sounds of traffic from Washington Avenue died to a distant purr. I wondered at the lack of activity and the absence of people.

  “It’s the nature of the Beast,” a raspy voice said behind me suddenly.

  I turned around and narrowed my eyes. An old man leered at me. His right arm was heavily tattooed while his left was bare and sunburned. The tattooed arm ended in a squirming hand, which extended toward me, palm up. I noticed the man’s index finger had gone AWOL, having been chopped off at the knuckle.

  He looked worse off than I did, so I gave him a dollar despite my misgivings. I turned away to walk up the street, but he shambled after me. I groaned inside. It was as I’d feared: I’d fed a stray dog.

  “Are you the hunter or the prey?” he asked next, talking to my retreating back.

  I paused again—overriding my better judgment a second time. “What do you mean by that?”

  He waved the dollar I’d given him at me like a small paper flag. It fluttered in the cooling breezes. It was evening now, and I realized I’d walked the streets of this disreputable neighborhood for over an hour, finding nothing and no one of interest. If Jacqueline Swanson was around, I hadn’t found any evidence of her.

  “Hunter or prey? Which are you?” he asked again in a drunk’s urgent whisper.

  Sighing, I produced the picture of the girl. I held it out of reach in case he made a grab for it. It was my only copy.

  “I guess I’m a hunter,” I said. “This is the girl I’m looking for. Have you seen her?”

  The derelict leered at me, the picture, and the dollar in his hand with equal confusion. “When it comes for you, it comes from nothing,” he said. “There’s no warning—no sound. Maybe a little wind and warmth. Then you’re just gone.”

  I frowned at him and lowered Jacqueline’s picture. It had been a long shot anyway. “Thanks, man. Have a good one.”

  I walked away rapidly, calculating that his wobbly legs wouldn’t be able to keep up. When I reached the next corner, I looked back over my shoulder and noted with relief he was gone. I felt a little concerned at the same time. Where had he gone? I scanned the neighborhood. The streets were quiet. Cars were rare, and each one I did see was as likely to be a cop’s cruiser as anything else. The sagging buildings were dark and displayed smashed windows like broken-out teeth. Had the bum ducked into one of those? Maybe.

  I turned down a side street and headed back toward the strip. Wandering in this bombed-out-looking neighborhood hadn’t gotten me any closer to my next payday. I was five thousand bucks richer, but that wasn’t even enough to pay the tax bill, much less all the others. I needed another break, and I needed it soon.

  I kept walking for several blocks. In the meantime, the sun drifted down behind the mountains to the west and turned the sky red. Darkness began to fold around me.

  I’d almost made it out of the area when a car rolled up behind me. It hummed for a second, but I didn’t bother glancing at it. I knew it was a cop’s cruiser. They had a special sound all their own when they stalked you. I could hear the air conditioner, the singing fans and belts, the indistinct chatter of the radio. I kept walking and ignored the cop, who was clearly checking me out. Staring at cops and waving at them in a friendly fashion, that was the sort of thing that got you harassed on a street like this.

  After another ten seconds, the cop made his decision. He flicked on his flashers and bathed the street in swirling blues and reds. I made a sour face and turned around slowly. I kept my hands out in the open. There was a .32 in my right front pocket that was going to take some careful explaining.

  The cruiser halted and I squinted at the flashing lights. No one got out of the car for several long seconds. I imagined he was radioing in his position, calling for backup, or maybe just finishing a snack. Cops always took their time when they had you pinned. I waited with my head tilted to one side. I was tempted to turn around and continue walking, but I knew he wouldn’t think it was funny.

  Finally, the driver’s door squeaked open and crumped closed. A uniform approached. LVPD, metro division.

  “What are you doing down here, sir?” asked the cop. He was shorter than I, but thicker, with broader shoulders. I could hardly see his face as he was silhouetted by the brilliant flashers.

  “Taking a walk,” I said. “It’s a nice night.”

  He flashed his teeth at me, giving me a tight little grin, but I could tell he wasn’t amused. “You’re Draith, aren’t you? You know about freaky shit, right? Do you know anything about that steamer back there?”

  I frowned, noticing that his hand rested nonchalantly on the butt of his gun as he spoke.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The remains. On the street.”

  I almost asked him remains of what, but stopped myself. He could mean only one thing. “Was it a derelict? A bum with a lot of tattoos all down his right side?”

  The cop laughed without humor. “That’s funny. You’re hilarious. How the hell am I supposed to know that?”

  I stared at him. “Why don’t you show me? I’ll help, if I can.”

  “Fine. Get in the back. But if you can ID this mess, you’re better than me.”

  Confused, I sat in the back of the squad car while we cruised a few blocks, backtracking through the streets to the spot where I’d met the bum. Along the way, the cop talked to me.

  “There’s been a lot of bullshit down here lately, and I don’t like it. I’ve got my beat, and I don
’t complain. It’s the worst neighborhood in town, sure, but at least down here you know where you stand. Now things are different. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, looking out through each window in turn. They were dirty and smeared with what looked like cheekprints. I wondered how many perps had sat in the back of this squad car and pressed their faces against the safety glass.

  He pulled over and we both got out of the car. He led me to a spot in front of a partially burned-down building. It had once been a garage for repairing foreign cars, I gathered. Now, no one brought their business down here.

  There was something on the sidewalk. The cruiser’s headlights shone on a tumbled heap of glistening, gray-white sticks. At first, I thought it was a mess of clay—but no. They were bones. I could tell that now as I stepped closer. Not a skeleton exactly, as the bones were in a heap. They weren’t connected in a perfectly organized fashion like an anatomy-class skeleton. They looked glossy, too, as if they were wet or freshly lacquered. There was a sour smell in the air.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Are these really human? Did someone dump this here as a joke?”

  The cop looked at me sharply. “They always test out as human. Well…almost always. There used to be a few dogs down here. They’re all gone now, as far as I can tell.”

  I looked at him, then back toward the pile of glistening bones. I knelt slowly beside it and studied it, but didn’t touch anything. I didn’t want to disturb any evidence.

  The cop kept talking as I stared at the remains. “I know people over at the casinos are used to this kind of crap—but not me. The rest of the team will be here in a few minutes. They’ll question you. I know you don’t know shit, but they’ll question you anyway. They have to. It’s nothing personal. When something weird happens, they have to pretend it was a normal crime. Normal crimes require suspects.”

  I nodded. On a hunch, I looked for the finger bones. I found one of the victim’s hands had strayed from the rest of the pile. It was splayed flatly on the stained concrete.