“It’s something,” I said.
“It’s something,” Rodas agreed, then disconnected.
Ryan and I took some time digesting this latest piece of information. He spoke first. “By 2007 Pomerleau has hooked up with someone willing to share her psychosis. They kill Nellie Gower. A year and a half later, they travel to North Carolina, kill Lizzie Nance, then return to Vermont to tap their maples. The relationship tanks—”
“Or there’s an accident.” Caution, à la Karras.
“—he kills her, seals her body in a barrel, and splits for North Carolina.”
“It plays,” I said.
“Like a Sousa march.”
“What now?”
“We shut the fucker down.”
Ryan and I decided on a two-pronged approach. Neither clear on what those prongs would be.
He would stay in Montreal. This didn’t thrill him, given that Pomerleau or her housemate had posted my face on a wall. But after much discussion, he agreed that it made the most sense.
I took the early-morning flight to Charlotte. As we parted, I wondered when I’d see Ryan again. Given our past, and the fact that my presence now seemed painful to him, I suspected that, going forward, he might request cases that didn’t involve me.
Just past eleven, a taxi dropped me at the annex. I paid and dug out my keys. Found I didn’t need them. The back door was unlocked.
Momentary panic. Check it out? Call the cops?
Then, through the glass, I saw Mary Louise enter the kitchen, Birdie pressed to her chest.
Relief flooded through me. Followed by annoyance. “You should always lock the door.” Upon entering.
Mary Louise was wearing the same flapper hat. Below the scoopy bell brim, her face fell.
Cool move, Brennan. Your first words to the kid are a rebuke.
“I just mean it’s safer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Birdie looked at me with round yellow eyes. Reproachful?
“Looks like you two have really hit it off.”
“He’s a great cat.”
Birdie made no attempt to push free and come to me, his normal response after I’ve been away.
“I was going to give him a treat.” Hesitant.
Birdie gave me a long judgmental stare. Daring me to interfere?
“He’ll like that,” I said, smiling broadly.
Mary Louise went to the pantry. I set my carry-on aside and placed my purse on the counter.
“Your mother called.” As Birdie ate Greenies from her palm. “I didn’t pick up. But I heard her leave a message. My grandma has an answering machine like that.”
Great. I was a fossil. I wondered how old she was. Twelve, maybe thirteen. “Any other calls?”
“The red light’s been flashing since Wednesday. So, yeah, I guess.”
“What do I owe you?”
She stroked Bird’s head. The drama queen arched his back and purred. “No charge. I really like this little guy.”
“That wasn’t our deal.” I dug out four tens and handed them to her.
“Wow.” Pocketing the bills. “My mom has allergies. I can’t have pets.”
“That’s too bad.”
Awkward pause.
“Can I come visit him? I mean, like, even if you’re home?”
“Birdie and I would both enjoy that.” I thanked her, then, through the window, watched her skip down the walk. Smiling, I hit play on my relic machine.
Mama, complaining about Dr. Finch.
Harry, recommending books about cancer.
Outside, Mary Louise did two cartwheels in the middle of the lawn.
The last message was Larabee, saying he had DNA results on the hair found in Shelly Leal’s throat. Odd. I checked my iPhone. He’d called there, too. I’d forgotten to turn it on after landing.
I phoned the MCME. Mrs. Flowers put me through after a few comments on container-grown lettuce.
“Larabee.”
“It’s Tempe.”
“How was Canada?”
“Cold. Ditto Vermont.” I briefed him on the interviews with Sabine Pomerleau, the Violettes, and the Kezerians. Then I dropped the bombshell about Anique Pomerleau.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah.” I recalled Ryan’s comment. Felt almost no guilt at sharing his sentiment about Pomerleau’s death. Almost.
“The hairs we found in Leal’s throat were forcibly removed from the scalp, so the lab was able to sequence nuclear DNA.” Larabee’s voice sounded odd. “It’s a match for Pomerleau.”
I was too shocked to respond.
“The hair was bleached, so that fits with your corpse. Pomerleau was probably trying to disguise her appearance.”
“But Pomerleau was dead long before Leal was killed.”
“Hair can transfer in so many ways. On clothing. On blankets. Looks like her accomplice got sloppy.”
My mind was racing with images, one worse than the next.
“What now?” Larabee asked after a pause.
“Now we shut the fucker down.” Quoting Ryan.
I was in my bedroom unpacking when pounding rattled the front door.
CHAPTER 25
I JETTED TO the hall window to look down at the porch. A plaid shoulder was half visible under the overhang. A man’s rubber-soled Rock-port, scuffed and worn.
I hurried downstairs. Verified the identity of my visitor by squinting through the peephole. Slidell was working a molar with one thumbnail.
His hand dropped when I opened the door. “Barrow wants Lonergan’s spit on a stick.”
It took me a minute to process that. “Lonergan is Colleen Donovan’s aunt,” I said.
“Yeah.”
A prickle of fear. “Have remains been found?”
“Nah.”
“Why collect Lonergan’s DNA now?”
“The lady don’t have what you’d call a stable lifestyle. Barrow wants her on file. You know. In case she hops it and fails to leave a forwarding.”
In case Colleen turns up.
Slidell’s gaze drifted to the parlor behind me. “Hey, cat.”
I turned. Birdie was watching from the middle of the room. He liked Slidell. No accounting for feline taste.
“I was thinking you might ride along.”
I knew the reason for that. Slidell is revolted by the bodily fluids of others. Loathes the contact needed to obtain them.
“Have you talked to Larabee?” I asked.
“He briefed me on Pomerleau when I picked up the Q-tip. Guess we won’t be lighting no candles for her.”
I didn’t disagree.
“Rodas got any theories who her sidekick might be?”
“No,” I said.
“Let’s roll. It’ll give you a chance to recap the highlights.”
Laura Lonergan lived on Park Road, not far from uptown. Geographically speaking. Economically, the address was light-years away.
En route, Slidell handed me a printout:
AVAILABLE 24/7. Massage. Companionship. For mature men who want a sexy, sensitive female. Real curly hair, spicy tits, juicy butt!!! Call me now! No black men. No texts or blocked numbers. Princess.
Poster’s age: 39.
Location: Uptown Charlotte.
A photo showed a woman in a thong and push-up bra contorted on a bed like a boa on a vine. In another, she was smiling from a notquite-chin-deep bubble bath.
“Where’s this from?” I asked.
“Backpage.com. Under Escorts, Charlotte.”
“She’s very broad-minded.”
“We all got our limits.”
“She goes by Princess?”
“Pure gentry.”
“I guess marketing on the Internet is easier than walking the streets.” Placing the ad on the center console.
“She does her share of that.”
Slidell slowed. Checked his spiral.
The block was lined with two- and three-story buildings, many with apartments converted to accommodate small businesses. Lonergan’s was a six-unit affair with large-leafed vegetation crawling the brick. Maybe kudzu.
“Is she expecting us?” I asked.
“No.” Slidell shifted into park. “But she’s here.”