Salter tossed her glasses to the blotter and leaned back into her chair.
“During Shelly Leal’s autopsy, Larabee pulled hair from her throat,” I said.
“The child just discovered under the I-485 overpass.”
I nodded. “DNA sequencing says at least one of those hairs came from Anique Pomerleau.”
“That’s big.”
“But puzzling. Circumstantial evidence suggests Pomerleau died in 2009.”
“Explanation?”
“The hairs could have transferred from Pomerleau to her accomplice,” Barrow said. “Maybe via a shared article of clothing. Or his ritual could include wearing something Pomerleau wore.”
“Larabee also found a lip print on Leal’s jacket,” I said. “It contained DNA. Amelogenin testing indicated the DNA came from a male.”
“I’m guessing lip boy is not in the system.”
“No.”
Silence filled the room for a very long moment. Salter broke it. “Let me get this straight. Pomerleau and a male accomplice operated out of a farm in Vermont until 2009.”
“Yes.”
“Was anything found to suggest kids were held there? A soundproof room? Handcuffs bolted to a wall?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.” Neutral. “This mysterious accomplice eventually kills Pomerleau and stashes her body in a barrel of syrup.”
“Yes.”
“Motive?”
“We have none.”
“He then moves south. Does Nance, Estrada, maybe Koseluk, Donovan, and the kid found near Belmont. Now Leal.”
“Yes.”
“Why shift his blood sport here?”
I described the Health Science article. The picture of me clipped and saved at the Corneau farm.
“You’re saying the perp’s in my town because of you.”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”
“Why?”
“Revenge? Taunting? Who knows?”
Salter’s phone rang. She ignored it.
“Explain the dates again,” Barrow said to me.
I did, leaving out Mama’s role in spotting the pattern.
“So victims are taken on the anniversaries of abductions in Montreal.” Statement, not question, Salter wanting affirmation.
“That’s the idea,” I said. “Possibly on the dates they died.”
“And Pomerleau’s accomplice continues the game even though he’s taken her out.”
“So it appears.”
“And the intervals are decreasing.”
“Yes,” Barrow said. “And another anniversary comes up in two months.”
I could hear my own breathing in the silence that followed. Salter’s folded glasses tapping the desktop. Finally, when I thought she was about to blow us off, “Slidell’s working Leal, right?”
“Yes,” Barrow confirmed.
“Anyone else assigned to this?” She swept a hand over the photos.
“Ex-officio, a detective from Montreal, another from Hardwick, Vermont.”
“I’ve seen Beau Tinker in the halls. The SBI here at your invitation?”
“Not exactly.”
Another beat. Then Salter pocketed the glasses. “Write it up. Everything you’ve got.”
CHAPTER 27
THE WEATHER HAD turned colder while I was in the LEC. Not enough to make me hate it. But enough to make me think about getting out gloves I’d stashed in a closet last March.
Birdie showed more interest in the contents of my Roasting Company bag than in my return. I filled his bowl, clicked on CNN, and settled at the kitchen table.
The Situation Room had closed for the night. A Democrat was bickering with a Republican about health care and immigration reform. Irritating. I want news at the end of the day, not a bout of extreme verbal sparring.
I turned off the set. Tossed down the remote.
Birdie jumped onto the chair beside me, preferring warm chicken to the hard brown pellets I’d served up. Couldn’t blame him.
As I ate, Tasat’s note filled my thoughts.
“Lonergan didn’t make that call,” I said through a mouthful of succotash.
Birdie cocked his head. Listening, or hopeful for poultry.
“So who did?”
The cat rendered no opinion.
“A relative? A friend? Supposedly, Donovan had none.”
I placed a sliver of drumstick on the table. Bird tested it with one in-curled paw, then seized it delicately with his front teeth.
“Donovan’s killer, that’s who. It’s classic felon behavior. Like returning to a crime scene.”
Bird and I looked at each other, thoughts definitely not on the same page.
My mobile rang.
“Your flight went well?” Ryan sounded as exhausted as I felt.
“I can’t remember that far back.”
“I’m beat, too.”
“Any progress?” I offered Bird another scrap of fowl. He repeated his pat-and-snatch maneuver.
“None. Where are you?”
“Home. I spent the day with Slidell.”
“And?”
“He often addressed me in an ill-mannered fashion.”
“Any breaks?”
“Maybe.”
I described the visit with Lonergan and the meeting with Salter. Explained Tasat’s notation and Lonergan’s denial about making the call. “Slidell’s convinced there’s nothing to it.”
“Has he agreed to subpoena the phone records?”
“Grudgingly. Says it could take weeks. Meanwhile, we—” A bottle rocket exploded in my head. “Shit!”
“What?”
“How did I miss it? I must be totally brain-dead.”
“Earth to Brennan.”
“Tia Estrada.”
“The kid from Salisbury.”
“I was distracted by Slidell and Tinker sniping at each other.”
“Stay on point.”
“According to the case log, a journalist called six months after Estrada went missing.”
“And?”
“I’m almost certain that was the last entry in the chronology. And the file contained no news clipping dating to 2013.”
“You’re thinking that call might also be bogus?”
“It’s identical to Donovan. Someone calls six months after the child vanishes. Maybe it was the same person who phoned for info on Donovan. If so, there’s a pattern. Something linking the cases.”
“Worth some following through.”
Suddenly, I was on fire to hang up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Slow down.”
“Slow down?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Jesus, Ryan. You sound like Slidell.”
There was a long empty pause on the line. Then he asked, “Anson County, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you remember who caught the case?”
“Cock.”
“Very helpful.” Actually, it was. “Henrietta something, right?”
“I think so.”
“And I thought of something else. We need to compare pics of the Gower, Nance, and Leal scenes. See if any gawker makes a repeat appearance.”
“No one’s done that?”
“Not that I know of.”
I disconnected, my weariness dispelled by the prospect of a big bang.
After clearing the table, I grabbed my purse and jacket, and bolted.
The second floor of the LEC was quiet. I went straight to the conference room and spread the Estrada file on the table.
The last article ran in the Salisbury Post on December 27, 2012, roughly three weeks after Tia was found. At least that was the last one saved.
The story was little more than a summary of facts. The child’s disappearance. The discovery of the body four days later, near the Pee Dee National Wildlife Refuge. The mother’s deportation to Mexico. It ended with an appeal to the public for further information. There was no byline credit.
I got online and Googled the Salisbury Post. A woman named Latoya Ring seemed to be covering a lot of the crime beat. A link provided her email address. I composed a brief message, explaining my interest in the Estrada case and asking that she call me.
Setting aside the Post clipping, I reread the entire file. Every few minutes checking my iPhone. When finished, I’d learned nothing.