The stormy skies looked purplish by the time Markham arrived at the cemetery’s western entrance. He drove past it about a hundred yards and turned right onto the narrow country road that ran parallel to the northern edge of the property. He followed the low fieldstone wall until it banked south again, upon which he parked his SUV at the corner and immediately made for the field. Now he ran along the eastern wall. The grass was high—his shoes, the cuffs of his trousers instantly soaked—but he made good time; covered the two hundred yards like an Olympic sprinter and stopped at the spot where Rodriguez and Guerrera had been impaled.
Markham had been to the cemetery only once during the daytime, but had been able to determine the victims’ exact location by the pattern of stonework behind them in the crime scene photographs. First thing he’d done the week before was to wedge a bike reflector in the wall to help him find his position at night—he’d forgotten to retrieve it on his last visit—and thus pried the reflector loose and hopped over the wall.
It was raining harder now, the cloudy skies flirting with nightfall, and Markham patted his inside jacket pocket to make sure he’d remembered his Maglite. He had, but he hoped he wouldn’t be at the cemetery long enough to need it. He stuck the reflector between the stones on the inside of the wall and began walking back and forth among the gravestones in twenty-yard lengths, row by row—one eye on the gravestones, the other on the reflector.
He found what he was looking for on his third pass: a small, inconspicuous headstone about four rows back and facing west.
It bore the name of LYONS.
“So that’s why you didn’t write on Rodriguez and Guer-rera,” Markham whispered. “Whoever is in the sky watching you didn’t need your messages to understand.”
Suddenly, the ring of his BlackBerry startled him. He answered it.
“Hello?”
“It’s Schaap.”
“Go ahead.”
“The forensics team finished its sweep of the alley behind Angel’s.”
“And?”
“They found the shells, Sam. Under the Dumpster, two of them, nine millimeter. Same caliber as the bullets the ME pulled from Rodriguez and Guerrera. All we need now is the ballistics test to make it official.”
“Then that’s where it happened,” Markham said. “Rodriguez and Guerrera were lovers. They had to be. Vlad killed them together in the alley—but he was careless.”
“Safe to say then that Vlad is hunting homosexuals?”
“The evidence would seem to point that way.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I missed something here at the cemetery,” Markham said after a moment. “There’s a headstone with the name of Lyons directly west from the spot at which Rodriguez and Guerrera were impaled.”
“Holy shit. And Rodriguez calling himself the beautiful lion, that means—”
“Yes. We were right about Rodriguez being part of the message itself—about Vlad not needing to write on him and Guerrera.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“I’m thinking that if I missed this here, I might have missed something else, too.”
“But the headstone is only meaningful now because you know of the connection to Leo—because you know what to look for.”
“Right,” Markham said, walking. “That’s why I need to get back to Donovan’s.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. I need to figure out for sure how the lawyer fits into the picture. Now tell me, did you find out anything yet about the constellation?”
“Only stuff about the physical layout of Leo itself—major stars and whatnot. Been busy with the forensics team, the evidence collection.”
“I understand, go ahead.”
“Well, there are basically two visualizations of the constellation Leo, both of which contain the same base stars. The traditional version, the one you were using, consists of nine stars with a triangular-shaped body and a sickle-shaped head. However, a more recent visualization, by H. A. Rey, alters and expands the constellation’s traditional shape into fifteen stars and depicts the lion figure walking.”
“H. A. Rey? The same guy who wrote the Curious George books?”
“Very good, Mr. Former English Teacher. Rey published a book in the fifties in which he came up with more concrete, almost cartoonlike visualizations of the traditional constellations by adding stars or connecting them in different patterns.”
“Let’s go with the nine-star version for now. Older and more recognizable. Anything on how it might relate to the ancient writing?”
“Not yet. I got the name of a professor in the classical studies department at NC State—some guy with whom we’ve worked in the past—but we probably won’t hear back from him until tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’m going to head over to Donovan’s and then I’ll meet you back at the RA. I have a feeling it’s going to be a late night.”
“Check. And I’ll alert Cary PD you’re back at Donovan’s.”
“Thanks.” Markham reached his TrailBlazer and slipped inside. “One more thing,” he said, turning the ignition. “I remember from my research that Leo Minor is one of the constellations near Leo, too. It’s made up of only three or four stars, I believe, but I ’d like you to look into that as well.”
“Leo Minor? Why Leo Minor?”
“Just a hunch,” Markham said, driving off. “But there are three stars in the Starlight Theater logo. Also, the name on the gravestone is plural.”
Chapter 28
Markham hit an accident on the belt line, so it was just after eight-thirty by the time he turned into the Donovans’ driveway. The skies above were almost black, the rain coming down in sheets, and the enormous, five-bedroom Mc-Mansion appeared out of the gloom like some giant toad waiting to snatch him up with its tongue.
He parked his SUV in front of the three-car garage and sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The gravestone and the connection to Leo were huge, as was the discovery of the shell casings, but still he felt empty and unsatisfied. All still theory, no concrete proof. And Christ, he was tired; had to piss like a racehorse, too. He grabbed his briefcase but did not bother putting it over his head as he exited the TrailBlazer—he was still soaked—and made no attempt to avoid the tiny puddles that had formed along the Donovans’ brick walkway.
The house was dark inside, but Markham didn’t turn on the lights. He knew the layout well from the week before and went straight for the bathroom off the kitchen. He urinated with the door open, steadying his breathing to the blinking clock on the microwave. He was off about Donovan being a closet homosexual. He could feel it. So what the hell did he expect to find here?
But now that you can tie Guerrera to Angel’s, a voice said in his head, now that you know he was with Rodriguez on the night he died—well, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to solve that mystery.
Maybe Guerrera was blackmailing Rodriguez. Maybe he followed him to Angel’s and threatened to tell his family. Could’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It’s possible. But that’s three out of four victims we can tie to Angel’s for sure. Most likely Vlad would have thought Guerrera was gay if he saw him in the alley with Rodriguez. Odds are that Donovan played for the other team, too.
Markham responded by flushing the toilet.
All right then, the voice in his head continued. What if Donovan wasn’t gay?
“Then that means Vlad had a different reason for killing him,” Markham said to his reflection in the mirror. He washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face, dried himself, and went upstairs.