Bones Never Lie (13 page)

“Good brew.” I raised my mug.

Ryan joined me at the table.

“You saw?” I displayed the headline. Below the fold, but still front-page.
No Arrest in Shelly Leal Murder.

“Slidell will be livid,” Ryan said.

“The article makes it sound like Tinker and the SBI are driving the train.”

“Do you know this”—Ryan squinted to read the byline—“Leighton Siler?”

“No. He must be new on the crime beat.” I cocked my chin toward Miss Hair and Dentition. “Any TV coverage?”

“Daisy would disapprove of the vulgarity.”

Great. A camera had caught me flipping the bird while leaving the MCME.

“Have at the files some more today?” I asked.

Ryan nodded. “There’s nothing obvious linking these kids. No common medical providers, libraries, classes, hobbies, summer camps, pageants, teachers, pastors, priests, pet stores, allergies, or rashes. We’re still batting zero with online info for Nance and Leal. I’m going to focus on minutiae, see if there’s any detail that might have been overlooked or underappreciated. There’s got to be something connecting one vic to another.”

Ryan once described to me what he called the “big bang break”: the one clue or insight that suddenly sets an investigation barreling in the right direction. That one synapsey moment when realization explodes and the search hurtles forward on the right trajectory. Ryan believed at least one big bang lurked in every case. And despite his personal pain, he was determined to find one for the “poor little lambs.” His commitment buoyed my spirits.

I was rinsing my bowl and mug when the phone rang. Larabee was calling to remind me of a meeting that morning. A prosecutor was coming to the MCME to review our findings for an upcoming deposition. Larabee was on at eight, I was on at nine.

The case involved the death of an L.A. actor who’d flown to Charlotte to play the part of a rabbit in a feature film. After two days of shooting, the man had failed to reappear on-set. He was found four weeks later in a culvert by the tracks in Chantilly. His sometime boyfriend had been arrested and charged with murder one.

As Larabee and I wrapped up, Ryan caught my eye and pointed upstairs. I nodded, distracted. And annoyed. Wet-nursing a lawyer was not in my plan for the day.

Ten minutes later, Ryan returned, hair wet and slicked back below the Costa Rican cap. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved polo over a long-sleeved tee.

We talked little in the car. Which, thanks to my passenger, smelled of my pricey Egyptian musk black soap.

I dropped Ryan at the LEC and continued on to the MCME. I was reviewing my file on Mr. Bunny when Larabee came through my door. “How was your weekend?” he asked.

“Good. Yours?”

“Can’t complain. I hear Ryan’s hanging in.”

“Mmm.” I wondered who’d told him. Figured it was Slidell.

“You’ll never guess what was waiting on my voicemail this morning.” Larabee loved making me predict what he had to say. I found the game tiresome.

“A giant sea slug.”

“Hilarious.”

“And she’s playing here all week.”

“Marty Parent called.”

It took a moment for the name to register. “The new DNA analyst at the CMPD lab.”

“She’s a go-getter. And an early riser. Left a message at 7:04, asking that I call her back.”

I waited him out.

“Which I will do as soon as I’m done with Vinny Gambini in there.” Tipping his head toward the small conference room.

“Who is it?”

“Connie Rossi.”

Constantin Rossi had been with the DA’s office for as long as I could recall. He was shrewd and organized and didn’t waste your time. Or try to push you beyond conclusions allowed by the facts.

“Rossi’s okay,” I said.

“He is.”

I was finished at eleven and went in search of Larabee. Found him in autopsy room one, slicing a brain.

“What did Parent say?” I asked.

Larabee looked at me, knife in one hand, apron and gloves speckled with blood. “I’m not sure if it’s good news or bad.” Spoken through three-ply paper hooked over his ears.

I wiggled my fingers in a “Give it to me” gesture.

Larabee laid down the knife and lowered the mask. “Parent spent all weekend analyzing the smear on Leal’s jacket.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She’s divorced, and her kid was away with the ex.”

“Still.”

“The kid’s a daughter. Ten years old.”

“Right.” When Katy was younger, I’d have done the same if a maniac had been targeting girls her age.

“You nailed it. What the ALS picked up was a lip print. Our swab contained beeswax, sunflower oil, coconut oil, soybean oil—”

“Lip balm.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Saliva?” I felt my pulse kick up slightly.

Larabee smiled the answer.

“Holy shit. Tell me she got DNA.”

“She got DNA.”

“Yes!” I actually did that pump-action thing with one arm.

“She’ll send it through the system today.”

“And up to Canada.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe? It’ll come back to Pomerleau.” I was totally jazzed. It was Ryan’s big bang. Slidell would get his task force.

“Are you familiar with amelogenin?”

Larabee was referring to a group of proteins involved in enamel development, a process called amelogenesis. Amelogenins are thought to be critical in dental formation.

The amelogenin genes, AMELX and AMELY, are located on the sex chromosomes, the version on X differing slightly from the version on Y. Since human females are XX and human males are XY, this difference is useful in gender determination. Two peaks, your unknown is a gent. One peak, your perp is of the fairer sex.

“Yes?” My rising inflection indicated puzzlement at Larabee’s question.

“Amelogenin indicated the saliva was left by a male.”

“Is Parent sure?” Of course she was. She wouldn’t have called on a whim.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t amelogenin occasionally wrong?”

“There have been some cases of false-positive female readings. Probably because the Y chromosome–specific allele was deleted. But I’ve never heard of an error going the other way.”

I knew that. The shock was causing me to blurt dumb questions.

Larabee rehooked his mask and took up his blade. “I’ll let you know if Parent gets any hits locally or with CODIS.”

I returned to my office. Sat and listened to the silence. Stunned. Disappointed. Mostly confused.

Were Slidell’s bosses correct? Was Leal’s murder unrelated to that of Gower and Nance? To the others’? Was her killer a man?

But the patterning in victimology and MO. The similar ages and physical traits. The broad-daylight abductions. The posing and lack of concealment of the bodies.

It had to be one doer. It had to be Pomerleau.

The name triggered another neural flare. Blood oozing from a dime-sized hole, across a hairline, a temple, a cheek. Brain matter splattering a dim parlor wall.

Sweet Jesus. Could that be it?

I called Ryan.

“Oui.”

I relayed what Larabee had said.

“It could be nothing. Someone’s face accidentally brushed the jacket.”

“The print had clean edges.”

“Meaning?”

“It wasn’t created by a casual swipe.”

“We have no idea how long it was there. Could have been weeks, months.”

“On nylon? Outside? No way. There was too much detail. Contact happened close to the time Leal was killed.”

Ryan was silent a long moment. I knew his thoughts were traveling the same path mine had.

“You’re thinking she has an accomplice,” he said.

“Another sick twist like Catts.”

Again, there was a long pause. I could hear male voices in the room. Sharp.

“What about the hairs Larabee found in Leal’s throat?” Ryan cut off my question about the background row.

“He didn’t mention it.” And I’d been too channeled on amelogenin to ask.

“Slidell’s going to shit his shorts,” Ryan said.

“Where is he?”

“Here. His license plate search generated twelve hundred hits. He just finished re-interviewing the wit who saw the kid on Morningside.”

“Hoping for what?”

“Maybe nail down digit order, vehicle color, four-door versus two-door, that kind of thing. To get a sense which hits are good.”

“How did it go?”

“The car was blue or black. And the seven on the tag might have been a one.”

“Skinny’s not happy.”

“That’s an understatement. Then Tinker showed up. They’ve been locked in a dick-measuring contest ever since.”

“What’s Tinker doing?”

“Going through the Leal file and answering the hotline.”

“Any interesting calls?”

“The usual wingnuts. A teacher wanting to discuss the immodest dress habits of today’s youth. A man ranting about Muslims. A woman pointing the finger at declining church attendance.”

“Awesome. How’s your search going?”

“I finished with Gower. That Rodas is one thorough guy.”

“Umpie.”

“What?”

“His name is Umpie.”

“Then I worked through Koseluk and Estrada. Reports, statements, phone messages, tips. Nothing. I left Donovan for you.”

“Now what?”

“I’m turning the heat up on Pomerleau, following up queries I sent to Quebec, Vermont, and statewide here. This time I’m requesting they run possible aliases. I made a list of names.”

“How?”

“People aren’t all that creative. They tend to use something that’s easy, usually a variation on their own name or initials. Ann Pomer. Ana Proleau. That sort of thing.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Next I’ll work the DMV, social security records, tax rolls. It’s a long shot, but what the hell.”

“A long shot is better than no shot at all.” How often had Ryan and I said that over the years?

The background squabble grew more heated. A door slammed. I wondered whether Slidell or Tinker had stormed out.

Ryan ignored the spat. “When Pomerleau slipped the net in ’04, we sent her picture out over the continent.”

“Right.” I actually snorted. “A mug shot taken when she was fifteen.”

“Granted. But the image generated dozens of calls.”

I remembered. Pomerleau had been sighted in Sherbrooke, Albany, Tampa, Thunder Bay.

“Your point?” I asked.

“We’re running out of road here.”

“And?”

“Maybe there’s something there.”

I nodded. Pointless. Ryan couldn’t see me.

“We need to go to Montreal.”

I CHECKED WITH
Larabee. He had no problem with my being away for a few days.

Before leaving the office, I booked two seats on the 8:25 nonstop to Pierre-Elliott-Trudeau. Then I phoned to arrange for cat care.

My neighbor was unavailable but suggested her granddaughter, Mary Louise Marcus, who lived just blocks from Sharon Hall. I called. Mary Louise was available, at a whopping ten bucks a day. She promised to come by at seven to meet me and Birdie.

On my way across uptown, I stopped at Bojangles’, Slidell’s favorite, and bought enough food for a family of six.

It was after two when I arrived at the LEC. Slidell was at the computer, lips pressed to his teeth, head wagging slowly from side to side. Tinker was sticking pins into a map of North Carolina spread on a corkboard that hadn’t been there before. Today he looked like someone sponsored by Wiseguys R Us. Black jacket, black shirt, shiny lavender tie.

Ryan was speaking on his mobile. I heard the name Manon, guessed he was trying to locate the Violette family. His quiet French rode on air brittle with suppressed hostility.

I tossed my jacket on a chair and waited. After concluding his call, Ryan briefed me.

Slidell had made zero progress with his license plate search. The guy in IT had recovered only snatches of data from Leal’s computer, none of it useful. Barrow was having no luck locating Nance’s laptop. The age-progressed image of Pomerleau wouldn’t be ready for days, maybe a week. Ditto DNA sequencing from the hair found in Leal’s trachea. The tox screen was going nowhere.

I placed my bags on the table. “How did Slidell react to the amelogenin shocker?”

“His commentary was unconstructive.”

“Lunch,” I announced.

Slidell’s eyes rolled up to peer at me over the screen. I could almost see the smell of deep-fried grease hit his olfactory lobes.

As I began spreading paper plates, plastic utensils, and cardboard cartons of chicken and sides, Slidell heaved to his feet. Behind me, I heard Tinker cross the room, keys jangling in a pocket or on a belt loop.

“We need to think about highways.” Tinker spooned mashed potatoes onto his plate, added gravy, slaw, and a biscuit. “Nance was dumped at Latta Plantation, not far off I-485.” To Slidell, “You gonna paw every piece?”

Slidell continued digging through the chicken, maybe even slowed, eventually emerged with two legs and two thighs.

Tinker stepped up and helped himself to a breast. Took a bite before continuing with his train of thought. “Gower was left just off a state highway, Vermont 14, I think Rodas said.”

“Pure genius.” Spoken through masticated drumstick. “We’ve determined that vics are transported by car. We can forget tossing all those choppers and yachts.”

I ignored Slidell’s sarcasm. “Koseluk was abducted in Kannapolis, Estrada in Salisbury. Both lie along the I-85 corridor.”

Tinker looked at me with his flat little eyes. Swallowed. “I’m having a hard time putting those two in the show.”

“Leal was found under I-485,” I added.

“Amelogenin says she’s not in there, either.”

“Not necessarily.”

Tinker did something that combined a shrug with a “Give it to me” finger curl.

“Pomerleau could have an accomplice. Or—”

Slidell cut me off, voice dripping with scorn as he addressed Tinker. “Low number of vics make it easier to tie the bow? Buff up the image?”

“Or perhaps you’re projecting, Detective. Talking about yourself,” shot back Tinker.

I feared the smart-ass tone would goad Slidell to smash Tinker’s plate up into his face, Stooges-style. I glanced at Skinny. His lower lids were crimped and twitching, sparkling grease coating his upper lip and chin.