‘Connie White? Well, we’re going to be waiting a couple of days for the forensics analysis on the bullets, but it looks like they were all killed with .380 ACPs, with a cleanup after; no shell casings. So yeah, it could be the same shooter, which means we need to find out how Mullis or Wade tracks to Connie White. Mullis has an ex-wife in Guilford, and his girlfriend has an ex-husband down in Florida. We’ll start with them and work outward. White got fired from her job for taking kickbacks and selling information on state tenders, so there may be something there. Oh, one more weird detail: Connie White’s killer spared her dog, and that mutt is a piece of work, with an extra shot of mean. According to White’s brother, it tolerated his sister and him, but no one else, but we think the shooter may have put out extra food and water for it, just in case it was stuck in the trailer for a while.’
‘What about the brother?’
‘At work during the time-of-death window, with witnesses to say he never left.’
‘So you’re looking for a sentimentalist who’s good with animals.’
‘Great. Let me write that down, in case I forget. Is “Doolittle” spelled with one “o” or two?’
‘Two,’ said Parker, as they reached the meeting room. ‘Or just keep an eye out for a guy with a two-headed llama.’
Once inside, Parker took a seat, accepted an offer of coffee, and walked the assembled detectives through a carefully edited version of his time in Cadillac. He then spent time working with a trained officer to produce facial composite pictures of the Englishman and the woman from the Great Lost Bear. It was after one by the time he was done, so his self-imposed deadline of noon had fallen by the wayside. Macy and Walsh had departed by then, and Corriveau dropped by just to okay the pictures for release, thank Parker for his efforts, and advise him, once again, to stay away from Billy Ocean.
As it turned out, Parker had one final piece of the puzzle to offer, because Corriveau was holding in her hand the driver’s license photo of Ivan Giller, the second male found dead at the home of Gregg Mullis. Parker hadn’t bothered to give the police a description of Smith One at the Bear because he’d already discussed him with Gordon Walsh, and anyway, Corriveau was more interested in the Englishman and his female shadow. Now Parker could put a name to Smith One.
‘Your Ivan Giller was with the Englishman at the Bear,’ said Parker. ‘I tried to follow him from the bar, but … lost him.’
‘If the Englishman you saw is the same one that passed through Cadillac,’ said Corriveau, ‘we now have a connection between Karis Lamb and Mullis, Wade, Lombardi, Giller, and maybe Connie White too. All this for a missing child?’
Parker was almost tempted to tell Corriveau about the book, but the moment passed. The longer he kept it hidden, the more trouble he’d be in when – or if – he was finally forced to reveal the fact of its existence. He could not have said why he was keeping the truth about the book from Corriveau, beyond its potential usefulness as bait. It made sense to share it with her, and yet every instinct told him to hold back on mentioning it. Instead he said: ‘People have been killed for poorer reasons than a child.’
‘Doesn’t make it any less disturbing.’
Parker could only agree. He said goodbye, and felt his phone buzzing in his pocket as he left the building. Moxie Castin’s name appeared on the display.
‘Where are you?’ Moxie asked.
‘About to leave Augusta.’
‘You need to get down here right away. I think I have Karis Lamb’s son in my office.’
Parker paused in the parking lot.
‘What?’
‘Just start driving.’
‘Call Louis.’
‘He’s already sitting in the lobby.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Bob Johnston had worked into the small hours on the book, and went to bed only after he successfully managed to separate the vellum inserts from the main body, with the cover set aside. He had not slept well, though. The figures added to the Rackham plates intruded on his dreams, and twice he was woken by sounds from inside the house, including a persistent tapping that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the staircase to the third floor, as though an animal were trapped in its regions. Finally, sometime after seven A.M., he resigned himself to the impossibility of further rest, and performed his ablutions before trying and failing to consume breakfast. It wasn’t that his appetite had deserted him – breakfast was never his favorite meal of the day – but his food tasted odd, spoiled by what he could only describe as a dustiness that rendered even his beloved Kona coffee undrinkable.
Usually such a state of affairs would have sent Johnston straight back to bed, but the book was calling to him. He might have succeeded in detaching the vellum pages from the whole, but he was unable to determine the original animal source of the material or make any educated estimate of its age. He suspected it was goat parchment, because the grain side of the sheets, from which the hair had been scraped, was brownish gray, and not the yellower color of vellum derived from sheep, but it smelled different from goat, even after all this time, and the texture did not feel quite right to him. The grain had the smoothness of velvet, suggesting that the outer layer had been carefully pared back, and the curling of the parchment was minimal, a further indication of the quality of the material. The magnifier revealed traces of follicles, but they were larger than goat hairs.
Johnston remained baffled by the effort required to insert these seemingly blank pages into another volume. Invisible ink appeared to be the likeliest explanation, but the gentle application of heat using an incandescent light bulb produced no result, and neither did the careful use of a non-steam iron. Oddly, the vellum did react to human contact, as though some transfer of warmth had occurred, resulting in a network of tiny veins being revealed under the desk magnifier. When he placed his hand flat upon one of the pages, Johnston imagined he could almost feel it pulsing.
His fingertips began to itch, leading him to wonder if the vellum might not have been impregnated with an irritant. Belatedly, he returned to wearing gloves before touching the pages, and noted with satisfaction the disappearance of the veins. Yet for a moment, just before they vanished, he thought he detected a pattern to them, and could have sworn he was looking at the outline of his own room.
So fascinated was Johnston by the vellum additions that he had barely glanced at the cover of the book itself. Only now, while sitting back in his chair, was he struck by the thickness of the spine. At first he had taken the addition of a layer of cloth sewn to the inner part as an effort to accommodate the vellum blanks and provide greater structural support. But as he ran a thumb over the cloth, he thought he detected something else beneath.
Johnston moved the magnifier into place, arranged his tools before him, and slowly began to unpick the threads.
Parker was pulling out of his parking space when Corriveau appeared in the lot. She waved at him to stop, but he just slowed and rolled down his window to hear what she had to say.
‘I have to go,’ he called out.
‘I need you to come back inside,’ Corriveau replied, and Parker didn’t like her tone.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you once we’re both sitting down at a table again. In the meantime, I have to ask you for your firearm, and the keys to your vehicle. I’d also like you to hand over your phone.’
Two big state troopers emerged from the lobby behind her. Each had a hand on his weapon, although the guns remained holstered – for now. Parker looked to his right and saw a state police cruiser pull up to the gate, blocking his exit. In his rearview mirror, he caught three more troopers advancing.
‘Am I being placed under arrest?’
‘No.’
Parker knew his rights. If he was not under arrest, then he had no obligation to cooperate, or even to wait. The fact that he was not under arrest meant the MSP lacked probable cause, but he was clearly suspected of something, and under exigent circumstances the police could seize his car, which was why Corriveau was asking for the keys, and his weapon. The phone was a stretch, but not much of one. Meanwhile, as he considered his options – which included handing over everything, as requested, before calling a cab to take him back to Portland – he could see Corriveau examining his clothing and the interior of the Audi with fresh eyes. If he left, he would only be postponing the inevitable, and perhaps sowing the seeds for worse to come.
Parker killed the engine, and gave Corriveau the keys.