Why not. Throwing on a jacket and scarf, I pocketed my mobile and headed out.
Dark cobalt clouds were skidding across the sky. The air was warm but listless and heavy with moisture. Rain was on the way.
Mary Louise lived only a block up Queens. Her mother answered the door wearing cinnamon sweats that looked cashmere. Her hair was brown, swept up on her head, and secured with a turquoise and silver clip. I introduced myself. She did the same.
Yvonne Marcus could have made an orca feel small. I guessed her weight at close to three hundred pounds. Yet she was beautiful, with amber eyes and skin that had never laid claim to a pore.
“My husband and I appreciate your kindness toward our daughter. She adores your cat.”
“And he loves her.”
Peering past me, she warbled, “No one looks under the porch!”
I must have shown surprise.
“You think I’ve lost my mind.” Throaty chuckle. “It’s from a story Mary Louise loved when she was little. She’d hide, I’d call out, she’d pop up and run to a new hiding place. I know she’s much too grown up for such games now.” Again the chuckle. “But it’s still our secret little thing.”
“I came to see if Mary Louise wanted to go for frozen yogurt at Pinkberry.”
“But she’s with you.”
“No.” A tickle of unease. “She isn’t.”
“She said she’d be visiting you after school.”
“She called, but I was unavailable today.”
“No worries.” Warm smile, but a note of uncertainty. “She’ll turn up.”
“You’re sure?”
She shrugged as if to say, “My kid—what a scamp.”
Retracing my steps, I pulled out my iPhone. No calls.
No messages on the landline at the annex.
What the hell?
At six I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Yvonne Marcus called as I was taking it out.
“Mary Louise still isn’t home, and she’s not answering her cell. I was wondering if she’d shown up at your place?”
“I haven’t seen her. You’ve no idea where she might have gone?”
A pause. Too long.
“Mrs. Marcus?”
“Mary Louise and I had a little tiff this morning. Trivial, really. She wanted to wear her hair in this ridiculous upsweep, and I insisted she braid it as usual.” The chuckle sounded less genuine than earlier. “Perhaps I just don’t want my little girl to grow up.”
“Has she done this before?” I glanced at the window. It was now full dark outside.
“The little imp can hold a grudge.”
“I’m happy to look around Sharon Hall.”
“If it’s not too much bother. She often goes there to feed the birds.”
“It’s no bother.” Actually, I was glad for the diversion.
One slice of pepperoni and cheese, then I set off. Though I walked the grounds and called out repeatedly, my efforts yielded no sign of Mary Louise.
I phoned the Marcus home. Yvonne thanked me, apologized again. Reassured me there was no need to worry.
And I was back to mute phones and the silence of the annex. To the obstinate dossiers.
To subtle taunting by my subconscious.
Screw the files. I stretched out on the couch in the study. Crossed my ankles. Closed my eyes. Cleared my mind.
What had happened? What had been said? What had I read? Seen? Done?
I allowed facts and images to percolate in my head. Names. Places. Dates.
The files. The conference room boards. Gower. Nance. Estrada. Koseluk. Donovan. Leal.
The old cases in Montreal. Bastien. Violette. McGee.
The more I struggled, the more the subliminal needle lay flat on the gauge.
The interview with the Violettes. With Sabine Pomerleau. With Tawny McGee’s parents, Bernadette and Jake Kezerian.
Little blip there.
The photo. The realization that McGee had CAIS. The conversation with Lindahl.
Blip.
McGee was our perp. Though devastating, I knew it in my soul.
Where was she? Who was she?
I thought of the interviews with Slidell.
Hamet Ajax.
Ellis Yoder.
My higher centers touched something in the murky depths.
What?
Alice Hamilton.
The needle blipped higher.
Come on. Come on.