After disconnecting, I dialed the Holiday Inn. Asked for Ryan. Shocker—they connected me. He’d actually checked in.
I offered a ride in the morning. Ryan said he’d find his own way to the CCU. Or back to the airport, I thought cynically.
That was all I could handle.
Exhausted, I fell into bed.
“Wish I could say you look good.” Slidell was eyeing Ryan with an expression of amusement.
Ryan shrugged.
“What the fuck’s with your hair?”
“Been touring with Shaggy.”
The reggae reference was lost on Slidell, whose musical taste ran to C&W and sixties rock and roll.
Barrow cleared his throat. “The sooner we start, the sooner we get home to leftover turkey.”
“Or back on the street,” Slidell said.
“This will be short. There’s nothing new on Pomerleau. Leal is still missing; Detective Slidell says so far, the tech boys have recovered nothing from her Mac. They’re still at it.”
“The computer’s not out there.” This was Slidell’s way of saying, “Don’t discuss it with the press.”
“Right,” Barrow affirmed. “The media’s starting to turn ugly. Mainly, I wanted to get us all face-to-face—”
“Without that fuckwad Tinker.”
Barrow slid a look to Slidell before continuing. “I wanted Detective Ryan to meet Detective Rodas.”
The men nodded at each other, acknowledging earlier introductions.
“Dr. Brennan has briefed Detective Ryan on details of the Vermont and Charlotte cases.” Question, not statement.
“Yes.” I’d done it with zero feedback on the drive from the airport to Ryan’s hotel.
“I’m only here as an observer.” Ryan favored me with a sideways glance. “And to appease Dr. Stalker.”
Hurt and anger reared up in equal proportions. I fought both down.
“Two murders,” Barrow said. “And Shelly Leal is missing one week today.”
“Still, the link is weak.” Ryan often played devil’s advocate.
“DNA connects Gower to Nance and both to Pomerleau. The MO for Leal is identical.”
Ryan rubbed a thumbnail along the edge of the table. Thinking about long-ago girls in a cellar? His dead daughter? A bottle of Scotch he’d left in his room?
“Ryan—” I started.
“I’ll be no good to you.”
“You know Pomerleau,” I said.
“I’m a mess.”
Slidell snorted. “Should take the heat off my ass.”
“I’m sorry.” Ryan wagged his head. “I’m done with cracked skulls and slit throats and cigarette burns. No more dead kids.”
“What about live ones?”
Ryan’s thumb continued its slow back-and-forth. I wanted to slap him, to shake him to his senses. Instead I kept my voice even and neutral. “Pomerleau’s thrill didn’t come from killing. You know that. She fed her victims just enough to keep them alive so she could torture and rape them. She and her twisted sidekick.”
“Neal Wesley Catts,” Rodas tossed in. “Aka Stephen Menard.”
“Leal could be alive,” I continued. “But if Nance and Gower are indicative, it’s not like the old days. Pomerleau’s pattern has changed. Leal won’t last long.”
Still Ryan said nothing.
Rodas placed a palm on the cardboard box holding his case notes. “I have to head north in the morning. Would you at least skim the file?”
Ryan closed his eyes.
I looked at Slidell. He shrugged.
A very long moment passed.
Ryan ran a hand over his jaw. Sighed. Then his eyes rose to mine. “One day.”
He looked at his wrist. Which bore no watch.
“Twenty-four hours.”
CHAPTER 8
RYAN AND I got coffee before plunging into the Nance file. We wouldn’t drink it. The stuff tasted like liquefied dung. It was a ritual, like sharpening a pencil or straightening a blotter. Meaningless action as prelude to the real show.