“It’s okay to smoke.” It wasn’t. I hate the smell of cigarettes in my house.
“Uh-huh.” A corner of his mouth twisted up ever so slightly. A few moments passed before Ryan spoke again. “It wasn’t that the cops didn’t want to solve these cases. They had nothing to go with. There was no ex-con working at a kid’s home, no psycho teacher, no parent with a history of violence. The vics were too young to have angry boyfriends. Donovan was high-risk, but not the others.”
“And Donovan and Estrada weren’t the type the media bothers to cover.” I couldn’t help but sound bitter.
“When the bodies turned up, there were no witnesses or forensics.”
“Nothing to suggest a suspect.”
“Until Rodas got a DNA hit.”
I flashed on a dark figure darting through flames with a five-gallon can in her hands. The memory brought with it the smell of kerosene and my own burning hair. The terror of waking in a house that was burning down around me. Anger grabbed me like a muscle cramp. “Pomerleau despises me,” I said.
“She hates us both.”
“It’s because of me that she’s here.” I knew it was melodramatic, said it anyway. “I let her escape. She wants to remind me, to taunt me.”
“We all let her escape.”
“It’s because we failed that children are dead. That another may die soon.”
Two stormy blue eyes locked on to mine. “This time the moth has flown too close to the flame.”
“She. Will. Burn.”
Silly, but we smacked a high five.
The next morning our confidence was blown to hell.
CHAPTER 14
MY BEDROOM WINDOW overlooks the patio. When I opened the shutters the next morning, I saw Ryan below on one of the wrought-iron benches. He was sitting forward, elbows on knees. I figured he was smoking. As I watched, Ryan’s head dropped, and his shoulders began rising and falling in jagged little hops.
I felt my insides sucked out. I also felt like a voyeur, and quickly withdrew.
After a hasty morning toilette, I dressed and hurried down to the kitchen.
Coffee was perking. Birdie was eating. The TV was running with the sound on mute.
I glanced at the screen. An anchor with flawless hair and unnaturally white teeth was talking beside footage of a jackknifed truck, projecting a well-rehearsed mix of shock and concern.
I was eating yogurt and granola when the back door opened. I looked up from the morning’s Observer. Ryan seemed composed, though a red puffiness in the eyes gave him away.
“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.”