“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.”
CHAPTER 15
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.”