“No shit.”
“No shit. Have Pastori stay on it. If someone walked Leal through the process of wiping her browser history, it was for a reason.”
Slidell gave a long dramatic sigh. But he didn’t disagree.
“And talk to the mother. See if she has suggestions about passwords or IDs Leal might have used. Find out how much freedom she allowed Shelly online. And ask why her daughter was interested in dysmenorrhea.”
“Eeyuh.”
“Maybe revisit Leal’s bedroom? See what she was reading. What dolls or animals she had. Anyway, get what you can for Pastori.”
“You know the guy is an Olympic-class gasbag. Runs on and on, I’m guessing to fluff his geeky little ego. Every time I call him, it’s half my day.”
I imagined the exchanges between Slidell and Pastori. My sympathies were definitely with the latter. “Is the media still clamoring?”
“Some asshole videoed us working Leal’s body at the underpass, can you believe that? Wanted their fifteen fucking minutes of fame.”
I changed the subject. “What about the age progression on Anique Pomerleau?”
“Yeah. I got that.”
“Did you plan to tell me?”
“I am telling you.”
“How does it look?”
“Like she got older.”
“Send it to my iPhone. Please.”
I briefed Slidell about events on my end. The unsatisfying interviews. My subliminal breakthrough after studying the dossiers from 2004 and talking with Sabine Pomerleau. The property in Vermont.
“Not bad, Doc.”
“If she did use the Corneau home as a hidey-hole, she’s long gone now.”
“When will you toss the place?”
“When Rodas gives the word.”
“He ask for a warrant?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Gotta go.” I disconnected.
9:46.
I cleaned the coffee off the kitchen tile, then unpacked the carry-on I’d brought from Charlotte. Took a shower and dried my hair. Dressed in jeans, wool socks, and a sweater.
10:38.
I checked my phone, hoping a text had landed while I was engaged in toilette. Nope.
I paced, too wired to sit still. Why such angst? I felt what? Stunned that I’d been right? Maybe right. Thrilled that we might have found the spot Pomerleau first went to ground? Might have. Outraged that Rodas and Ryan had sidelined me? Definitely.
The phone finally rang at ten past eleven. Area code 802.
“Brennan.” Cool as snow in Vermont.
“Ryan’s on his way to pick you up.”
“Is he.”
“You need to get down here. Fast.”
CHAPTER 21
THE SNOW STARTED as we crossed the Champlain Bridge. Turned to sleet as we hit Stanstead, just north of the border.
I watched the wipers chase fat flabby flakes, later slush, from the windshield. Now and then a wind-tossed leaf hit the glass and was whipped free, brittle and shiny with moisture.
The car’s interior smelled of wet leather and wool. Stale cigarette smoke.
“Look for the Passumpsic Cemetery.”
The first words Ryan had spoken in almost two hours. I was good with it. After he’d relayed what he knew, which was virtually nothing, we’d both burrowed deep into our own thoughts.
Occasionally, I’d check my iPhone. An email with an attachment arrived from Slidell just past noon. I downloaded and enlarged the image.
You’ve seen pictures of Charles Manson. No matter what his age is, his eyes send a frigid wind knifing straight through your soul. His hair may be shaggy or shaved, his cheeks full or gaunt. You feel like you’re gazing straight into the heart of evil.
That’s how it was with Pomerleau. She was in her teens when the sole existing photo was taken. Now she would be thirty-nine.
The computer had softened the jawline, drooped the lids, and broadened the lips and facial contours, transforming the child face into that of a woman. Still the eyes looked stony cold, reptilian, and unfeeling.