“You should be a detective.”
One of Ryan’s old lines. Neither of us laughed.
“Rolling in ten.”
“Twenty,” I said, shielding my eyes with one hand.
“I’ll be in the Jeep.”
Twelve minutes later, I was buckled in, fingers curling around a wax-coated polyethylene cup for warmth. The Jeep smelled of coffee and overcooked pork.
“Anyone could have boosted this ride.”
“No one did.”
“I need this Jeep.”
“I’m sure it needs you.”
“You’re not vigilant.”
“Ease up, Ryan. You had keys.”
“Leaving it at the medical complex was just plain lazy. Good thing Karras let me know.”
An Egg McMuffin lay in my lap, grease turning the wrapper translucent in spots.
“How did you get here from St. Johnsbury?” I asked.
“Umpie hooked me up with a lift.”
It was Umpie now.
“Where are we going?”
Ryan merged into traffic. Didn’t answer.
I unwrapped the sandwich, took a few bites. Minutes later, we fired up the entrance ramp onto I-89. Heading north.
“There it is.” I pointed at Ryan. “There’s that smile.”
He was clearly not in the mood for teasing.
Fine.
I watched Vermont slide by.
The morning sun was melting a world made of ice. Still, the countryside looked glistening brown, caramelized. Perhaps coated with maple syrup.
“Okay, sunshine. I’ll start.” Jamming my McMuffin wrapper into the bag between us. “It was Anique Pomerleau in that barrel.”
The aviators whipped my way. “Are you shitting me?”
“No.”
“How’d she die?”
“I can tell you how she didn’t.”
I outlined the autopsy findings. Ryan listened without interrupting, face tight and wary. When I’d finished, he said, “Rodas’s team tossed the property top to bottom. Found no drugs or drug paraphernalia.”
“What was in the house?”
“Crap furnishings and appliances. Canned food in the pantry, cereal and pasta that delighted generations of rodents.”
“With readable expiration dates?”
“A few. The most recent was sometime in 2010.”
“What about the refrigerator?”
“Variations on rot. Bugs, mouse droppings, mold. Looks like the place was occupied for a while, then abandoned.”
“Abandoned when?”
“Old newspapers got tossed into a basket. Burlington Free Press. The most current was from Sunday, March 15, 2009. That and the food dates suggest no one’s been living there for over five years.”
“Did you check light switches? Lamps?”
Ryan slid me a look. “All were turned off except a ceiling fixture in the kitchen and a lamp in one bedroom. Those bulbs were burned out.”
“Were the beds made?”
“One yes, the other one no.”
“Whoever was there last made no effort to close up. You know, clean out the refrigerator, strip the beds, turn off the lights. They just left. Probably at night.”
“Very good.”
“How’d the papers arrive?”
“Not by mail. The post office stopped service because the resident at the address provided no mailbox.”
“When was that?”
“1997. According to Umpie, there’s no home delivery.”
I thought a moment. “Pomerleau did her shopping in or near Burlington.”
“Or at a local store that sold Burlington papers.”
“Any vehicle?”
“An ’86 Ford F-150 was parked in one of the sheds.”
“That’s a truck, right?”
“Yes, Brennan. A half-ton pickup.” Ryan jumped my next question. “Quarter tank of gas in the truck. No plates. Obviously no GPS to check.”
“Obviously. Anything else in that shed?”
“An old tractor and cart.”
“I assume the house had no alarm system.”
“Unless they had a dog.”
“Was there evidence of that?”
Ryan only shook his head. Meaning no? Meaning the question annoyed him?
“There were no close neighbors,” I said to the windshield, the armrest, maybe the air vent. “No one to notice if lights failed to go on and off.”