Ryan cut left to overtake a Budweiser truck. Fast. Too fast.
“Did the house have a phone?” I couldn’t recall seeing wires.
“No.”
“I’m guessing no cable or Wi-Fi.”
No response.
“What about utilities? Gas? Water? Electric?”
“They’re on it.”
“The Corneaus died in 1988. Who paid the taxes after that?”
“They’re on that, too.”
“Do you really think Pomerleau was living there, tapping trees, and keeping a low profile?”
“One bedroom had a collection of books on maple sugar production. All the equipment needed was already on-site.”
“What do the neighbors say?”
“They’re—”
“On it. Why are you being such an ass?”
Ryan’s hands tightened on the wheel. He inhaled deeply. Exhaled through his nose. “We found something else in there.”
“Must have been flesh-eating zombies, the way you’re acting.”
It was worse.
CHAPTER 24
“ME?”
“Yes, Brennan. You.”
“What magazine?” My gut felt like I’d just drunk acid. It wasn’t the McMuffin.
“Health Science.”
“I don’t remember being interviewed—”
“Well, you were.”
“When did the story appear?”
“2008.”
“What was the subj—”
“Only one page was saved. A picture of you measuring a skull in your lab at UNCC.”
A vague recollection. A phone call. A piece profiling changes in physical anthropology over the past five decades. Would I comment on my subspecialty of forensics? Could I share a graphic?
I’d thought the article might dispel Hollywood myths about crime scene glamour and hundred-percent solve rates. Had it been six years?
The heartburn was spreading from my stomach to my chest. I swallowed.
Pomerleau had clipped a photo of me. Had known I lived in Charlotte. Had known since 2008.
Lizzie Nance had died in 2009. Others had followed. Estrada. Leal. Maybe Koseluk and Donovan. ME107-10.
Before I could comment, Ryan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen, clicked on, listened. “Pomerleau.”
The expletive was muted by Ryan’s ear. Questions followed. Ryan responded with mostly one-word answers. “Yes.” “No.” “Undetermined.” “Suspicious.”
“I’ll put you on speaker.” He did, then placed the phone on the dash.
“How’s it going, Doc?” Rodas.
“Hunky-dory.”
“Here’s what we’ve got so far. A canvass of the neighbors took about five seconds, practically no one out there. The couple to the south are both in their eighties. Can’t hear, can’t see. They knew the Corneaus, said they used the place in spring for sugaring, sporadically in summer. Lamented their passing. The husband thought a granddaughter lived there for a while.”
“When did he last see her?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Was she blond?”
“I’ll ask.”
“I’m sending two images. An age progression done on Pomerleau’s mug shot.” As I texted the files. “And a close-up I took at autopsy. Show those to him.”
“Will do. The neighbor to the north is a widower, stays out there only part of the year. He knew zilch. Ditto for those living along Hale.”
“No one noticed that the house had gone permanently dark?”
“It’s set too far back. I checked last night. You can’t see spit through the trees.”
“No one recalls vehicles entering or leaving?”
“Nope.”
“No one ever visited? Went looking for a lost puppy? Took cookies to say welcome to the ’hood?”
“Vermonters tend to keep to themselves.”
“Did you ask in town?”
“Apparently, Pomerleau took her trade elsewhere. So far we’ve found no one who remembers a woman fitting her description. If she did hit a store now and then, folks probably figured she was a tourist up for fishing or kayaking. Paid no attention.”
That fit my theory that Pomerleau had shopped near Burlington. A bigger city where she could remain anonymous.
I heard a muted ping. Another. Knew my texts had landed on Rodas’s phone.