“What now?”
“We shut the fucker down.”
Ryan and I decided on a two-pronged approach. Neither clear on what those prongs would be.
He would stay in Montreal. This didn’t thrill him, given that Pomerleau or her housemate had posted my face on a wall. But after much discussion, he agreed that it made the most sense.
I took the early-morning flight to Charlotte. As we parted, I wondered when I’d see Ryan again. Given our past, and the fact that my presence now seemed painful to him, I suspected that, going forward, he might request cases that didn’t involve me.
Just past eleven, a taxi dropped me at the annex. I paid and dug out my keys. Found I didn’t need them. The back door was unlocked.
Momentary panic. Check it out? Call the cops?
Then, through the glass, I saw Mary Louise enter the kitchen, Birdie pressed to her chest.
Relief flooded through me. Followed by annoyance. “You should always lock the door.” Upon entering.
Mary Louise was wearing the same flapper hat. Below the scoopy bell brim, her face fell.
Cool move, Brennan. Your first words to the kid are a rebuke.
“I just mean it’s safer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Birdie looked at me with round yellow eyes. Reproachful?
“Looks like you two have really hit it off.”
“He’s a great cat.”
Birdie made no attempt to push free and come to me, his normal response after I’ve been away.
“I was going to give him a treat.” Hesitant.
Birdie gave me a long judgmental stare. Daring me to interfere?
“He’ll like that,” I said, smiling broadly.
Mary Louise went to the pantry. I set my carry-on aside and placed my purse on the counter.
“Your mother called.” As Birdie ate Greenies from her palm. “I didn’t pick up. But I heard her leave a message. My grandma has an answering machine like that.”
Great. I was a fossil. I wondered how old she was. Twelve, maybe thirteen. “Any other calls?”
“The red light’s been flashing since Wednesday. So, yeah, I guess.”
“What do I owe you?”
She stroked Bird’s head. The drama queen arched his back and purred. “No charge. I really like this little guy.”
“That wasn’t our deal.” I dug out four tens and handed them to her.
“Wow.” Pocketing the bills. “My mom has allergies. I can’t have pets.”
“That’s too bad.”
Awkward pause.
“Can I come visit him? I mean, like, even if you’re home?”
“Birdie and I would both enjoy that.” I thanked her, then, through the window, watched her skip down the walk. Smiling, I hit play on my relic machine.
Mama, complaining about Dr. Finch.
Harry, recommending books about cancer.
Outside, Mary Louise did two cartwheels in the middle of the lawn.
The last message was Larabee, saying he had DNA results on the hair found in Shelly Leal’s throat. Odd. I checked my iPhone. He’d called there, too. I’d forgotten to turn it on after landing.
I phoned the MCME. Mrs. Flowers put me through after a few comments on container-grown lettuce.
“Larabee.”
“It’s Tempe.”
“How was Canada?”
“Cold. Ditto Vermont.” I briefed him on the interviews with Sabine Pomerleau, the Violettes, and the Kezerians. Then I dropped the bombshell about Anique Pomerleau.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah.” I recalled Ryan’s comment. Felt almost no guilt at sharing his sentiment about Pomerleau’s death. Almost.
“The hairs we found in Leal’s throat were forcibly removed from the scalp, so the lab was able to sequence nuclear DNA.” Larabee’s voice sounded odd. “It’s a match for Pomerleau.”
I was too shocked to respond.
“The hair was bleached, so that fits with your corpse. Pomerleau was probably trying to disguise her appearance.”
“But Pomerleau was dead long before Leal was killed.”
“Hair can transfer in so many ways. On clothing. On blankets. Looks like her accomplice got sloppy.”
My mind was racing with images, one worse than the next.