I got off on two and headed past the CCU to the conference room. Slidell continued up to four.
The Donovan file was on the table with the others. It took little time to locate the entry.
Investigative Notes (Tasat) (8/07/14)
Laura Lonergan, family member, phoned to ask about progress on MP Colleen Donovan. Lonergan is Donovan’s maternal aunt. When asked if she had thoughts where Colleen might be, Lonergan stated that she did not. When asked where she could be reached, she provided a cellphone contact and stated she had no work or home lines.
Lonergan’s mobile was listed at the end of the entry.
After blocking my own caller ID, I tried the number. A voice told me it wasn’t in service.
I was sitting there, frustration oozing from every pore, when Slidell lumbered through the door. “What?” Seeing my face.
“There’s nothing in the file to indicate where the call was made. The mobile number given by Lonergan”—hooking the name with air quotes—“is bogus. And Tasat’s not around to take questions.”
“I’m telling you. The woman’s brain is hamburger.”
“I think we should check it out.”
Slidell sighed, über-patient. Yanked out his spiral. “You got the date the call came in?”
“August seventh.”
“The time?”
“No.”
“I’ll have to get Tasat’s number.”
“That’s easy enough.”
“Then I’ll have to subpoena Ma Bell.”
“How long will that take?”
“A couple weeks, a couple days. Some companies are friendlier than others.”
“Shall we tell Barrow?”
“Tell him what? A tweaker’s having memory issues?”
Easy, Brennan. “Where is Barrow?”
“Heading here now.”
Slidell’s words were barely out when the head of CCU stepped into the room.
I explained the call. And my suspicion that someone other than Lonergan had placed it.
“Nice catch.”
“Maybe.” I knew in my gut that it was. “The mobile number Lonergan gave Tasat isn’t in service. And it’s not the one she’s currently posting on Backpage.com.”
“So she got dropped or switched carriers.” Slidell’s skepticism was a real buzzkill.
“You on the trace?” Barrow asked him before I could respond.
“Wanna bet it’s a waste of time?”
“I could pass it to Tinker.”
Slidell took his leave, muttering about paperwork. And horseshit.
Barrow took the chair opposite mine. “How was the far north?”
“Cold.”
“Bring me up to speed.”
I did.
Barrow listened, now and then clearing his throat.
When I finished, he sat thinking about it. Then, “The brass wanted stronger links between Leal and the other cases. Said they’d reassess when the situation changed.”
“They did.”
“We need to share this with the deputy chief.”
“When?” I looked at my watch. It was ten past five. I’d risen before dawn to fly back to Charlotte.
“Now.”
“Since 2007, three adolescent females have been abducted in broad daylight and later found dead. Nellie Gower, Hardwick, Vermont, 2007. Lizzie Nance, Charlotte, 2009. Tia Estrada, Salisbury, 2012. The victims are of a type. The VICAP crime profiles show striking similarity. In each case, the body was left in the open, fully clothed, and posed. In no case was there evidence of sexual assault. In no case could cause of death be determined.” At Barrow’s urging, I was taking the lead.
Deputy Chief Denise Salter kept her eyes level on mine. They were brown, darker than her caramel skin, lighter than the black hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her shirt was eye-scorching white, the creases on its long sleeves sharp enough to perform microsurgery. Black tie, black pants, black patent-leather shoes gleaming like marble.
Salter had rescheduled another meeting to make time for us. She was listening, her expression neither kind nor unkind.