I described the Health Science article. The picture of me clipped and saved at the Corneau farm.
“You’re saying the perp’s in my town because of you.”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”
“Why?”
“Revenge? Taunting? Who knows?”
Salter’s phone rang. She ignored it.
“Explain the dates again,” Barrow said to me.
I did, leaving out Mama’s role in spotting the pattern.
“So victims are taken on the anniversaries of abductions in Montreal.” Statement, not question, Salter wanting affirmation.
“That’s the idea,” I said. “Possibly on the dates they died.”
“And Pomerleau’s accomplice continues the game even though he’s taken her out.”
“So it appears.”
“And the intervals are decreasing.”
“Yes,” Barrow said. “And another anniversary comes up in two months.”
I could hear my own breathing in the silence that followed. Salter’s folded glasses tapping the desktop. Finally, when I thought she was about to blow us off, “Slidell’s working Leal, right?”
“Yes,” Barrow confirmed.
“Anyone else assigned to this?” She swept a hand over the photos.
“Ex-officio, a detective from Montreal, another from Hardwick, Vermont.”
“I’ve seen Beau Tinker in the halls. The SBI here at your invitation?”
“Not exactly.”
Another beat. Then Salter pocketed the glasses. “Write it up. Everything you’ve got.”
CHAPTER 27
THE WEATHER HAD turned colder while I was in the LEC. Not enough to make me hate it. But enough to make me think about getting out gloves I’d stashed in a closet last March.
Birdie showed more interest in the contents of my Roasting Company bag than in my return. I filled his bowl, clicked on CNN, and settled at the kitchen table.
The Situation Room had closed for the night. A Democrat was bickering with a Republican about health care and immigration reform. Irritating. I want news at the end of the day, not a bout of extreme verbal sparring.
I turned off the set. Tossed down the remote.
Birdie jumped onto the chair beside me, preferring warm chicken to the hard brown pellets I’d served up. Couldn’t blame him.
As I ate, Tasat’s note filled my thoughts.
“Lonergan didn’t make that call,” I said through a mouthful of succotash.
Birdie cocked his head. Listening, or hopeful for poultry.
“So who did?”
The cat rendered no opinion.
“A relative? A friend? Supposedly, Donovan had none.”
I placed a sliver of drumstick on the table. Bird tested it with one in-curled paw, then seized it delicately with his front teeth.
“Donovan’s killer, that’s who. It’s classic felon behavior. Like returning to a crime scene.”
Bird and I looked at each other, thoughts definitely not on the same page.
My mobile rang.
“Your flight went well?” Ryan sounded as exhausted as I felt.
“I can’t remember that far back.”
“I’m beat, too.”
“Any progress?” I offered Bird another scrap of fowl. He repeated his pat-and-snatch maneuver.
“None. Where are you?”
“Home. I spent the day with Slidell.”
“And?”
“He often addressed me in an ill-mannered fashion.”
“Any breaks?”
“Maybe.”
I described the visit with Lonergan and the meeting with Salter. Explained Tasat’s notation and Lonergan’s denial about making the call. “Slidell’s convinced there’s nothing to it.”
“Has he agreed to subpoena the phone records?”
“Grudgingly. Says it could take weeks. Meanwhile, we—” A bottle rocket exploded in my head. “Shit!”
“What?”
“How did I miss it? I must be totally brain-dead.”
“Earth to Brennan.”
“Tia Estrada.”
“The kid from Salisbury.”
“I was distracted by Slidell and Tinker sniping at each other.”
“Stay on point.”
“According to the case log, a journalist called six months after Estrada went missing.”
“And?”
“I’m almost certain that was the last entry in the chronology. And the file contained no news clipping dating to 2013.”