“Okay.”
“Six months after Colleen Donovan vanished, an aunt phoned asking for an update. Donovan’s only aunt denies making that call. Six months after Estrada was abducted, a journalist contacted your office. We’re wondering if that call was also a sham.”
“Who’s the journalist?”
“The notation is handwritten, one line that provides no name or number. And there’s no clipping in the file.”
“I’m not surprised. Estrada was killed on Bellamy’s watch, and he already had one flip-flop out the door. I inherited the case when he retired to Boca.”
“I’ve left a message for Latoya Ring. Do you know her?”
“Ring is solid.”
“This might turn out to be nothing. Donovan’s aunt is a tweaker and pretty wasted. But if no one at the Post made the call, do you think you can find and trace the number?”
Twice, canned laughter cued me that something was funny. Finally, “Done. Now tell me what you know.”
I did. Along the way remembered another loose end. “According to the autopsy report, the local ME found hair in Estrada’s throat. Do you know if that hair was tested for DNA?”
“I’ll check.”
“If not, find out what happened to it.”
“Will do.”
A long silence came down from Wadesboro.
“Thanks, Dr. Brennan. This kid deserves better.”
“Tempe,” I said. “I’ll call if I hear back from Ring.”
“You’ll hear back.”
I spent another hour going over photos from the Gower, Nance, Estrada, and Leal scenes. Scrutinizing faces with a handheld magnifier. Comparing features, body shapes, clothing, silhouettes. It was no good. The vessels in my head were trying to blast through my skull. Someone with superior skills and equipment would have to do it.
At ten I packed up and headed home. I’d just pulled in at the annex when my mobile launched into “Joy to the World.” I’d switched the ringtone to try to be festive.
The number was blocked. I hesitated a moment, then clicked on. “Brennan.” Shifting into park.
“It’s Latoya Ring. I’ve just spoken with Hen Hull.”
“Thanks for returning my call.”
“No one here at the Post phoned the sheriff.”
I felt an electric shock fire through my body. “You’re certain?”
“We’re not The New York Times. Only two of us cover the crime beat. He didn’t call, I didn’t call.”
Across the yard, something rippled the tangle of shadows thrown by an enormous magnolia. A dog? A late-night walker? Or did I imagine it?
“And I phoned my editor just to make sure,” Ring continued. “A move that will not contribute to my being named employee of the month. He green-lighted no follow-up on Estrada.”
“You’re certain of that?” Straining to see through the dark.
“The assignment would have fallen to me. I’d asked several times. Was repeatedly told no.”
“Why?”
“There was no point. The cops had zip—no suspects, no leads. The mother wasn’t even in the country by then.”
Tia Estrada wasn’t a blue-eyed darling with Shirley Temple curls.
“Thanks for jumping on this,” I said.
There. Was that movement just past the coach house? A deer?
“The whole thing stinks.”
I waited for Ring to elaborate.
“Some bastard murdered this kid. Then the system let her fall through the cracks.”
“We’ll get him,” I said, squinting into the thick vegetation surrounding my car.
“Take care.”
I sat a moment, mildly uneasy. Then got out and scurried to the annex.
I was in bed in seconds.
Unconscious in minutes.
Unaware of what I’d set in motion.
CHAPTER 28
THAT WEEKEND IT rained in Charlotte, not hard but constantly. At times a mist, at times ramping up to a halfhearted drizzle. A cold dampness saturated the air, and water dripped from the eaves and off the broad green leaves of the magnolias outside.