Blum did so and a few minutes later clicked off. “They’re working on it. They said the area code shows that it’s a western North Carolina number.”
“Okay, that’s a start. If they can get us Desiree’s current name—I’m sure she’s using an alias—and an address, we can make some progress for sure.”
“What do you think she can tell us?”
“What really happened that night, for starters.”
“But Desiree has every reason to lie. And the statute of limitations for what she did to Mercy has probably expired, as unfair as that is.”
“But there is no statute of limitations on murder.”
“Murder? You mean Joe?”
“Maybe not just Joe. There was a gunshot on the video we listened to the night that Mercy escaped from her prison. Joe didn’t have a gunshot wound.”
“So you think . . . ?”
“I have to think of every possibility, including that Mercy might have been killed that night, too, and that’s why Desiree fled. Everything we’ve learned about the woman points to her being a sociopath.”
“I . . . I guess that is possible.”
“But it’s only a possibility. And that doesn’t make it true.”
As Pine put the SUV in gear and they drove off, her phone buzzed. It was Jack Lineberry calling.
“Jack?”
“Atlee, something has happened.” He sounded frantic.
“What?”
“Oh my God,” he exclaimed.
“Look, just take a few deep breaths and calm down.”
He ignored her advice and she forgot about it as soon as he spoke. “The police were just here.”
“What police?”
“The Georgia State Police and a detective from Virginia.”
“Virginia? What did they want?”
“The body in your father’s grave was positively identified as Ito Vincenzo.”
“Okay, no surprises there.”
“Yes, but now they know that I lied about identifying the body as Tim Pine, Atlee. I think they’re going to arrest me for obstructing justice in a homicide investigation.”
“Homicide investigation? What the hell are you talking about?”
“When I told them that Tim had called me and told me what happened, they asked did I have any proof that he actually killed Vincenzo in self-defense. They asked how I could be sure that Tim didn’t murder him.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“What could I tell them? I didn’t have any proof. I just knew what Tim told me. And the fact that he disappeared and Vincenzo was buried in his place? I can tell you that the police are highly suspicious of that. They said something about him now being a fugitive.”
“Do they know the whole story about my parents and the mob bosses? That would make them understand why Vincenzo would want to kill Tim.”
“They didn’t seem to. And, legally, I’m still not really allowed to disclose anything about that. But it might all have to come out depending on how this plays out.”
“Did they say what they were going to do?”
“They said they were putting out an arrest warrant for Tim Pine. They’re going after him, Atlee. My God, after all these years.”
Pine could only stare dumbly out the windshield.
Well, that was one I didn’t see coming.
CHAPTER
18
THE WOMAN SAID TO EL CAIN, “Just so you know, we require a week’s worth of rent in advance. Cash, no checks, no credit cards ’cause the folks who stay here are dishonest as hell, and they keep ripping us off.”
She was short, pudgy, and thick-boned, in her early forties, with long, dyed blond hair parted in the middle, where her dark roots were waging a comeback. She had a spiteful look, and her tone was aggressive and unfriendly. She was dressed in faded jeans, a pair of black flats, and a sweatshirt silk-screened with, ironically, the image of a smiley face.
“Nice to know I’m moving into such a high-class place.”
“Thought you would’ve figured that out before you walked in here.”
“Do you live here?” asked Cain.
“God no. It’s not safe at night.” The woman added, “They did put a charcoal grill in the back, but you got to bring your own charcoal and lighter fluid. And you take full liability for any fires out of control or shit like that. And let me tell you, some drunk bastards have come close to burning this place down more than a few times while grilling hamburgers and hot dogs.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” Cain quipped. “And I never touch alcohol.”
“R-right,” said the woman, giving her a dubious look.
Cain paid the money and took the key to her new home. After doing her forklift gig, Cain had looked around and finally found this dump. It was in a horseshoe-shaped motel built in the 1970s that had been “renovated” into longer-term living arrangements, or so the woman had told her. Which meant, basically, that nothing had been done to it besides changing the name so they could charge more, a week at a time. The asphalt parking lot had long since been given over to dirt and weeds. She unlocked the door to number 110.
The room’s width was a little under twice as long as her height. The bed was a twin with a gauzy veil for a coverlet and a pillow that looked as flat as a gambler without a stake. The only other furniture was a small nightstand that leaned to one side, a scarred desk with a shiny green Gideon Bible on it, and a chair with its back partially hanging off. There was no carpet, but they had left behind the gray, scratchy underneath pad for what reason she didn’t know, other than it would cover the concrete slab below. The missing carpet’s tacking strip was exposed where the wall met the floor, its pointy nails like rows of puppy teeth. There was a tiny closet with a few metal hangers. The bathroom was basic: ancient toilet, stained sink, phone booth–sized fiberglass shower. Someone had left a half roll of toilet paper and what appeared to be permanent pee stains on the toilet seat. The window was open. Cain closed it and tried to lock it but that was a no-go. She would have to fix that.
She put her duffel and other few possessions on the desk, took out her Glock, and lay back on the bed with it in her hand. She was tired, worried, and fearful, not because of where she was now living. She was scared because the FBI was after her. There was no statute of limitations for killing someone; she knew that from watching Law and Order episodes.