Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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CHAPTER 23

“GOD ALMIGHTY!”

Karras was eyeing me, stony with disapproval.

I found an image on my phone, crossed to her, and held the screen so she could see. Her gaze moved between my iPhone and the glistening bronzed face on the table. A very long moment passed.

“Who is she?”

“Anique Pomerleau.”

Blank stare.

“Pomerleau may have murdered Nellie Gower and several other children.”

“Go on.”

I did. But kept it short.

“You’re sure it’s her?” Studying the corpse. “It’s her.”

“We’ll run the prints and take samples for DNA testing.”

“Of course.”

“How did your suspect end up in a barrel of syrup?”

“I’m hoping you’ll help clarify that.”

At 2:45 A.M. Karras snipped the thread closing the Y on Pomerleau’s chest.

By then bacteria, long denied, had begun to have their way with her flesh. The air was thick with the foul smell of putrefaction mingling with the sweet smell of syrup.

Sadly, the autopsy had left us with many more questions than answers.

Rigor, a transient condition causing the muscles to stiffen, had long since come and gone. No surprise. We’d noted that when handling the body.

Livor, discoloration due to the settling of blood on a corpse’s downside, was evident in the buttocks, lower legs, and feet. Either Pomerleau had died in the barrel or she’d been placed there immediately after death.

No syrup was present in the paranasal sinuses, air passages, lungs, or stomach, meaning Pomerleau hadn’t inhaled or ingested it. She hadn’t drowned in the barrel; ergo, she’d gone into it dead.

Pomerleau’s gut held only a few fragments of tomato skin. She hadn’t eaten for roughly six to eight hours before she died.

Karras found no bullets, bullet fragments, or bullet tracks. No blunt instrument trauma. No hyoid fractures pointing to strangulation. No significant petechiae suggesting asphyxiation.

Under magnification, she spotted three parallel grooves on the ectocranial surface near the border of one oval defect, V-shaped and extremely narrow in cross section. Neither Karras nor I had a satisfactory explanation.

Other than the tiny marks on each inner elbow, the body lacked the constellation of features typically seen in habitual drug users.

Karras did a rape kit. Drew what blood she could for toxicology testing. Wasn’t optimistic on either front.

Bottom line, Pomerleau was a healthy thirty-nine-year-old white female showing no evidence of trauma, infection, systemic disease, or congenital malformation. We didn’t know how or when she died. We didn’t know how or why she’d ended up in the barrel.

Icy sleet was still coming down when Karras drove me to a Comfort Inn about a mile from the medical complex. En route, we shared theories. I thought it likely Pomerleau had been murdered. Karras, more cautious, planned to write cause of death as “undetermined,” manner as “suspicious.”

She was right. Though unlikely, other possibilities existed. A drug overdose, then a cover-up. Accidental suffocation. I didn’t believe it.

We agreed on one point: Pomerleau hadn’t sealed herself in that barrel.

After checking in to my room, I considered phoning Ryan. Slidell. Instead, I took a second shower and dropped into bed.

As sleep descended, the truth hammered home.

Pomerleau was finally dead. The monster. The one who got away. I tried to pinpoint the emotions twisting my gut. Failed.

Facts and images ricocheted in my brain.

A lip print on a jacket.

Male DNA.

Stephen Menard.

A soundproof prison cell in a basement.

Questions. Lots of questions.

Had Pomerleau found a new accomplice? Was that man involved in her death?

Had he murdered her? Why?

Who was he? Where was he now?

Had he taken his malignant freak show south?

This time it was banging that breached the thick wall of sleep.

I awoke disoriented.

From a dream? I couldn’t remember.

The room was dark.

Fragments began to congeal. The sugar shack. The barrel. The autopsy.

Pomerleau.

Had I imagined the pounding?

I listened.

The thrum of traffic. Heavy now, uninterrupted.

No sleet or wind thrashing the window.

“Brennan.” Bang. Bang. Bang.

8:05.

Shit.

“Ass out of bed.”

“Coming.” I pulled on the clothes I’d worn the day before. All I had.

The sun blinded me when I opened the door. The storm had ended, leaving an unnatural stillness in its wake.

Aviator shades distorted my face into a fun-house version of itself. Above them, a black wool tuque. Below them, windburned nose and cheeks.

“You’re here.” Lame. I was still wooly.

“You should be a detective.”

One of Ryan’s old lines. Neither of us laughed.

“Rolling in ten.”

“Twenty,” I said, shielding my eyes with one hand.

“I’ll be in the Jeep.”

Twelve minutes later, I was buckled in, fingers curling around a wax-coated polyethylene cup for warmth. The Jeep smelled of coffee and overcooked pork.

“Anyone could have boosted this ride.”

“No one did.”

“I need this Jeep.”

“I’m sure it needs you.”

“You’re not vigilant.”

“Ease up, Ryan. You had keys.”

“Leaving it at the medical complex was just plain lazy. Good thing Karras let me know.”

An Egg McMuffin lay in my lap, grease turning the wrapper translucent in spots.

“How did you get here from St. Johnsbury?” I asked.

“Umpie hooked me up with a lift.”

It was Umpie now.

“Where are we going?”

Ryan merged into traffic. Didn’t answer.

I unwrapped the sandwich, took a few bites. Minutes later, we fired up the entrance ramp onto I-89. Heading north.

“There it is.” I pointed at Ryan. “There’s that smile.”

He was clearly not in the mood for teasing.

Fine.

I watched Vermont slide by.

The morning sun was melting a world made of ice. Still, the countryside looked glistening brown, caramelized. Perhaps coated with maple syrup.

“Okay, sunshine. I’ll start.” Jamming my McMuffin wrapper into the bag between us. “It was Anique Pomerleau in that barrel.”

The aviators whipped my way. “Are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“How’d she die?”

“I can tell you how she didn’t.”

I outlined the autopsy findings. Ryan listened without interrupting, face tight and wary. When I’d finished, he said, “Rodas’s team tossed the property top to bottom. Found no drugs or drug paraphernalia.”

“What was in the house?”

“Crap furnishings and appliances. Canned food in the pantry, cereal and pasta that delighted generations of rodents.”

“With readable expiration dates?”

“A few. The most recent was sometime in 2010.”

“What about the refrigerator?”

“Variations on rot. Bugs, mouse droppings, mold. Looks like the place was occupied for a while, then abandoned.”

“Abandoned when?”

“Old newspapers got tossed into a basket. Burlington Free Press. The most current was from Sunday, March 15, 2009. That and the food dates suggest no one’s been living there for over five years.”

“Did you check light switches? Lamps?”

Ryan slid me a look. “All were turned off except a ceiling fixture in the kitchen and a lamp in one bedroom. Those bulbs were burned out.”

“Were the beds made?”

“One yes, the other one no.”

“Whoever was there last made no effort to close up. You know, clean out the refrigerator, strip the beds, turn off the lights. They just left. Probably at night.”

“Very good.”

“How’d the papers arrive?”

“Not by mail. The post office stopped service because the resident at the address provided no mailbox.”

“When was that?”

“1997. According to Umpie, there’s no home delivery.”

I thought a moment. “Pomerleau did her shopping in or near Burlington.”

“Or at a local store that sold Burlington papers.”

“Any vehicle?”

“An ’86 Ford F-150 was parked in one of the sheds.”

“That’s a truck, right?”

“Yes, Brennan. A half-ton pickup.” Ryan jumped my next question. “Quarter tank of gas in the truck. No plates. Obviously no GPS to check.”

“Obviously. Anything else in that shed?”

“An old tractor and cart.”

“I assume the house had no alarm system.”

“Unless they had a dog.”

“Was there evidence of that?”

Ryan only shook his head. Meaning no? Meaning the question annoyed him?

“There were no close neighbors,” I said to the windshield, the armrest, maybe the air vent. “No one to notice if lights failed to go on and off.”

Ryan cut left to overtake a Budweiser truck. Fast. Too fast.

“Did the house have a phone?” I couldn’t recall seeing wires.

“No.”

“I’m guessing no cable or Wi-Fi.”

No response.

“What about utilities? Gas? Water? Electric?”

“They’re on it.”

“The Corneaus died in 1988. Who paid the taxes after that?”

“They’re on that, too.”

“Do you really think Pomerleau was living there, tapping trees, and keeping a low profile?”

“One bedroom had a collection of books on maple sugar production. All the equipment needed was already on-site.”

“What do the neighbors say?”

“They’re—”

“On it. Why are you being such an ass?”

Ryan’s hands tightened on the wheel. He inhaled deeply. Exhaled through his nose. “We found something else in there.”

“Must have been flesh-eating zombies, the way you’re acting.”

It was worse.

CHAPTER 24

“ME?”

“Yes, Brennan. You.”

“What magazine?” My gut felt like I’d just drunk acid. It wasn’t the McMuffin.

“Health Science.”

“I don’t remember being interviewed—”

“Well, you were.”

“When did the story appear?”

“2008.”

“What was the subj—”

“Only one page was saved. A picture of you measuring a skull in your lab at UNCC.”

A vague recollection. A phone call. A piece profiling changes in physical anthropology over the past five decades. Would I comment on my subspecialty of forensics? Could I share a graphic?

I’d thought the article might dispel Hollywood myths about crime scene glamour and hundred-percent solve rates. Had it been six years?

The heartburn was spreading from my stomach to my chest. I swallowed.

Pomerleau had clipped a photo of me. Had known I lived in Charlotte. Had known since 2008.

Lizzie Nance had died in 2009. Others had followed. Estrada. Leal. Maybe Koseluk and Donovan. ME107-10.

Before I could comment, Ryan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen, clicked on, listened. “Pomerleau.”

The expletive was muted by Ryan’s ear. Questions followed. Ryan responded with mostly one-word answers. “Yes.” “No.” “Undetermined.” “Suspicious.”

“I’ll put you on speaker.” He did, then placed the phone on the dash.

“How’s it going, Doc?” Rodas.

“Hunky-dory.”

“Here’s what we’ve got so far. A canvass of the neighbors took about five seconds, practically no one out there. The couple to the south are both in their eighties. Can’t hear, can’t see. They knew the Corneaus, said they used the place in spring for sugaring, sporadically in summer. Lamented their passing. The husband thought a granddaughter lived there for a while.”

“When did he last see her?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Was she blond?”

“I’ll ask.”

“I’m sending two images. An age progression done on Pomerleau’s mug shot.” As I texted the files. “And a close-up I took at autopsy. Show those to him.”

“Will do. The neighbor to the north is a widower, stays out there only part of the year. He knew zilch. Ditto for those living along Hale.”

“No one noticed that the house had gone permanently dark?”

“It’s set too far back. I checked last night. You can’t see spit through the trees.”

“No one recalls vehicles entering or leaving?”

“Nope.”

“No one ever visited? Went looking for a lost puppy? Took cookies to say welcome to the ’hood?”

“Vermonters tend to keep to themselves.”

“Did you ask in town?”

“Apparently, Pomerleau took her trade elsewhere. So far we’ve found no one who remembers a woman fitting her description. If she did hit a store now and then, folks probably figured she was a tourist up for fishing or kayaking. Paid no attention.”

That fit my theory that Pomerleau had shopped near Burlington. A bigger city where she could remain anonymous.

I heard a muted ping. Another. Knew my texts had landed on Rodas’s phone.

“Where’d she get wood?” I asked.

“We found a guy who says he took a truckload each March for a few years. He says a woman paid in cash.”

“When was the last delivery?”

“His record-keeping’s a bit glitchy. He thinks maybe 2009.”

“Show him the photos.”

“Will do. Andy?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you tell her about the newspapers and food expiration dates?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. Pomerleau makes her way from Montreal to Vermont in ’04. She moves in and lays low. The house is abandoned in 2009. You and Doc Karras think she could have been dead that long?”

I pictured the barrel. The body. The leaves preserved in pristine condition. “Five years is possible,” I said. Then, “Who owns the property?”

“There it gets interesting. The deed is still in the name Margaux Daudet Corneau.”

“Stephen Menard’s maternal grandmother.”

“I’m guessing since Corneau died in Canada, no one caught that the title never transferred after she passed away. The taxes, a staggering nine hundred dollars per year, were handled by auto payment from an account in Corneau’s name at Citizens Bank in Burlington.”

“When was the account opened?”

“I’ll know more once I get a warrant.”

“What about utilities?”

“The place has its own well, there’s no gas. Green Mountain Power was paid from the same account as the taxes. But the money finally ran out. Notices were sent—”

“But not received, since there was no mail delivery or phone.”

“The electricity was cut off in 2010.”

“The state took no action due to default on the taxes?”

“Notices were sent. No follow-through yet.”

I heard a click.

“Hold on. I’ve got another call coming in.”

The line went hollow. Then Rodas returned, tension in his voice up a notch. “Let me call you back.”

“You’re right,” Ryan said when we’d gone a few miles. “I’ve been acting like an ass.”

“You have,” I agreed.

“I hate that Pomerleau knew your whereabouts.” The lane markings sent double-yellow lines tracking up Ryan’s lenses. “That she wanted to know.”

“I don’t like it, either.”

“I’m glad the bitch is dead. Hope she rots in hell.”

“Someone killed her.”

“We’ll get him.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We’ll get him.” Ryan continued not looking at me.

“If I hadn’t granted that interview, Pomerleau never would have gone to Charlotte.”

“We don’t know that she did.”

“Her DNA was on Lizzie Nance’s body.”

“She’d have continued the carnage here in Vermont. Or someplace else.”

“Why Charlotte? Why my home turf?”

We both knew the answer to that.

We’d crossed into Quebec when Ryan’s phone buzzed again. As before, he put Rodas on speaker.

“One of my detectives found a mechanic who says he serviced a furnace at the Corneau place, once in ’04, again in ’07.”

“Did he recognize the images I sent?”

“Yes, ma’am. He says Pomerleau was alone the first time. The second visit, someone else was there.”

I shot Ryan a look; his jaw was set, but he didn’t return it.

“Can someone work with him to create a sketch?” I asked.

“Negative. He says the person was too far off, way back at one of the sheds and all bundled up for winter. All he’s sure of is that the guy was tall.”

“It’s something,” I said.

“It’s something,” Rodas agreed, then disconnected.

Ryan and I took some time digesting this latest piece of information. He spoke first. “By 2007 Pomerleau has hooked up with someone willing to share her psychosis. They kill Nellie Gower. A year and a half later, they travel to North Carolina, kill Lizzie Nance, then return to Vermont to tap their maples. The relationship tanks—”

“Or there’s an accident.” Caution, à la Karras.

“—he kills her, seals her body in a barrel, and splits for North Carolina.”

“It plays,” I said.

“Like a Sousa march.”

“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.

“What now?” Larabee asked after a pause.

“Now we shut the fucker down.” Quoting Ryan.

I was in my bedroom unpacking when pounding rattled the front door.

CHAPTER 25

I JETTED TO the hall window to look down at the porch. A plaid shoulder was half visible under the overhang. A man’s rubber-soled Rock-port, scuffed and worn.

I hurried downstairs. Verified the identity of my visitor by squinting through the peephole. Slidell was working a molar with one thumbnail.

His hand dropped when I opened the door. “Barrow wants Lonergan’s spit on a stick.”

It took me a minute to process that. “Lonergan is Colleen Donovan’s aunt,” I said.

“Yeah.”

A prickle of fear. “Have remains been found?”

“Nah.”

“Why collect Lonergan’s DNA now?”

“The lady don’t have what you’d call a stable lifestyle. Barrow wants her on file. You know. In case she hops it and fails to leave a forwarding.”

In case Colleen turns up.

Slidell’s gaze drifted to the parlor behind me. “Hey, cat.”

I turned. Birdie was watching from the middle of the room. He liked Slidell. No accounting for feline taste.

“I was thinking you might ride along.”

I knew the reason for that. Slidell is revolted by the bodily fluids of others. Loathes the contact needed to obtain them.

“Have you talked to Larabee?” I asked.

“He briefed me on Pomerleau when I picked up the Q-tip. Guess we won’t be lighting no candles for her.”

I didn’t disagree.

“Rodas got any theories who her sidekick might be?”

“No,” I said.

“Let’s roll. It’ll give you a chance to recap the highlights.”

Laura Lonergan lived on Park Road, not far from uptown. Geographically speaking. Economically, the address was light-years away.

En route, Slidell handed me a printout:

AVAILABLE 24/7. Massage. Companionship. For mature men who want a sexy, sensitive female. Real curly hair, spicy tits, juicy butt!!! Call me now! No black men. No texts or blocked numbers. Princess.

Poster’s age: 39.

Location: Uptown Charlotte.

A photo showed a woman in a thong and push-up bra contorted on a bed like a boa on a vine. In another, she was smiling from a notquite-chin-deep bubble bath.

“Where’s this from?” I asked.

“Backpage.com. Under Escorts, Charlotte.”

“She’s very broad-minded.”

“We all got our limits.”

“She goes by Princess?”

“Pure gentry.”

“I guess marketing on the Internet is easier than walking the streets.” Placing the ad on the center console.

“She does her share of that.”

Slidell slowed. Checked his spiral.

The block was lined with two– and three-story buildings, many with apartments converted to accommodate small businesses. Lonergan’s was a six-unit affair with large-leafed vegetation crawling the brick. Maybe kudzu.

“Is she expecting us?” I asked.

“No.” Slidell shifted into park. “But she’s here.”

We got out and entered a postage-stamp lobby. The air smelled of mold and rugs not cleaned in a decade. Of chemicals used to perm and dye hair.

To the right, past an inside door, was a tax accountant’s office with not a single employee or customer present. A narrow stairway lay straight ahead. To the stairway’s left, a hall led to another hall cutting sideways across the back of the building.

Lonergan’s unit was on the second floor, beside a beauty salon and across from an aesthetician who also did nails. Both doors were shut. Beyond them, no indications of human life.

A sign on Lonergan’s door offered massage therapy and instructed patrons to knock. Slidell did.

We waited. My gaze wandered. Landed on a spiderweb that could have made Architectural Digest.

Slidell knocked again.

A voice floated out, female, the words unclear.

Slidell gestured me to one side, out of view. Then he banged again, this time with gusto. After some rattling, the door opened.

Laura Lonergan was a portrait titled The Face of Meth. Fried orange hair. Rawhide skin peppered with scabs. Cheeks sculpted with deep hollows created by the loss of dentition.

Lonergan smiled, lips closed, undoubtedly to cover what unsightly teeth she’d managed to retain. One hand brushed breasts barely altering the topography of a pink polyester tank. Her chin rose, and one shoulder twisted in under it. The coy seductress.

“Save it, Princess.” Slidell held out his badge.

Lonergan studied it for about a week. Then she straightened. “You’re a cop.”

“You’re a genius.”

“I’m closed.” Lonergan stepped back and started to shut the door.

Slidell stopped it with one meaty palm. “Not anymore,” he said.

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“Yes. You do.”

“What have I done?”

“Let’s skip the part where you play innocent.”

“I’m a masseuse.”

“You’re a tweaker and a whore.”

Lonergan’s eyes skittered up and down the hall. Then, softer, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Yes. I can.”

Lines crimped Lonergan’s forehead as she thought about that. “How about you cut me some slack?”

“Maybe.”

A beat as she considered what that might mean. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You won’t bust me?”

“That depends on you.”

The skittery eyes narrowed. Bounced to me. Back to Slidell. “A three-sixty-nine is cool. But it’ll cost.”

I felt the urge to scrub down with antibacterial soap.

“Let’s move this inside,” Slidell snapped.

Lonergan didn’t budge.

“You feeling me, Princess?”

“Whatever.” Trying for indifference, not even coming close.

The front entrance gave directly onto a small living room. Lonergan crossed it and dropped onto a couch draped with leopard-skin fabric, one skinny-jeaned leg outstretched, the other hooked over an armrest.

The sofa faced two ratty wicker chairs and a coffee table scarred by dozens of cigarette burns. Beyond them, against the far wall, which was red, a desk held a TV and a plastic banker’s lamp repaired with duct tape. Black plastic trash bags lined the walls, bulging with treasures I couldn’t imagine. An unshaded halogen bulb threw sickly light from a pole lamp twenty degrees off-kilter.

Through a door to the right, I could see a shotgun kitchen, the counter and table stacked with dirty dishes and empty food containers. I assumed the bedroom and bath were in back. Had no desire to view them. I eyed the chairs. Chose to remain standing.

Slidell balanced one ample cheek on the edge of the desk. Folded his arms. Stared.

“This gonna take all day?” Picking at a scab on her chin. “I got things to do.”

“Talk about Colleen.”

“Colleen?”

“Your niece.”

“I know she’s my niece. You here to tell me something bad about her?”

Slidell just stared.

“Where is Colleen?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“You heard from her lately?”

“Not since she split.”

“When was that?”

The ravaged face went slack as she searched through the rubble of her mind. “I don’t know. Maybe Christmas.” Back to the scab, the perimeter now smeared with blood. “Yeah. She was here for Christmas. I got her a six-pack. She got me the same. We had a laugh over that.”

“Where’d she go?”

“To crash with friends. To shack up with a guy. Who the hell knows?”

“Hard to imagine her leaving, you providing such a nurturing environment and all.”

“The kid got tired of sleeping on the couch.”

“Tired of watching you tweak and bang johns.”

“That’s not how it was.”

“I’m sure you prayed the rosary together.”

“Colleen was no angel.” Defensive. “She’d spread her legs if a dude made it worthwhile.”

“She was sixteen.” Sharp. I couldn’t help myself. The woman was repulsive.

“Colleen’s a survivor. She’s probably dancing in Vegas.” Flip. But I could hear question marks in her voice.

Slidell withdrew a clear plastic vial from his jacket pocket. Handed it to me. “We need your spit,” he said to Lonergan.

“No way.”

“The procedure is painless.” I pulled the swab from the vial and showed it to her. “I’ll just run this over the inside of your cheek. That’s it.”

Lonergan swung the armrest leg down to meet the floor leg, drew both in, and sat forward, arms wrapping her knees, head wagging from side to side.

Slidell drilled her with one of his tough-cop looks. Wasted effort, since she was staring at the floor.

“This is a trick to prove I’m using.” Gaze still on her boots. Which had heels higher than the wheels on my car.

“Don’t need no swab to see that.” Slidell’s tone said he was out of patience.

“I’ll puke.”

Slidell spoke to me. “The witness says she don’t feel good. I should take a spin around the premises, see if there’s something might be making her sick.” He pushed to his feet.

When Lonergan’s head snapped up, the cartilage in her throat stood out like rings on a Slinky. “No.”

We waited.

“Why are you doing this?” The skittish eyes bounced around the room and settled on me, a less threatening foe.

“We need your DNA on file,” I said gently.

“In case Colleen—”

“It takes only a second.” I pulled on surgical gloves and stepped closer. I expected Lonergan to turn away. To clamp her jaw. Perhaps to spit at me. Instead, she opened her mouth, revealing teeth so rotten that I wondered how she could chew.

I scraped her cheek, sealed the swab in the tube, and marked it with a Sharpie. Slidell took the specimen without comment. Then he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Looking at Lonergan, I felt a bubble of pity rise in my chest. The woman had nothing. Her sister was dead. Her niece was missing, probably dead. She had no present. No future. Only enslavement to a habit that would inevitably take her life.

“I know you care about Colleen,” I said softly.

Lonergan’s snort was meant to show apathy. What I heard was guilt and self-loathing.

“You did the best you could, Laura.”

“I didn’t do shit.”

“You haven’t given up.”

“Yay, me. I leave the porch light on.”

“You didn’t let it drop.” Desperate to find something comforting to say. “You reached out to check on your niece’s case.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“According to Colleen’s file, you phoned last August to ask for an update.”

Lonergan looked at me in genuine confusion. “Phoned who?”

“Pat Tasat.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Do you know a woman named Sarah Merikoski?”

One bony shoulder rose, dropped. “Maybe.”

“She reported your niece missing. Tasat was the detective looking into it.”

“Lady, I’m not sure of much. But one thing you can take to the bank: I’ve never dimed a cop in my life.”

Was the meth speaking? Had Tasat gotten it wrong? Or had he missed something?

“Does Colleen have more than one aunt?” I asked.

“If the kid had options would she have stayed in this dump?” Sweeping a skeletal arm to take in the room.

A buzz rippled my nerves.

My eyes shifted to Slidell.

He was listening.