Bones Never Lie (22 page)

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.

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.