“Bike hater, dog lover.”

“You’ve got it. The calls thinned, stopped within a month.”

“There was the scandal, then the lead detective retired. Hull ultimately inherited the file,” I said.

“The final call came from a reporter at the Salisbury Post. She phoned six months after Estrada disappeared.”

“And that was it.”

Ryan set down his bowl and spoon. Patted his chest. Remembered where he was and dropped his hands.

“It’s okay to smoke.” It wasn’t. I hate the smell of cigarettes in my house.

“Uh-huh.” A corner of his mouth twisted up ever so slightly. A few moments passed before Ryan spoke again. “It wasn’t that the cops didn’t want to solve these cases. They had nothing to go with. There was no ex-con working at a kid’s home, no psycho teacher, no parent with a history of violence. The vics were too young to have angry boyfriends. Donovan was high-risk, but not the others.”

“And Donovan and Estrada weren’t the type the media bothers to cover.” I couldn’t help but sound bitter.

“When the bodies turned up, there were no witnesses or forensics.”

“Nothing to suggest a suspect.”

“Until Rodas got a DNA hit.”

I flashed on a dark figure darting through flames with a five-gallon can in her hands. The memory brought with it the smell of kerosene and my own burning hair. The terror of waking in a house that was burning down around me. Anger grabbed me like a muscle cramp. “Pomerleau despises me,” I said.

“She hates us both.”

“It’s because of me that she’s here.” I knew it was melodramatic, said it anyway. “I let her escape. She wants to remind me, to taunt me.”

“We all let her escape.”

“It’s because we failed that children are dead. That another may die soon.”

Two stormy blue eyes locked on to mine. “This time the moth has flown too close to the flame.”

“She. Will. Burn.”

Silly, but we smacked a high five.

The next morning our confidence was blown to hell.

CHAPTER 14

MY BEDROOM WINDOW overlooks the patio. When I opened the shutters the next morning, I saw Ryan below on one of the wrought-iron benches. He was sitting forward, elbows on knees. I figured he was smoking. As I watched, Ryan’s head dropped, and his shoulders began rising and falling in jagged little hops.

I felt my insides sucked out. I also felt like a voyeur, and quickly withdrew.

After a hasty morning toilette, I dressed and hurried down to the kitchen.

Coffee was perking. Birdie was eating. The TV was running with the sound on mute.

I glanced at the screen. An anchor with flawless hair and unnaturally white teeth was talking beside footage of a jackknifed truck, projecting a well-rehearsed mix of shock and concern.

I was eating yogurt and granola when the back door opened. I looked up from the morning’s Observer. Ryan seemed composed, though a red puffiness in the eyes gave him away.

“Good brew.” I raised my mug.

Ryan joined me at the table.

“You saw?” I displayed the headline. Below the fold, but still front-page. No Arrest in Shelly Leal Murder.

“Slidell will be livid,” Ryan said.

“The article makes it sound like Tinker and the SBI are driving the train.”

“Do you know this”—Ryan squinted to read the byline—“Leighton Siler?”

“No. He must be new on the crime beat.” I cocked my chin toward Miss Hair and Dentition. “Any TV coverage?”

“Daisy would disapprove of the vulgarity.”

Great. A camera had caught me flipping the bird while leaving the MCME.

“Have at the files some more today?” I asked.

Ryan nodded. “There’s nothing obvious linking these kids. No common medical providers, libraries, classes, hobbies, summer camps, pageants, teachers, pastors, priests, pet stores, allergies, or rashes. We’re still batting zero with online info for Nance and Leal. I’m going to focus on minutiae, see if there’s any detail that might have been overlooked or underappreciated. There’s got to be something connecting one vic to another.”

Ryan once described to me what he called the “big bang break”: the one clue or insight that suddenly sets an investigation barreling in the right direction. That one synapsey moment when realization explodes and the search hurtles forward on the right trajectory. Ryan believed at least one big bang lurked in every case. And despite his personal pain, he was determined to find one for the “poor little lambs.” His commitment buoyed my spirits.

I was rinsing my bowl and mug when the phone rang. Larabee was calling to remind me of a meeting that morning. A prosecutor was coming to the MCME to review our findings for an upcoming deposition. Larabee was on at eight, I was on at nine.

The case involved the death of an L.A. actor who’d flown to Charlotte to play the part of a rabbit in a feature film. After two days of shooting, the man had failed to reappear on-set. He was found four weeks later in a culvert by the tracks in Chantilly. His sometime boyfriend had been arrested and charged with murder one.

As Larabee and I wrapped up, Ryan caught my eye and pointed upstairs. I nodded, distracted. And annoyed. Wet-nursing a lawyer was not in my plan for the day.

Ten minutes later, Ryan returned, hair wet and slicked back below the Costa Rican cap. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved polo over a long-sleeved tee.

We talked little in the car. Which, thanks to my passenger, smelled of my pricey Egyptian musk black soap.

I dropped Ryan at the LEC and continued on to the MCME. I was reviewing my file on Mr. Bunny when Larabee came through my door. “How was your weekend?” he asked.

“Good. Yours?”

“Can’t complain. I hear Ryan’s hanging in.”

“Mmm.” I wondered who’d told him. Figured it was Slidell.

“You’ll never guess what was waiting on my voicemail this morning.” Larabee loved making me predict what he had to say. I found the game tiresome.

“A giant sea slug.”

“Hilarious.”

“And she’s playing here all week.”

“Marty Parent called.”

It took a moment for the name to register. “The new DNA analyst at the CMPD lab.”

“She’s a go-getter. And an early riser. Left a message at 7:04, asking that I call her back.”

I waited him out.

“Which I will do as soon as I’m done with Vinny Gambini in there.” Tipping his head toward the small conference room.

“Who is it?”

“Connie Rossi.”

Constantin Rossi had been with the DA’s office for as long as I could recall. He was shrewd and organized and didn’t waste your time. Or try to push you beyond conclusions allowed by the facts.

“Rossi’s okay,” I said.

“He is.”

I was finished at eleven and went in search of Larabee. Found him in autopsy room one, slicing a brain.

“What did Parent say?” I asked.

Larabee looked at me, knife in one hand, apron and gloves speckled with blood. “I’m not sure if it’s good news or bad.” Spoken through three-ply paper hooked over his ears.

I wiggled my fingers in a “Give it to me” gesture.

Larabee laid down the knife and lowered the mask. “Parent spent all weekend analyzing the smear on Leal’s jacket.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She’s divorced, and her kid was away with the ex.”

“Still.”

“The kid’s a daughter. Ten years old.”

“Right.” When Katy was younger, I’d have done the same if a maniac had been targeting girls her age.

“You nailed it. What the ALS picked up was a lip print. Our swab contained beeswax, sunflower oil, coconut oil, soybean oil—”

“Lip balm.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Saliva?” I felt my pulse kick up slightly.

Larabee smiled the answer.

“Holy shit. Tell me she got DNA.”

“She got DNA.”

“Yes!” I actually did that pump-action thing with one arm.