Bones Never Lie

CHAPTER 40

SAME DRILL.

I called Slidell. Got rolled to voicemail. Swore. Left a message that I hoped would goose his ass.

I called Ryan. Actually got him. Explained my theory. Asked him to check the evidence log from the house on de Sébastopol. To confirm.

Then I waited. Paced. Was my epiphany due to frustration? To the power of suggestion? A groundless leap triggered by a rabbit-hole quip?

No. I felt it in my soul.

When my cell finally rang, my whole body flinched. “Where the hell are you?” I barked.

A long moment.

“My cruiser.” Low and husky.

My agitated brain took a moment to process. Hen Hull. The investigator on the Estrada case.

“Sorry. I was expecting someone else.”

“I don’t envy the dude.”

I was too pumped to conjure a witty reply.

“Took some doing, but I finally located Maria Estrada,” Hull said. “Tia’s mother. She’s in Juárez and has no phone. But there’s a cousin living just outside Charlotte, in Rock Hill. I’ve got some free time, so I’m going there now.”

“That’s very generous.”

“The kid got shafted every step of the way. The family deserves the story firsthand.”

“You might want to hold off.”

“Hold off?”

“We’re thinking it wasn’t Ajax.”

“You’re thinking?”

“It wasn’t Ajax. And he didn’t kill himself.”

I gave an edited version of all that had happened. Felt a cold front coming my way from Wadesboro.

“Ajax’s tox results didn’t land on Larabee’s desk until yesterday.” Trying to justify leaving her out of the loop. “And I only talked to McGee’s doctor today.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I should have kept you better informed.”

“Yes.” Pause. “You really believe McGee is capable of this?”

“The therapist didn’t come right out and say it, but she implied that Tawny is very disturbed.”

Like Slidell’s, Hull’s mind went straight to intent. Because homicide demands it. Unlike robbery or fraud, the motive for murder is often unclear.

“Why kill?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Brief pause before Hull spoke again.

“Maybe McGee gets her charge out of dropping Pomerleau again and again.”

“If that’s the fantasy, why pick young girls?” Quick glance at my watch. Ten minutes had crept by since last I checked.

“Or maybe she’s symbolically killing herself. It’s a guilt thing. She survived while Pomerleau’s other victims died.”

Though the same questions had tormented me, at that moment I had no desire to play Freud. I wanted verification. Action.

“Maybe—”

The line beeped to indicate an incoming call. “Hold on.” Without waiting for Hull’s consent, I clicked over. It was neither Ryan nor Slidell.

Any pretense at calm was now abandoned. “Mary Louise never came home. It’s almost eight. Something has to be wrong. Oh my God! You see these things on the news, but oh my God!” Yvonne Marcus was frantic. “I’ve called everyone I can think of. Her teachers. Her friends. No one has seen her since school dismissal at three-thirty. My husband is out looking, but—”

“Mrs. Marcus—”

“What do I do? Shall I call the police?”

“Does Mary Louise ride a bus?”

“No, no. She attends Myers Park Traditional. It’s right up the block, so I allow her to walk.”

Directly past Sharon Hall.

I felt the tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck. Sensed my hand gripping the phone too tightly.

“I’m sure she’s fine.” Controlled. “But just to be safe, phone 911. I’ll also make some calls.”

“Oh my God!”

“It will be all right.”

“I should go out and—”

“No. Stay home. Be there when Mary Louise returns.”

As I reconnected with Hull, a terrible medley of images spewed from my neurons.

A gangly girl who loved fashion and hats.

Movement in the shadows of an enormous magnolia.

A photo of myself measuring a skull.

Why hadn’t I picked up the phone? Why hadn’t I returned the child’s call? How could I have been so selfish?

“McGee may have taken another child.”

“Are you serious?”

“Mary Louise Marcus left school four hours ago on foot. Still hasn’t arrived at her house.”

“The kid got any issues?”

“No.”

“Not likely a runaway?”

“No.”

“She fit the profile?”

“Yes.” Fourteen. Fair. Long brown hair center-parted and braided.

I heard Hull suck in a long breath. Then, “If it is McGee, you think she’s taunting us? Snubbing her nose at authority?”

“I think this time it’s personal.” I swallowed. “And I think I know where she is.”

A light drizzle was falling. I had the wipers on high. Not for the rain. To match the cadence of my heart.

I called Slidell. Rolled to voicemail. Of course.

Screw Slidell.

I called the MP division. Got a guy named Zoeller whom I’d heard was a dolt but didn’t know personally.

“Yep. Yvonne Marcus. Called twenty minutes ago to report her daughter missing.”

“And?”

“Who’d you say this is?”

I explained again.

“The two fought. The kid’s probably catching a flick to teach Mama a lesson.”

“I think this child could be in danger.”

“Aren’t they all.”

“What did you just say?”

Faux-patient sigh. “The kid’s only been out of pocket a few hours. There are regs. We follow every hunch, abuse the system, eventually, it loses its punch.”

“I have an address I want you to check.”

“Sure.” Zoeller could have sounded more bored, but only after a pitcher of tranqs. “I’m outta here, but I’ll pass it on.”

“When can you activate an AMBER Alert?”

“When an abduction is confirmed and adequate descriptive information has been obtained.” Rote.

“And you’re starting the process now.” Glacial.

“Look, it just came through we got a 10-91 with a 10-33.”

A domestic disturbance with an officer down. Shit. Now I’d never get him to help me look for Mary Louise.

“I will call you back.”

“I’ll look forward to that.” Zoeller disconnected.

I tried Barrow.

Salter.

Had the whole damn world gone AWOL?

As I barreled up Queens, my mind whirled in search of benign explanations for Mary Louise’s nonappearance. Found dozens. All bullshit.

I continued through to Providence, cut right onto Laurel, and shot across Randolph. At Vail, I sat paralyzed, palms damp on the wheel. Left or right? Where? Where would she go?

A horn brrped behind me.

Dick that he was, Zoeller was correct on one point. A false tip could divert critical resources and personnel up a blind alley.

The horn again. Longer. Less polite.

Decision.

I turned left, fired north, circled the block, then winged into the drive leading to the Mercy ER.

Four blue and whites sat under the portico, angled like guppies at feeding time. Something looked off. What? The careless parking? No. The cop shooting that Zoeller had mentioned. Of course they’d been abandoned in haste.

An ambulance sat with its back doors open. Two unmarked sedans. Vans from every TV station in town.

Officer down. Dead? The story would be on all channels at eleven, in all morning papers in skyscraper font. But before that, it would appear in cyberspace, attracting every assignment editor not yet clued in. The media would slather all night.

The CMPD would focus on avenging one of its own.

No one would give a rat’s ass about my “hunch.”

I looked around. Slidell’s Taurus was nowhere in sight.

I was on my own.

I slammed the gearshift into park and killed the engine. Sprinted up the walk and through the doors, pulse running faster than my feet.

I expected chaos. EMTs shouting vitals. Doctors bellowing orders. Nurses scurrying for equipment or meds.

Not so. The scene was tense but subdued.

The usual supplicants occupied waiting room chairs. The bleeders, the coughers, the junkies, the drunks.

Uniformed officers stood talking in clumps. Men in dark jackets and loosened ties who I assumed were detectives. I knew none.

A few eyes tracked me as I hurried to the front desk, worried, hard with anger. I spoke to no one. Didn’t interrupt their vigil.

When I posed my question, the woman looked up. Maybe surprised. Maybe annoyed. I couldn’t tell. She wore glasses that covered half her face. Her name tag said T. Santos.

Knowing I had no authority, I flashed my MCME security card. Fast.

Santos bounced a glance off the photo, my features. She was about to speak when a man shuffled over reeking of BO and booze.

“Mr. Harker, you will have to wait your turn.”

Harker coughed into a hankie that was stained and wet with phlegm.

Santos pointed Harker to the waiting room. Looked at me and jammed a thumb over her shoulder.

I hurried in the direction indicated, mind scrambling, eyes scanning. Hoping. Fearing. Could Mary Louise actually be here? Where Alice Hamilton claimed her prey? Outside in the backseat of a car? The trunk?

Please, God. No.

My flesh felt tight on my bones. On my lungs. I worked to keep my breathing even.

As out front, the treatment area was relatively calm. A patient sat in a wheelchair by a wall. A CNA went by with a cart, its rubber wheels humming on the tile. Somewhere out of sight, a phone rang.

Staff passed with X-rays, with trays of specimen tubes, with stethoscopes looped sideways around their necks. All in scrubs. All efficient. All indifferent to my presence.

The only crisis was occurring at a curtained cubicle, third in the right-hand row of curtained cubicles. A CMPD uniform stood guard outside. Sounds filtered through the white polyester: taut voices, the rattle of metal, the rhythmic beeping of a machine.

I felt sorrow for the person behind the partition. A man or woman gunned down while helping a distraught wife or girlfriend, maybe her kids. I said a silent prayer.

But I had to find Mary Louise’s abductor. Or determine that I was wrong.

Feeling like a trespasser, I began parting fabric, searching for a face.

Behind the first curtain lay a child in a Spider-Man suit, forehead stitched and smeared with blood. A woman with mascara-streaked cheeks held tight to his hand.

Behind the second, a bare-chested man breathed oxygen through a clear plastic mask.

When I neared the third cubicle, the guard raised a palm. Behind him, a hastily positioned cart created a wedge-shaped opening into the enclosure.

As I veered left to cross to the other row, I glanced through the wedge.

Saw equipment. Bloody clothing. Masked doctors and nurses.

The patient on his gurney, face gray, lids closed and translucently blue.

I froze in place.