Ryan reached up and killed the light.
Above the whine of insects and the gentle ticking of wind-tossed leaves, I heard him turn away from me.
Back at Villas Katerina, my iPhone picked up a signal, and messages pinged in.
Slidell had called three times.
Of the past forty-eight hours, I’d slept maybe two. Nevertheless, I phoned him. As was his style, Slidell launched in without greeting. “Where the hell are you?”
“Costa Rica.”
“Long way to go for a taco.”
“I’m talking to Ryan.” No point in discussing distinctions of ethnic cuisine.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s not.”
“Just tell the bastard to get his ass home.”
“Never thought of that. Why did you phone?”
“When Barrow got the call from Rodas, he set up a cold case review on Nance.”
I knew that.
“First thing he did was resubmit the kid’s clothing and the shit stuck to her hand.”
“Thinking technology has improved since ’09?” I stifled a yawn.
“Yeah. And go figure. It has.”
Suddenly I was wide awake. “The lab found DNA that didn’t belong to Nance?”
“Guess the happy donor.”
“Pomerleau.”
“None other.”
“Holy crap.”
The speed of the report didn’t surprise me. The CMPD has its own DNA capability, and turnaround averages two weeks. What shocked me was the fact that the link was now real. Undeniable. Anique Pomerleau had abducted and killed a child in my town.
“What about Shelly Leal?”
“Still out of pocket. But we might have caught a break there. Kid had her own laptop. I had the computer guys take a run at it. The thing was wiped.”
“When?”
“Around three on Friday afternoon.”
“Right before she disappeared.”
“Eeyuh.”
“What was erased?”
“The browser history and the email. Clean. Not one friggin’ message. Not one friggin’ page.”
“Isn’t there an option to clear the history at specified intervals? Or every time you log off?”
“The guy said that’s what clued him. When he checked, the browser wasn’t set to do that. So he did whatever voodoo it is they do, found that someone had manually deleted the stuff. Emptied whatever it is archives your email on Mars.”
“Anything else?”
“Photos, music, documents, those files are all there. Hadn’t been touched since Friday morning. The only thing nuked was the online stuff.”
“Unlikely a middle-schooler would know how to do that.”
“Mom said the kid wasn’t a techie.”
“Clearly, she was coached.”
“Eeyuh.”
“You’re thinking she met Pomerleau online?”
“I’m thinking I’m damn sure gonna find out.”
“Can your guy retrieve any of the deleted files?”
“He’s working on it, no promises.”
“Did you roll this past Rodas?”
“The kid in Vermont didn’t own a computer.”
“Mobile phones? Other devices?”
“Gower didn’t own a cell. Leal did, but the thing’s missing. And the record search turned up shit.”
“How about Nance?”
“That’s why I called. You see any mention of a phone in the CCU file?”
“I’ll check as soon as I get back.”
“When’s that?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Good. I want this bitch in bracelets before she drops another kid.”
After disconnecting, I rewound my conversation with Ryan. Felt anger and resentment at his refusal to help. Then I thought beyond tonight back into the past.
Ryan was one of the good ones. He’d had a few rough years, made a few false starts. But since his rocky youth, he’d done everything right. Played it straight as a cop. Tried hard as a father.
Sure, his loss was unthinkable. But the time for wallowing was over.
I had an idea. Was it callous?
Nope. Enough self-pity.
Decision made, I dug out my Mac, logged on, and went to the US Airways site. When finished, I sat a moment, attempting to calm my frazzled nerves.
Outside, late-night swimmers splashed in the pool. High in the palms, a howler monkey grunt-barked an end-of-day message. Another answered. A small creature, perhaps a gecko, skittered across my window screen.
My thoughts turned to a river cabin shaded by trees soft with moss.
On a whim, I dialed Mama. Got voicemail. I left a rambling message about Samara and fresh seafood and beaches and meeting with Ryan. Said good night. Told her I loved her.
In the moments before sleep came, memories of Ryan again bombarded my mind. His body shielding mine during a biker shoot-out in a Montreal cemetery. Stretched out on a beach in Honolulu. Lying beside me in a hammock in Guatemala.
I dreamed about a cellar beside a rail yard covered in snow.
CHAPTER 7
BY SIX, I was chugging along the beach road again.
The sky was thinning from black to gray. The ocean had calmed overnight. Its surface was rippling yellow-pink in a triangle announcing the return of el sol.
A few vendors were already setting out their wares. Gulls were throwing a party out on the beach. The occasional car or motorcycle passed, now and then a battered pickup. Mostly, I had the pavement to myself.
Ryan was downstairs in one of the blue kitchen chairs, dressed in the same T-shirt and shorts he’d worn the night before. He glanced up when I opened the screen door, then continued spooning Cheerios into his mouth. His face registered nothing.
“Why Costa Rica?” I asked.
“Birds.”
“Over eight hundred species,” I said.
“Eight hundred and ninety-four.”
“Charlie would feel right at home.” I was referring to the pet cockatiel we shared.
“Charlie’s peeps come from down under. Hungry?”
As I settled into the other chair, Ryan retrieved a bowl and spoon from the counter behind us. His face was sallow and baggy-eyed. His sweat smelled of booze. I wondered if he’d finished the entire bottle of Scotch.
I poured myself cereal. Added milk, tamping the urge to check the expiration date.
“There are half a million animal species in this country.” Ryan spoke without looking at me.
“Three hundred thousand of those are insects.”
“Bugs gotta live.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Find every one.”
“How’s that going?”
“Place has something else in its favor.”
I floated a brow. Focused on his O’s, Ryan missed it.
“Thousands of miles between here and Quebec.”
“That’s it? Distance and fauna?”
“Booze is cheap.” Ryan pointed his spoon at me. “And Cheerios can be had by the savvy consumer.”
“This isn’t you, Ryan.”
He feigned looking over his shoulder. “Who is it?”
“I can’t imagine losing a child, and I don’t presume to understand your pain. But wallowing in self-pity, numbing yourself with alcohol, turning your back on life? That’s not you.”
“I thought about keeping a journal.” Spoken with a full mouth. “Like Darwin in the Galápagos.”
“What happened?”
“Can’t draw.”
“I mean what happened to you.”
Ryan’s spoon rattled as it hit the empty bowl. He snagged a pack of cigarettes from the table, tapped one out, drew matches from the cellophane, and lit up. One drag, then his eyes finally met mine. “You found me. Let’s hoist you on our shoulders and march you around the room.”
“Grow a pair, Ryan. Come with me. Do what you do. What we’ve done together for almost two decades. We catch the bad guys. We take freaks like Pomerleau off the streets.”
“Go back and tell your buddies I’m not the guy you need.”
I accessed the flight itinerary and slid my iPhone to him. Ryan studied the screen. “Who paid for this?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“No way the CMPD’s footing the bill to fly me stateside.”
“Do you have your passport?”
Ryan drew smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled through his nose.
“They want you there,” I said.
“Hope for your sake the fare is refundable.”