“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.”