Deputy Chief Denise Salter kept her eyes level on mine. They were brown, darker than her caramel skin, lighter than the black hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her shirt was eye-scorching white, the creases on its long sleeves sharp enough to perform microsurgery. Black tie, black pants, black patent-leather shoes gleaming like marble.

Salter had rescheduled another meeting to make time for us. She was listening, her expression neither kind nor unkind.

“Over the same seven-year period, at least two others girls have disappeared in North Carolina. Avery Koseluk from Kannapolis in 2011. Colleen Donovan from Charlotte in late 2013 or early 2014.”

Barrow placed five photos on the desk facing Salter. She slipped reading glasses onto her nose and scanned the lineup. Then looked pointedly at me.

I went on, “Koseluk was thought to be a noncustodial-parent abduction, Donovan a runaway. Both remain open MP files.”

“Cut to the chase.” Behind the lenses, Salter’s eyes looked E.T. huge.

“Identical DNA was found on Gower and Nance.”

Barrow added the age-progressed pic of Pomerleau to the blotter. Salter picked it up and studied the face. “Hers?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get the hit?”

“The NDDB, the Canadian equivalent of CODIS.”

If that surprised Salter, she hid it well.

“Who is she?”

“A Canadian national named Anique Pomerleau. She and an accomplice, Neal Wesley Catts, aka Stephen Menard, are wanted for the deaths of at least three individuals. Their MO was to imprison, torture, and rape young women. Angela Robinson, Menard’s first victim, was kidnapped in Corning, California, in 1985. Marie-Joëlle Bastien and Manon Violette were taken in Montreal in 1994. All three died in captivity.”

“You know this because?”

“I identified their remains.”

“Go on.”

“In 2004, Pomerleau slipped the net just as the Montreal cops closed in. She’s been in the wind ever since. Until now.”

“And Menard?”

“She either killed him or he killed himself just before she disappeared.”

“You think Pomerleau is now murdering kids on my turf?”

“No.”

Salter’s brows floated up in question.

“Two days ago I assisted at Pomerleau’s autopsy.”

I summarized my trip to Montreal and St. Johnsbury. Ryan. The interviews with the Kezerians, Sabine Pomerleau, the Violettes.

I described the Corneau property, the barrel, the autopsy. The furnace mechanic who’d seen a second person present at the farm.

“You think Pomerleau and an accomplice killed Nellie Gower. Then, a year and a half later, the pair came here and killed Lizzie Nance.”

“We do.”

Barrow and I exchanged glances. He nodded. “And we believe there were others,” I added.

A flick of Salter’s wrist told me to continue.

“A skeleton was discovered in Belmont in 2010. I determined that the bones were those of a twelve- to fourteen-year-old female, probably fully clothed when her body was dumped.”

“Probably?”

“The remains had been scavenged by animals.”

Salter tossed her glasses to the blotter and leaned back into her chair.

“During Shelly Leal’s autopsy, Larabee pulled hair from her throat,” I said.

“The child just discovered under the I-485 overpass.”

I nodded. “DNA sequencing says at least one of those hairs came from Anique Pomerleau.”

“That’s big.”

“But puzzling. Circumstantial evidence suggests Pomerleau died in 2009.”

“Explanation?”

“The hairs could have transferred from Pomerleau to her accomplice,” Barrow said. “Maybe via a shared article of clothing. Or his ritual could include wearing something Pomerleau wore.”

“Larabee also found a lip print on Leal’s jacket,” I said. “It contained DNA. Amelogenin testing indicated the DNA came from a male.”

“I’m guessing lip boy is not in the system.”

“No.”

Silence filled the room for a very long moment. Salter broke it. “Let me get this straight. Pomerleau and a male accomplice operated out of a farm in Vermont until 2009.”

“Yes.”

“Was anything found to suggest kids were held there? A soundproof room? Handcuffs bolted to a wall?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh.” Neutral. “This mysterious accomplice eventually kills Pomerleau and stashes her body in a barrel of syrup.”

“Yes.”

“Motive?”

“We have none.”

“He then moves south. Does Nance, Estrada, maybe Koseluk, Donovan, and the kid found near Belmont. Now Leal.”

“Yes.”

“Why shift his blood sport here?”

I described the Health Science article. The picture of me clipped and saved at the Corneau farm.

“You’re saying the perp’s in my town because of you.”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“Why?”

“Revenge? Taunting? Who knows?”

Salter’s phone rang. She ignored it.

“Explain the dates again,” Barrow said to me.

I did, leaving out Mama’s role in spotting the pattern.

“So victims are taken on the anniversaries of abductions in Montreal.” Statement, not question, Salter wanting affirmation.

“That’s the idea,” I said. “Possibly on the dates they died.”

“And Pomerleau’s accomplice continues the game even though he’s taken her out.”

“So it appears.”

“And the intervals are decreasing.”

“Yes,” Barrow said. “And another anniversary comes up in two months.”

I could hear my own breathing in the silence that followed. Salter’s folded glasses tapping the desktop. Finally, when I thought she was about to blow us off, “Slidell’s working Leal, right?”

“Yes,” Barrow confirmed.

“Anyone else assigned to this?” She swept a hand over the photos.

“Ex-officio, a detective from Montreal, another from Hardwick, Vermont.”

“I’ve seen Beau Tinker in the halls. The SBI here at your invitation?”

“Not exactly.”

Another beat. Then Salter pocketed the glasses. “Write it up. Everything you’ve got.”

CHAPTER 27

THE WEATHER HAD turned colder while I was in the LEC. Not enough to make me hate it. But enough to make me think about getting out gloves I’d stashed in a closet last March.

Birdie showed more interest in the contents of my Roasting Company bag than in my return. I filled his bowl, clicked on CNN, and settled at the kitchen table.

The Situation Room had closed for the night. A Democrat was bickering with a Republican about health care and immigration reform. Irritating. I want news at the end of the day, not a bout of extreme verbal sparring.

I turned off the set. Tossed down the remote.

Birdie jumped onto the chair beside me, preferring warm chicken to the hard brown pellets I’d served up. Couldn’t blame him.

As I ate, Tasat’s note filled my thoughts.

“Lonergan didn’t make that call,” I said through a mouthful of succotash.

Birdie cocked his head. Listening, or hopeful for poultry.

“So who did?”

The cat rendered no opinion.

“A relative? A friend? Supposedly, Donovan had none.”

I placed a sliver of drumstick on the table. Bird tested it with one in-curled paw, then seized it delicately with his front teeth.

“Donovan’s killer, that’s who. It’s classic felon behavior. Like returning to a crime scene.”

Bird and I looked at each other, thoughts definitely not on the same page.

My mobile rang.

“Your flight went well?” Ryan sounded as exhausted as I felt.

“I can’t remember that far back.”

“I’m beat, too.”

“Any progress?” I offered Bird another scrap of fowl. He repeated his pat-and-snatch maneuver.

“None. Where are you?”

“Home. I spent the day with Slidell.”

“And?”

“He often addressed me in an ill-mannered fashion.”

“Any breaks?”

“Maybe.”

I described the visit with Lonergan and the meeting with Salter. Explained Tasat’s notation and Lonergan’s denial about making the call. “Slidell’s convinced there’s nothing to it.”