Harry called at four. Should she send Mama flowers? Should she come for a visit? For now, I endorsed FTD.

A cup of Earl Grey, then back to the file.

Still my subconscious tickled. What? A photo? Something I’d read? Something Ring had said? Hull?

At five I gave up.

Out of ideas but unable to rest, I got online and called up a map of Charlotte. After locating the intersection of North Caswell and Fifth Street, I switched to satellite view and zoomed in.

I spotted the pay phone. Beside it was a parking lot filled with vehicles. Below that a sprawling brick structure.

I activated the label function. A purple bubble appeared. I clicked on it. Saw the words “CMC—Mercy.”

Carolinas Medical Center—Mercy Hospital.

Something flickered in my lower centers. Was gone.

I stared at the screen, willing the pesky spark to burst through.

It did. With a high-voltage jolt.

Lizzie Nance had been researching ER nursing for a school project. They’d found the report on her laptop after she died.

Shelly Leal had gone to an ER for dysmenorrhea.

Colleen Donovan had been transported to an ER after falling and hitting her head.

A caller using fake identities had dialed from a pay phone across from a hospital. To check on Estrada. To check on Donovan.

As I thought about it, I could feel my blood pumping faster.

I grabbed the phone. Had to key the digits twice. “Come on. Come on.”

“Yo.” Slidell was chewing on something.

My words came out at breakneck speed. In finishing, “You need to call Shelly Leal’s mother. Ask what hospital they took her to. Then find out where Donovan was treated.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Gruff.

The wait seemed endless. In fact, it was under an hour.

“CMC—Mercy,” Slidell said.

“Sonofabitch,” I said. “That’s where the victims were chosen.”

“I’ll get a list of employees.”

“Without a warrant?”

“I’ll persuade them.”

“How?”

“Personal charm. If that don’t work, I’ll threaten to dime the Observer.”

Slidell had the roster by ten. “You got any idea how many people work at a hospital?”

“Now what?” I asked.

“I’m running the names against those I got from the DMV on the license plate ID. Special Asshole’s gonna start sending ’em through the system.”

“Doesn’t every hospital employee undergo a background check?”

“Yeah. That stops the bad guys.”

“Focus on those with an ER connection.”

We hung up.

While waiting to hear back from Slidell, I tried Ryan again. This time he answered.

He was as pumped as I was. Congratulated me. “Not much dropping here,” he said.

“Have you found Tawny McGee’s psychologist?”

“Yeah. Pamela Lindahl. She’s actually a social services psychiatrist.”

“Is she still affiliated with the General?”

“Yes. But she sucks at returning calls. I’ll keep on it. But I doubt finding McGee will lead anywhere.”

I couldn’t disagree. And wondered if opening the wound was worth the cost. “What about Rodas?” I asked.

“He called in some chits with the press. Had Pomerleau’s face published statewide, along with a description and a plea to the public for pics or video taken between 2004 and 2009 in which she might be seen in the background. You know, photo bombing at a store, a gas station, a parking lot.”

“If she’s with a guy, it could put a face to her playmate.”

“Exactly. It’s unlikely, but you never know. He’s also got people canvassing door-to-door in Hardwick and St. Johnsbury.”

I asked Ryan if he was planning to return to Charlotte. He said soon.

There was an awkward pause. Or I imagined one. Then we disconnected.

Knowing I wouldn’t sleep, I made tea and returned to the Nance file.

Gran’s clock ticked softly from its place on the mantel.

As expected, I found nothing further.

At midnight I switched to the reports awaiting my attention. My mind kept drifting. I speculated. Pomerleau’s accomplice was an EMT. A nurse. A security guard.

The hours dragged by at glacial speed.

Slidell finally called at two A.M.

He had learned three things.

CHAPTER 29

“LEAL WENT TO Mercy.”

“When?”

“Sometime last summer. The mother thinks late July.”

“Does she know who treated her daughter?”

“No.”

“The ER will have a record of the visit.”

“Really?”

“They’ll probably insist on a subpoena.”

“You want to hear this?”

Easy. You’re both tired.

“The good news is the place has security cameras up the wazoo. The bad news, they got storage issues. Only keep tapes ninety days.”

“You need to requisition the most recent set.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

There was a censorious pause. Then I heard pages flip, knew the spiral was being thumbed.

“Got a possible hit from my DMV list.”

Slidell delivered it so flatly I thought I’d misunderstood. I waited for him to clarify.

“Hamet Ajax. Drives a 2009 Hyundai Sonata. Dark blue. First two digits match the tag spotted by the genius on Morningside.”

“The witness who saw Leal outside the convenience store?”

“Maybe saw her.”

“How did you narrow in on Ajax?”

“Jesus, I already told you. I cross-checked the names from the DMV against the hospital employee list.”

Easy, Brennan.

“So Ajax works at Mercy?”

“Since 2009.”

“Doing what?”

“Part-time ER doc.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did.”

“And now?”

“I do some digging.”

“On Ajax.”

“No. On the guy served my steak too rare last night.”

Deep breath. “Let me know what you learn.”

It took me a long time to drift off after that, and I slept fitfully, floating in and out of dreams starring Mama. On waking, I retained nothing but a sense of her presence and a potpourri of disjointed images.

Hands braiding long blond hair. A delicate brass bell on a bedside table. A glossy white vase with shamrocks curling its rim. Tears. The word “Belleek” coming from trembling lips.

I got out of bed feeling anxious. Useless.

I was pouring my second coffee when the phone rang.

Reflex. Time check: 7:40.

Slidell sounded drained, I guessed from working all night. He wasted no time on sarcasm or his version of wit. “Ajax is a pedophile.”

The word drove an icicle straight into my heart.

“Did a nickel in Oklahoma for molesting a kid.”

“Now what?”

“Now I invite the slimeball in for a chat.”

“I want to observe.”

“ ’Course you do.”

The interview was supposed to take place at three that afternoon. Turned out Slidell hadn’t been able to wait. When I got to the LEC, he and Ajax were already in an interview room. I walked past it to the adjacent one.

Barrow and a handful of CMPD detectives stood watching a monitor to which Ajax’s image was being transmitted. They looked up when I entered, expressions empty, expecting little, or unimpressed with what they were seeing. Barrow nodded and stepped to his left. The others shifted right. I moved into the space created for me.

Ajax took up most of the screen. He was a tall bony man in a suit made for a tall muscular man. His hair was black, his skin surprisingly pale. Tortoiseshell glasses magnified eyes already too large in a face overcommitted to nose. I thought he might be Middle Eastern, perhaps Indian or Pakistani.

He sat at a metal table, hands motionless on the simulated wood top. Behind him, the wall was mauve above waist level, white cinder block below. The floor-bolted cuffs had not been clamped on his ankles.

Slidell was opposite, one shoulder and a bit of greasy scalp visible on-screen. An unopened folder lay on his side of the table.