Leighton Siler asked question after question, face knotty, clearly frustrated. Got nothing. Didn’t matter. Eventually, Siler or some hungrier or craftier rival would reveal details of the investigation in braying headlines.

I phoned Heatherhill several times, never reached Mama. Left messages knowing she wouldn’t call back. When the demons stir, my mother distrusts all forms of communication. Calls, texts, and emails stop.

Luna Finch said Mama was listless, sleeping more than usual. And that she’d contacted Cécile Gosselin.

I hung up, breath coming in wobbly heaves. Mama had summoned Goose to her side.

Wednesday morning Ajax made a mistake.

To my amazement, Slidell came by the annex to share the news. It was just past nine. He looked haggard and smelled of coffee and too much drugstore cologne.

“The dumb shit drove right up to a school.”

“When?”

“Seven-twenty this morning.”

“Where is he now?”

“In a cage at HQ.”

“What’s his story?”

“He was dropping off food for a Christmas campaign for the poor. Says he drives by the school every day, noticed their thermometer thingy wasn’t indicating a whole lot of donations. Wanted to give them canned peas and pasta.”

“Is that true?”

“Don’t matter. A pedo can’t go within a thousand feet of a school.”

“A thousand feet?”

“Whatever.”

“The restriction doesn’t apply if Ajax is no longer required to register.”

“We’re checking that out.”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Must be a glitch out in cyberspace.”

“When did you—”

“Jesus Christ and the freakin’ Mousketeers. The guy raped a kid. He pulled into a school yard.”

“Would you like coffee?” A kick in the nuts?

“I got a warrant coming.”

“Allowing you to do what?”

“Toss Ajax’s house.”

“You’re going there now?”

Slidell nodded. “I want to be done and gone before Ajax’s lawyer finds out. Same goes for Siler and his bloodsucking cronies.”

“How long does that give you?”

“We got full radio silence on this. Still, not long.”

“Where does he live?”

Slidell held up a small page with ripped and twisted tabs running along one edge. An address was scrawled sideways across the blue lines.

“You got us to this turd,” he said. “Figure I owe you.”

Larabee called as I was brushing my teeth. A kid had found a trash bag full of bones in the northern part of the county. Nothing urgent, but he wanted me to examine them.

Then it was Harry. That was a long one.

I was pulling on jeans when Rodas took a turn. The toxicology report had come back on Pomerleau. She had neither drugs nor alcohol in her system at the time of death. I told Rodas about Ajax’s trip to the school. About the search warrant.

Ninety minutes after Slidell’s departure, I finally broke free.

Ajax lived in the southeastern slice of the Queen City pie, close to Charlotte Country Day School, Carmel Country Club, Olde Providence Racquet Club. Big homes, big yards. Golf and pinot on the links. Lacrosse and Milton at school. Land of the nouveaux and not so nouveaux riches.

Slidell’s scrawled note led me to Sharon View Road, a narrow twolaner with old-growth trees lining both shoulders. Sunrise Court was a small spur shooting from the south side.

The block held ten residences, all the creation of a single developer enthralled with timber and stone. Entrance was through a faux wrought-iron gate decorated with a plastic wreath. I keyed in the code Slidell had provided, and drove through. No big pines or live oaks here. The scraggly saplings suggested fairly recent planting. Or a paltry landscaping budget at the time of construction.

Ajax’s house was at the far end, above the others on a slight rise. Like its neighbors, upmarket but not over-the-top. Unlike its neighbors, devoid of Santas, reindeer, icicles, or elves.

Ajax’s lawn was neat, the shrubbery basic. Hollies. Boxwoods. Nothing requiring attention.

Slidell’s Taurus headed a line of vehicles circling the cul-de-sac curb. Two cruisers. A CSS truck. An unmarked SUV. Skinny wasn’t messing around.

I added my Mazda to the assemblage and got out. Walking up the drive, I noticed movement in the front window of the house to my left. A silhouette stood with arms crossed, eyes pointed in my direction. Though a reflection off the glass obscured the face, body form suggested the curious neighbor was male.

I hurried up stone steps to a darkly stained door. Tried the handle and found it unlocked.

The foyer had a slate floor, oil-rubbed bronze sconces, and a matching bronze fixture overhead. To the left, a powder room. Straight ahead were living and dining rooms. In each was a CSS tech in white Tyvek coveralls. One was taking pictures. The other was dusting dark powder onto a door frame.

Voices came from somewhere in back and to the left. Loud. Unhappy.

A mound of disposable Tyvek shoe covers lay on the slate. I slipped on a pair and moved forward.

The house’s interior looked like an attempt to re-create an old black-and-white photo. The upholstery, rugs, and walls were all variations on gray. Fog. Ash. Sweatshirt. Steel. Chartreuse accessories added splashes of color. Throw pillows. A mirror frame. A chair. DVDs crammed built-ins beside a fieldstone fireplace. A small flat-screen TV hung above.

In the dining room, a dove-gray drum chandelier dangled over a table set with chartreuse place mats. In the middle, candles that had never been burned. A chartreuse ceramic bowl sat perfectly centered on a sideboard. A painting of bright green poppies decorated a wall.

I wondered if Ajax or the builder had chosen the decor. Suspected the latter. The place had a cold, impersonal feel. As though the furnishings had been purchased at Rooms To Go and Pottery Barn, then placed exactly as displayed in a magazine spread.

I nodded to the techs as I wound my way toward the kitchen. They nodded back.

Slidell was on one side of a brown-granite-topped island. Tinker was on the other. Both wore shoe covers and latex gloves.

“—couldn’t like him or not like him. They don’t know him. The woman next door thought he worked at an Apple store.” Tinker looked red-faced and cross.

“Track down the ones you missed.” Slidell looked crosser.

“I’ll get the same story.”

“You’re the one pushed for this.”

“You don’t think Ajax is dirty?”

“I’m not saying that,” Slidell snapped.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying if Salter learns about the stall on Oklahoma, it’s my balls on a rusty hook, not yours. Not to mention blocking Ajax from his lawyer right now.”

“Or is it that those balls are already gone? Once burned, twi—”

“Get the fuck out there and bring me something!”

Tinker started to reply, heard my plastic-bottomed footies slapping the tile. Mouth tightening into an inverted U, he spun and stomped off.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“We’ve been through the whole friggin’ place. So far, nothing. No porn. No girls’ clothing. No key, no ring, no ballet slippers. No boarded windows, no padlocked doors. Nothing to suggest a kid was ever in here.”

“Prints?”

“One set, which, you can bet your ass, will come back to Ajax. Same for hairs, fibers. Either he’s the tidiest fucker on the planet or the most careful.”

“Have the techs checked the vacuum cleaner?”

“Bagged the contents.”

“The trash?”

Slidell just looked at me.

“Did they get anything that might yield DNA?”

“Toothbrush. But Ajax ain’t on file.”

“We can compare it to DNA from the lip print on Leal’s jacket.”

“Right.”

“Did you find a computer?”

A moment of hesitation. Then, “No.”

“A charger for a laptop?”

“No.”

“A modem? A router?”

Tight shake of the head.

“He could have gone online elsewhere. Maybe at the hospital.”