Larabee was off somewhere. I wrote a preliminary report and left it on his desk. It would be up to him to investigate or not.

Slidell phoned late in the afternoon. His mood made the morning’s seem happy-go-lucky.

Salter had gotten two calls before noon. One was from Ajax’s lawyer, Jonathan Rao, accusing the CMPD of denying his client the constitutional right to counsel. The other was from the judge who’d issued the search warrant—Rao had also reamed out Her Honor.

Since neither caller was happy, Salter wasn’t happy. After laying into Slidell, she’d relented and said he could re-interview Ajax. Wearing gloves made of very young goat. The session yielded nothing. The few answers Ajax gave were filtered through Rao. At three, both walked out the door. It was the last time anyone would talk to Hamet Ajax.

Slidell had received video from Walmart and Harris Teeter that covered the day Leal went missing. So far, he hadn’t spotted Ajax or his car. He planned to continue working through the footage.

I got through two reports, knocked off at five. Back home, I ate Bojangles’ chicken with Bird and watched a rerun of Bones. For some reason, the cat is nuts about Hodgins.

Slidell called again at nine. “He’s on tape.”

“Which one?”

“Walmart and the Manor.” Gloomy. Obviously not wanting Ajax to be there.

“LSA for Leal was 4:15 at the convenience store on Morningside.”

“Ajax was in the Walmart on Pineville-Matthews Road. Entered at 3:52. Left at 5:06.”

“Rush hour, and those locations are at least ten miles apart.”

We both gnawed on that.

“Maybe you were right.” Slidell sighed. “Maybe this douchebag don’t work alone.”

Or maybe. Just maybe.

I didn’t say it.

That night, sleep was elusive.

The rain was back. I lay in the dark, listening to drops hit the screen and patter on the sill. To the subtle hum of my bedside clock.

And thought the thought again.

Impossible.

I reviewed what I knew about serial killers. Their victims usually conform to a type. A tall blond woman. A teenage boy with short brown hair. Cher. A hooker. A homeless codger with a cart full of trash.

The individual means nothing to the killer. He or she is irrelevant, a bit player in a carefully constructed ballet. The dance alone matters. Each battement and pirouette must be carried out with precision.

The killer is both dancer and choreographer, in control at all times. Victims enter and leave the stage, interchangeable, bit players in the corps.

I thought about Pomerleau. About Catts. About the mad tango that had left so many dead in Montreal.

I thought about Ajax. To what sick music was he moving? Did he learn it from Pomerleau? Or did he compose the score himself?

In his subconscious, who might Ajax be killing? His daughters? His wife? The babysitter who seduced him and ruined his life?

Birdie jumped onto the bed. I scooped him close. He readjusted, settled, and head-bumped my palm. I stroked him and he started to purr.

Ajax was shopping when Shelly Leal disappeared. Did he have an accomplice? Was it someone at the hospital? If not there, where? Did he have a killing place, as Slidell believed?

Or.

I thought of the home on Sunrise Court. So architecturally right and yet so wrong. Lifeless. Sterile.

I pictured Ajax working crossword puzzles in his bed. Paying bills at his desk. Watching baseball or DVDs from the chartreuse chair. Alone. Always alone. A common pattern with serial killers.

In my mind, I went back through each room. Recalled not a single thing to suggest that Ajax had a life outside his home or the hospital. No woman’s robe in the closet. No Post-it on the fridge saying, Call Tom. No picture of himself with friends or co-workers. No reminder on a calendar to meet Ira for lunch. Nothing to suggest anyone in Ajax’s life cared about him. That he cared about anyone.

No. That wasn’t true. He’d kept the three photos. Old photos. Of whom? Had to be his wife and daughters. Was the woman the template for his victims? One of the girls? Why?

No one at Mercy knew Ajax. No one on his street. No one in New Hampshire or West Virginia remembered him.

Again the unsettling thought. Could we be wrong? Could Ajax be innocent?

Could we be bullying a man who cut himself off from the world out of self-loathing? A man who had made a hideous mistake and lost everything? A man unable to forgive his own actions? Unwilling to trust himself outside the confines of the workplace or home?

There was no excuse for taking advantage of a child. But had anyone followed up on that? Talked to those involved in the arrest and prosecution? The babysitter would be in her thirties now. Had anyone talked to her?

I would ask Slidell in the morning.

Outside, the rain fell softly. Inside, the annex was dark and still.

My mind refused to clock out.

Over and over, I glanced at the time.

11:20.

12:10.

2:47.

My iPhone woke me from a sound sleep. The room was dim. The digits on the clock said 5:40.

Mama!

Heart banging, I clicked on.

My mother wasn’t dead.

Hamet Ajax was.

CHAPTER 34

SLIDELL PICKED ME up with no more greeting than a sour glance. Which was fine.

He handed me a Styrofoam cup with a white plastic cover. The tepid contents bore some vague resemblance to coffee.

As we drove, the horizon bled from black into pearly pink. Trees and buildings took shape, and gray oozed into the spaces between.

The lighter it got, the worse Slidell looked. His lower face was dark with five o’clock shadow; the bags under his eyes were large enough to house small mammals. His outfit was a color-clashing, coffee-stained rumple that stank of cigarettes and sweat.

Slidell briefed me in a voice gravelly from too much smoking and too little sleep.

After collecting his car, Ajax had driven to the hospital. He’d committed to a double shift that day, a practice not out of character. Thirty minutes after arriving, he’d left. Definitely out of character.

Ajax had told his supervisor, Dr. Joan Cauthern, that he was a victim of police harassment. Said he hadn’t been home all day and needed to shower and check his house. Assured Cauthern he’d be back by seven.

The surveillance team had followed Ajax from Mercy to Sunrise Court. He pulled into his garage at 5:22. Never left.

When Ajax failed to return as promised, Cauthern began phoning. Tried repeatedly throughout the night. By early morning, she’d grown concerned. Ajax had been perspiring heavily and acting fidgety, behaviors she’d never seen him exhibit. At four A.M., when the ER grew quiet, Cauthern went to his home to see if he was ill.

The surveillance team observed a vehicle pull into Ajax’s driveway at 4:20 A.M. A woman got out and rang the bell. Dialed a cellphone. Rang again. Getting no response, the woman shifted to the garage. Appeared to listen with an ear to the door. Walked to the side and peered through a window. Ran toward the cruiser, waving her arms.

The officers approached. The woman appeared agitated. Gave her name as Joan Cauthern. Stated she was Ajax’s superior at Mercy Hospital.

Cauthern said a car was running inside the garage. Said she feared Ajax was in it.

Hearing engine sounds, the officers forced open the door. Found an adult male unconscious behind the wheel of a Hyundai Sonata. Tried to resuscitate, but the victim failed to respond. Called for a bus. Called Slidell.

The ambulance was now gone, and the MCME van had taken its place. Larabee’s car was there. The CSS truck. A cruiser with bubble lights flashing. A Lexus I assumed belonged to Cauthern. The garage door was up, the overheads on. Ditto every light in the house.