“What about the lip balm itself?”

“Not the same brand.”

“So, wait.” My mind was struggling to reconstruct the picture we’d so carefully crafted. “Ajax might not be our guy?”

Larabee shrugged with upturned palms. Who knows?

“But he had Leal’s ring.”

“Nance’s shoes. Gower’s key.”

“What about the blood in Ajax’s trunk? The scalp?”

“That’s taking longer.”

“Have you talked to Slidell?”

“He’s on his way over.”

An hour passed before Slidell’s heels clicked like bullets outside my door. Voices floated from Larabee’s office, modulated, no ire or outrage. Ten minutes later, Skinny blustered into my office.

The change was subtle but there. Same ratty brown jacket. Same bad haircut. What?

Slidell ankle-hooked and dragged a chair toward my desk, dropped onto it. When his legs shot forward, I saw a flash of tangerine sock. Some things are permanently set.

“You heard?”

“I did.”

Then it struck me. Slidell had lost weight. His face was still saggy, maybe more so than usual. But his belly wasn’t hanging as far over his belt. The mustard-yellow shirt was fully tucked.

Slidell’s next statement stunned me. “Some shit don’t add up.”

“What are you saying?”

Slidell’s jaw muscles flexed energetically.

“You have doubts about Ajax?”

“He was on Pineville-Matthews Road when Leal was grabbed up on Morningside.”

“Yes.”

A ten-second pause.

“IT put a name to the user in that chat room for cramps.”

“HamLover.”

“Yeah. Mona Spleen. Forty-three, lives in Pocatello, Idaho. Belongs to the Pocatello ARC. That stands for Amateur Radio Club.”

“Spleen is into ham radios.”

“Big-time.”

Another, longer pause.

“April 17, 2009. Two-twenty P.M. Ajax got pulled for doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five.”

“The afternoon Lizzie Nance disappeared. That doesn’t mean—”

“The stop was on I-64, outside Charleston, West Virginia.”

“You’re just now learning this?”

“I ain’t a magician. People been busy tying bows and stuffing socks.”

“The ticket gives Ajax an airtight alibi. Why didn’t he mention it?”

“The trooper let him off with a warning. No fine, no court. Ajax probably forgot all about it.”

“Forgot the trip?”

“The date coincides with his start at Mercy. He maybe had a lot on his mind.”

I said nothing.

After another long pause, Slidell said, “I did some follow-up on the kid in Oklahoma.”

“The babysitter Ajax molested?”

“Yeah.” Repositioning his tie down the middle of his chest. It was black and spotted with something shiny. “The lady’s got a jacket going back to juvie.”

I kept my face expressionless.

“Three bumps for solicitation since 2006. Off the record, my source says her first pop was the year after Ajax went into the box.”

“That may or may not be meaningful.”

“Eeyuh.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“Maybe the dirtbag ain’t our guy.”

“Have you shared any of this with Salter?”

Slidell gave a tight shake of his head.

“Why?”

“I’m still working it.”

“Doing what?”

“For one thing, taking a hard look at this fuckwad Yoder.”

“The CNA at Mercy?”

Slidell nodded.

“Any reason?”

“I don’t like the guy.”

“That’s it?”

“No, that ain’t it.” Curt. “While you’ve been caroling and hanging mistletoe, I’ve been moving back in on the neighbors, the other hospital staff.”

“Meaning?”

“Heart-to-hearts all around.”

“And?”

“And nothing. The guy lived under a rock.”

“Now what?”

“I’m hitting the ones weren’t around. Over the river and through the woods. Ho-ho. Pain in the ass.”

“Aren’t you the Grinch.”

“I practice.”

“When you’ve finished the interviews, you’ll take it to Salter?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Tinker?”

“I’ll see that yank-off in hell before I bring him back in.”

“Who’s on your list?”

“Couple nurses, a doc, a CNA. Probably a waste of time. But could be someone picked up on something.”

I looked at the clock. At my stack of unwritten reports. “Let’s go.” Pulling my purse from the drawer.

Slidell took a breath, caught himself. Nodded and stood.

We got lucky with one RN and the physician. They were day shift.

Both said they’d been stunned by the news reports on Hamet Ajax. Both had worked with him and felt he was a fine doctor. Both expressed sadness at his passing. Neither knew a thing about Ajax’s personal life.

The other two were off that day. Alice Hamilton, a CNA, and Arnie Saranella, an RN.

Slidell was particularly eager to talk to Hamilton. She’d been on duty when Colleen Donovan and Shelly Leal presented at the ER. And Ellis Yoder had hinted that Ajax and Hamilton were friendly.

Slidell had phoned Hamilton repeatedly. Left messages on her mobile, gotten no reply. It didn’t predispose him to warm feelings toward the woman.

Hamilton lived on North Dotger, within spitting distance of Mercy Hospital. The street was winding and, in summer, overshaded by trees large enough to form a canopy blocking all sunlight.

Hamilton’s wasn’t one of the townhomes that had sprouted like toadstools after a rain, progeny of the yuppification of the Elizabeth neighborhood. Her apartment was in an uninspired brick bunker dating to the postwar era. One of four such bunkers, all painted beige in an unsuccessful attempt to discourage algae growth.

On their street sides, the bunkers had paired concrete patios surrounded by metal fences and protected by metal awnings, every one rusted and warped. Each patio was large enough to hold a chair, maybe two if your personal space requirements weren’t demanding. Each was accessed by double glass doors gone milky with age. The units above had uncovered balconies. Same square footage. Same cloudy doors.

Slidell and I took the walk, mud-caked and, like the brick, exuberantly green with life, and entered a small lobby with a grimy blackand-white floor. Four mailboxes formed a square on the wall to the left.

Overflow mail lay on the tile, mostly flyers and ads, a few magazines. Good Housekeeping. O. Car and Driver.

A. Hamilton was on the box marked 1C. Penned by hand and slipped behind a tiny rectangle of cracked glass.

Slidell pressed the bell. Waited. Pressed again.

No buzz. No voice from the little round speaker.

“Goddammit.” Slidell pressed harder, jabbing repeatedly with his thumb.

While waiting, I scanned labels at my feet. The automotive magazine was for Roger Collier, Oprah’s monthly for Hamilton. The housekeeping tips were going to Melody Keller.

Slidell rang a fourth time, his anger so palpable that I felt it elbow my ribs.

“Don’t have a heart attack,” I said.

“Why don’t she answer?”

“Maybe she’s not home?”

Slidell stared at the mailboxes, narrow-eyed and tight-mouthed.

“What did her supervisor say?”

“She’s on some kinda arrangement she don’t have to work regular.”

“PRN. Pro re nata. It’s a common arrangement in hospitals. Means the employee’s schedule changes a lot and hours aren’t guaranteed.”

“Whatever.”

“Let’s move on. Talk to the other nurse.”

“Pisses me off Alice goddamn Hamilton don’t call me back.”

Slidell was on his fifth round of jabbing when my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I answered.

Larabee had DNA results on the materials from Ajax’s trunk.

CHAPTER 37

“IT WAS POMERLEAU. The blood, the scalp.”

“I knew it.”

“Some of the Kleenex had saliva.”

“Pomerleau?”

“Yes.”

My pulse threw in a few extra beats.

“What are you thinking?” Larabee asked when I didn’t reply.

“The killer seeded the bodies.”