“AIS patients present across a spectrum of severity. Complete androgen insensitivity syndrome, or CAIS, refers to the body’s total inability to use androgens. CAIS individuals have the external sex characteristics of a female but abnormally shallow vaginas and sparse or absent pubic and axillary hair. Such individuals lack a uterus, fallopian tubes, and ovaries, and have undescended testes in the abdomen.”
“They can’t menstruate or become pregnant.”
“Correct. A milder form of the syndrome, PAIS, results when the body’s tissues are partially sensitive to the effects of androgens. Persons with PAIS—also called Reifenstein syndrome—have normal male or female form, virilized genitalia or a micropenis, internal testes, and sparse to normal androgenic hair.”
“With both CAIS and PAIS, the karyotype is 46,XY?” I shot to the core.
“Yes. Though outwardly female, these individuals are genetically male.”
“And Tawny McGee?”
“Tawny has complete androgen insensitivity syndrome.”
“Meaning she has one X and one Y chromosome in every cell in her body.”
“Yes.”
My fingers froze. “Who ran the genetic tests on Tawny?”
“A colleague who specializes in such disorders.”
“He sequenced her DNA? Has biological samples?”
“To access anything in his possession would require a warrant.”
“Of course. May I have the doctor’s name?”
She gave it to me. I wrote it down.
“One last question. How did Tawny feel about Anique Pomerleau?”
“Do you really need to ask?” I heard something hard and sad in her voice.
“Thank you, Dr. Lindahl. You’ve been enormously helpful.”
“I can send literature on CAIS if you’d like.”
“Thank you.”
A hitch in breathing. Then, “Will she be all right?”
I took a moment before responding.
“I don’t know,” I said softly.
After breaking the connection, I hit another button.
“Yo.” Slidell was somewhere with a lot going on around him.
“The killer could be McGee.”
“The spit says she’s out.”
“McGee has a condition that makes her body female, though her genes are male.” As complex as Slidell could handle.
Or more so. There was a very long moment of silence.
“Whoa, Doc. You talk bones, what you say always tracks. But this, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Had Slidell paid me a compliment?
“Bones never lie. But this. This is fucked up.”
“Look, it all fits. McGee would know the dates of the Montreal abductions. She loathes Pomerleau, yet was with her at the Corneau farm. She’s tall and matches the description of the mechanic.”
“Why target kids?”
“Sweet mother of God! Forget the psychoanalysis and find her!”
“You dealt with McGee. Got any thoughts what name she might be using?”
I started to say no. Stopped. “Pomerleau called herself Q. Called McGee D.”
“Why?”
“Because she was crazy!” Way too sharp. “Q stood for queen. As in Queen of Hearts. D, I can’t remember.” I heard a robotic voice page a doctor. “Are you at Mercy?”
“I’m going back at Yoder.”
“Forget Yoder. Look for McGee.”
Slidell did that noncommittal thing he does in his throat.
“I’m serious. Find her.”
“Probable alias. No known addresses. No credit card purchases to check. No bank account. No mobile phone or landline. No highway pass. No social security or tax payments. No paper or cyber trail at all. She might as well be Alice down the fucking rabbit hole.”
“You’re a detective. Do some detecting.”
I disconnected and hit another speed-dial key.
“Ryan.”
I told him what I’d learned from Slidell. From Lindahl. My theory about McGee.
“CAIS squares with the Y-STR finding?”
“Yes. And the physician who tested Tawny has her DNA on file.” I gave him the name.
“I’ll push for a warrant.”
“Any progress on the license plate?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know if anything pops.”
Hours passed. I paid bills. Took down the tree and decorations. Finished another goddamn report. Repeatedly checked both phones. Of course they were working.
I called Larabee. Mama. Harry.
No one called me.
Birdie spent the day napping or with his red plaid mouse.
I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t concentrate. When I got up to move, I didn’t know what to do with my arms and legs. Where to look. I glanced at my watch every few minutes.
And the itch was back. The sensation that I was missing something. That my id knew a fact I wasn’t receiving yet.
I returned to the files. The bloody, unyielding files. Surely somewhere in that forest of paper, an answer lurked. Proof I was right. Proof I was wrong.
At four, I went to the kitchen for Oreos and milk. Comfort food. When my eye fell on the phone, a tentacle of guilt slipped free about the call I’d had earlier from Mary Louise.
Why not. Throwing on a jacket and scarf, I pocketed my mobile and headed out.
Dark cobalt clouds were skidding across the sky. The air was warm but listless and heavy with moisture. Rain was on the way.
Mary Louise lived only a block up Queens. Her mother answered the door wearing cinnamon sweats that looked cashmere. Her hair was brown, swept up on her head, and secured with a turquoise and silver clip. I introduced myself. She did the same.
Yvonne Marcus could have made an orca feel small. I guessed her weight at close to three hundred pounds. Yet she was beautiful, with amber eyes and skin that had never laid claim to a pore.
“My husband and I appreciate your kindness toward our daughter. She adores your cat.”
“And he loves her.”
Peering past me, she warbled, “No one looks under the porch!”
I must have shown surprise.
“You think I’ve lost my mind.” Throaty chuckle. “It’s from a story Mary Louise loved when she was little. She’d hide, I’d call out, she’d pop up and run to a new hiding place. I know she’s much too grown up for such games now.” Again the chuckle. “But it’s still our secret little thing.”
“I came to see if Mary Louise wanted to go for frozen yogurt at Pinkberry.”
“But she’s with you.”
“No.” A tickle of unease. “She isn’t.”
“She said she’d be visiting you after school.”
“She called, but I was unavailable today.”
“No worries.” Warm smile, but a note of uncertainty. “She’ll turn up.”
“You’re sure?”
She shrugged as if to say, “My kid—what a scamp.”
Retracing my steps, I pulled out my iPhone. No calls.
No messages on the landline at the annex.
What the hell?
At six I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Yvonne Marcus called as I was taking it out.
“Mary Louise still isn’t home, and she’s not answering her cell. I was wondering if she’d shown up at your place?”
“I haven’t seen her. You’ve no idea where she might have gone?”
A pause. Too long.
“Mrs. Marcus?”
“Mary Louise and I had a little tiff this morning. Trivial, really. She wanted to wear her hair in this ridiculous upsweep, and I insisted she braid it as usual.” The chuckle sounded less genuine than earlier. “Perhaps I just don’t want my little girl to grow up.”
“Has she done this before?” I glanced at the window. It was now full dark outside.
“The little imp can hold a grudge.”
“I’m happy to look around Sharon Hall.”
“If it’s not too much bother. She often goes there to feed the birds.”
“It’s no bother.” Actually, I was glad for the diversion.
One slice of pepperoni and cheese, then I set off. Though I walked the grounds and called out repeatedly, my efforts yielded no sign of Mary Louise.
I phoned the Marcus home. Yvonne thanked me, apologized again. Reassured me there was no need to worry.
And I was back to mute phones and the silence of the annex. To the obstinate dossiers.
To subtle taunting by my subconscious.
Screw the files. I stretched out on the couch in the study. Crossed my ankles. Closed my eyes. Cleared my mind.