Mary Louise knew, of course. The story had dominated the news for over a week. Leal. Nance. Estrada. The CMPD was basking in the warmth of citizen approval. But there was one alteration to the cast of characters. The press conferences hadn’t featured Tinker on the dais.
In the glow of generalized goodwill, Henrietta Hull had escaped all censure for acting outside her jurisdiction. Even in her hurry, she’d been smart enough to notify her dispatcher that she needed to go to Mecklenburg on one of her cases to question a potential witness possibly planning to leave the area. She’d also notified the CMPD that she needed to see a person of interest in Charlotte on an out-of-county matter, but would not require local assistance. That seemed to satisfy everybody, and it cut her in for a portion of the credit for subsequent events.
I was asked for interviews. Did them at Salter’s request. Journalists wanted to probe my emotions. “How do you feel about these murdered children? How do you feel about catching their killer?” I felt like smacking the mikes into their carefully practiced frowns.
And then the fickle media moved on.
Ryan phoned twice immediately after McGee’s arrest, his voice thick with remorse. My comment about the journal found at de Sébastopol and the possibility of another victim had made him start looking into Kim Hamilton. He’d been working nonstop, pairing hints dropped by Lindahl and the Kezerians with data dug from Canadian border control files, and researching participation in online nursing courses tracing to Vermont. One more day and he’d have zeroed in on McGee. It was why he’d stayed in Montreal.
I told Ryan that he’d done the right thing. That it was the way we worked. Our MO. He said he should have been there for me. Yeah. For me. I tried to believe it, but deep down, I suspected his true regret was at not being part of the final climax scene. And then he stopped calling.
I drove Mary Louise to her door. We hugged, then I watched her all the way into the house. Two weeks, and still the guilt turned me inside out. Perhaps always would.
The next day, I showered, blow-dried my hair, and donned fresh jeans and a white Ella Moss blouse. Hip but not overdone.
I was looking forward to the rendezvous. And dreading it. I hadn’t exactly been rescued. But I’d been assisted in a situation I might have bungled alone. I felt grateful. And embarrassed by the need to feel grateful.
At ten past seven, I turned in to the lot outside Good Food on Montford. My suggestion. The place would be loud enough to shield our words, quiet enough to allow conversation across a table.
Hull was there, seated at a two-top off to one side. Dressed as I was, with careful nonchalance.
On seeing me, Hull waved, palm pink against the deeply pigmented skin covering the rest of her ample form. I wove my way to her.
“How’s it going, Merlin?” Her smile was warm and toothy.
Synapse. A flash of white in the darkness. A grunt. Simultaneous hits that blasted air from McGee’s lungs and laid her flat.
“Can’t complain. And you, Mean Joe?”
“Smooth and in the groove.”
Mary Louise had gone off in an ambulance. Tawny McGee had gone to jail. Sitting in the darkness, waiting to tell our story, Hull and I had eased the tension by tagging each other with NFL nicknames. Olsen and Greene, two legendary tackles.
I slid into the vacant chair. Seconds later, a waiter appeared. Sean.
I asked for Perrier. Hull wanted a Bud. While Sean got the drinks, we considered the menu. Which took some time, since the place had a tapas format.
“How’s Slidell?” Hull asked when we’d ordered—I’d ordered. Hull had just tossed the menu and rolled her eyes. Which were large and the color of Hershey’s syrup.
“Skinny’s like the heroine in a bad horror movie,” I said.
“Still breathing at the credits.”
“Always.”
“And Tinker?”
“No idea.”
Once all the little dishes arrived, we served ourselves, then turned to developments since last we talked.
“The DNA from the lip print was a match to McGee?” Hull poked at a mussel.
I nodded. “The results came back yesterday. Her face must have brushed Leal’s jacket as she was transporting the body.”
“No one knows diddly about the hair found in Estrada’s throat.”
“It’s gone?”
“Like the wind.”
“Not surprising, given the ineptness of the autopsy report.” I helped myself to a meatball. “Plowing through all the surveillance video paid off. Twice they’ve got what was probably McGee’s Impala heading in the direction of I-485.”
“The night Leal was left under the overpass.”
I nodded again. “They’re hoping enhancement will allow them to read the plate.”
Hull smiled wryly. “The two-digit match to Ajax was just coincidence.”
“And the child seen on Morningside wasn’t Leal. Talk about the world’s unluckiest sex offender.”
“How about the laptop?” Hull eyed the beef carpaccio, opted for another fried oyster.
“Pure gold. It appears McGee found Nance through chat rooms that answer questions about nursing as a career.”
“She’d already moved from Vermont to Charlotte?”
“Looks that way. Five years later, she spotted Leal in the ER. Used the opportunity to tip the kid to the dysmenorrhea forum. Communicated with her there.”
We went silent, thinking about the vulnerability of children amid the pitiless anonymity of the Internet.
“Any evidence of contact with Colleen Donovan?” she asked.
“Nothing so far. Donovan was living on the street and may not have had access to a computer.”
“She’s still in the wind?”
“Yeah.”
A few beats passed as we ate.
“So McGee laced Ajax’s coffee, then set him up in his car,” Hull said. “Why?”
“Slidell’s phone calls and visits to the ER and to her apartment must have triggered some sort of paranoid spiral. Knowing the cops suspected Ajax, McGee killed him and planted evidence in his trunk to close the deal.”
“Why do you suppose Ajax let her in?”
“Undoubtedly, she’d concocted some plausible story about the ER and when he’d be able to return. McGee may be deeply disturbed, but she’s cunning.”
“And clever at hiding the fact that she’s psycho.”
Not exactly PC, but true.
“McGee used chloral hydrate to subdue her vics. How come the stuff only showed up in Ajax?”
“Mary Louise Marcus had chloral hydrate in her system. The toxicologist found it because he knew to look. Standard drug screens typically test for alcohol, narcotics, sedatives, marijuana, cocaine, amphetamines, and aspirin.”
“But we’re talking dead kids. No one went beyond standard testing?”
“The girls’ bodies weren’t found right away. For Gower it was eight days, for Nance fourteen, for Estrada four. Even if you’re looking for chloral hydrate, which no one was, decomposition can mask its presence.”
Hull’s brows dipped in confusion.
“On a gas chromatograph, decomp chemicals will peak higher than chloral hydrate. Even if further testing had been done, it might have been missed.”
“You think McGee killed Gower by herself? Or after she hooked up with Pomerleau?”
“Murder was never Pomerleau’s style.”
Hull dipped her chin and tipped her head. Seriously?
“You know what I mean. Of course it was murder. But in Pomerleau’s case, the killing was a by-product of cruelty and deprivation. Not a primary objective.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, unless McGee tells us, we may never know where she was living when Gower went down. Or if she acted alone.”
“Or if Gower was her first.”
I’d had the same grim thought.
“Why’d McGee break the pattern of dates and grab Marcus?”
“Same answer. Slidell’s probing sent her spiraling out of control.”
Hull’s chewing slowed as she rolled that around. Then, “I get the dates. She’s killing on the anniversaries of abductions or deaths in Montreal. Kids she knew. Maybe kids she saw die. But why the hair, the tissues soaked with saliva? Why plant Pomerleau’s DNA on her victims?”