“Pull yourself together.” The reflected lips mouthed the words. “Do your job. Nail the bitch.”
I shut off the tap. Yanked paper towels from the dispenser and dried my face. Blew my nose.
Returned to the CCU squad room.
“—just saying it’s unusual to find no sexual component.” Tinker sounded steamed.
I resumed my seat.
“Who knows what’s sexual to these fuckwads.” Slidell slumped back in his chair, dragging a balled fist across the tabletop.
“If the perp’s female, we could be looking at a whole different ball game,” Tinker said.
“Yeah, well, it’s our ball game,” Slidell snapped. After a pause, “Gower was 2007.”
“So?”
Slidell slid Tinker a withering look. “Gower was 2007. So there’s a three-year gap between Vermont and what went down earlier in Montreal. Another year and a half goes by and Nance is grabbed here.”
“What’s your point?”
“Time line, you dumb shit.” Slidell shot to his feet before Tinker could fire off a cutting retort. “I’m done here.”
“Let’s call it a morning.” Barrow, trying to defuse what was escalating toward open combat. “We’ll reconvene when Detective Slidell and the doc have reviewed the Nance file.”
A look passed between Barrow and Slidell. Then Skinny was gone.
“Send in the clowns.” Giving a tight shake of his head, Tinker pushed up from his chair.
Rodas watched Tinker disappear through the door before eyebrowing a question at Barrow. Barrow gestured at him to stay put. Rodas settled back. So did I.
Slidell reappeared minutes later, a manila folder in one hand. Attached to the folder was a snapshot.
Dropping into the closest chair, Slidell thumbed off the paper clip and placed the photo beside the two school portraits.
I felt adrenaline flutter anew.
The girl had brown eyes and light olive skin. Her long chestnut hair was center-parted and drawn up in combs. I guessed her age at twelve to thirteen.
“Michelle Leal. Goes by Shelly,” Slidell said. “Thirteen. Lives with her parents and two siblings in Plaza-Midwood. Last Friday afternoon the mother sent her to a convenience store at Central and Morningside. She bought milk and M&M’s around four-fifteen. Never made it home.”
I’d spent most of the weekend zoned out on cold meds, drifting off quickly every time I turned on the TV. I recalled vague fragments of news reports on a missing child, video of a search team, a mother’s teary appeal.
Now I was seeing that little girl’s face.
“She hasn’t turned up?” I swallowed.
“No,” Slidell said.
“You think it’s related.”
“Look at her. And the MO fits.”
I glanced up. Met Barrow’s eyes. “You think I’m the draw,” I said evenly.
Barrow tried a comforting smile. It didn’t work out.
“You think Pomerleau learned where I live, came here, and killed Lizzie Nance. And now she’s taken Shelly Leal.”
“We have to consider the possibility,” Barrow said quietly.
“That’s why you asked me here this morning.”
“That’s one reason.” Barrow paused. “With cold cases, we’ve got all the time in the world. No pressure from the public, the media, the guys up the pay scale. That won’t be the situation with Shelly Leal.”
I nodded.
“Maybe the kid’s already dead,” Slidell said. “Maybe not. Gower was found eight days after she was snatched. If Leal is alive, we may be looking at a real narrow window.”
Barrow jumped back in. “You’re familiar with Pomerleau’s thinking, her way of operating.”
“I’m an anthropologist, not a psychologist.”
Barrow raised both palms. “Understood. But you were there. That’s one reason we need your help.”
“And the other?”
“A detective named Andrew Ryan was lead on the Pomerleau investigation. Word is you know the guy personally.”
Heat rushed my face. I hadn’t seen that one coming.
“We want you to find him.”
CHAPTER 3
“I DO NOT keep track of Detective Ryan’s whereabouts.”