My heart was still sending blood to my cheeks. I hated it. Hated that I was so easy to read.
Barrow had a habit of clearing his throat. He did it now. “You’ve worked with this Ryan a long time, right?”
I nodded.
“Do you know why he dropped off the grid?”
“His daughter died.”
“Suddenly?”
“Yes.” OD’d in a heroin den.
“Age?”
“Twenty.”
“That would knock anyone off the rails.”
I glanced down at my watch. Reflex. I knew the time.
“It’s been almost two months, and no one has a clue where this Ryan has gone.”
I said nothing.
“He ever talk about favorite getaways? Places he wanted to visit? Places he’d gone on vacation?”
“Ryan is not the vacationing type.”
“The guy has quite a reputation.” Rodas grinned. “Way they parlez-vous up there, he’s cleared every homicide since the Black Dahlia.”
“Elizabeth Short was killed in L.A.”
The burn of embarrassment also colored Rodas’s cheeks. Or something did.
“Ryan worked Pomerleau,” Barrow said. “We could really use his input.”
“Good luck.” Testy, but I don’t respond well to pressure.
“LaManche had the impression that you and Ryan were close.”
I managed to curb my impulse to get up and leave.
“Sorry. That came out wrong.”
No, Detective Rodas, that came out right. Ryan and I share more than murder. We share memories, affection. We once shared a bed.
“What I meant was, LaManche thought if anyone could find Ryan, it would be you.”
“Bring him in from the cold?”
“Yeah.”
“That only happens in books.”
Original files never leave the CCU squad room. After telling Slidell, Barrow, and Rodas everything I could remember about Anique Pomerleau, I set about photocopying the contents of the plastic tub.
Slidell went to take a call. He never came back.
Shortly before one, my mobile rang. Tim Larabee wanted me to examine remains found in the trunk of a Subaru at an auto salvage yard.
My head felt like lead, my throat like hot gravel. And I was about to pass out from toner fumes.
Screw it.
I delivered a duplicate of the Nance file to Slidell’s desk. Then I got a box, loaded my own copy, and left.
Instead of heading to the ME facility west of uptown, I called Larabee to beg off, citing plague as an excuse. Then I pointed my Mazda toward an enclave of overpriced homes set beneath trees so large, their summer foliage turned the streets into tunnels. Myers Park. My ’hood.
In minutes, I turned off Queens Road onto a circular drive that swooped up to the pompous brick Georgian reigning over Sharon Hall. My complex.
I continued past the carriage house to a tiny two-story structure tucked in one corner of the grounds. The “annex,” date of birth and original purpose unknown. My home.
I let myself in and called out, “Hey, Bird.”
No cat.
I thumped the box on the counter and looked around the kitchen. The shutters were angled down, casting long golden slashes across the oak floor.
The refrigerator hummed. Otherwise, the place was quiet as a crypt.
I pushed through a swinging door, crossed the dining room, and climbed to the second floor.
Birdie was curled on my bed. He lifted his head from his paws at the sound of movement. Looked startled. Maybe irked. Hard to tell with felines.
I tossed my purse to the chair, then my clothes. After pulling on sweats, I downed two decongestant tabs and slipped under the covers.
Eyes closed, I listened to familiar sounds, trying not to think about Anique Pomerleau. Trying not to think about Andrew Ryan. The steady dip dip dip of the bathroom faucet. The soft scree scree of a magnolia branch scraping the screen. The rhythmic prrrrr of air flowing past Birdie’s vocal cords.
Journey burst into song. “Don’t stop believin’ …”
My lids flew open.
The room was dim. A thin rectangle of gray outlined the shade.
“Hold on …”
I rolled to my side. The glowing orange digits on the clock said 4:45.
I groaned.