Monday Mourning

Gently prying McGee’s fingers, Feldman motioned me from the bed. I stepped back, trembling.

What could I do?

Feeling useless and ineffective, I pulled a card from my purse, jotted my cell number, and laid it on the bedside table.

Moments later I stood in the corridor, jaws and hands clenched, listening as McGee’s pleas yielded to the sedative.

Whenever I think back on that moment, I wish to God I’d done what Tawny was asking. I wish to God I’d listened and understood.

33

IT WAS ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT. I WOKE AGAIN AND AGAIN, each time tangled in the remains of some barely remembered dream.

When my clock radio kicked on, I groaned and squinted at the digits. Five-fifteen. Why had I set the alarm for five-fifteen?

I palmed the button.

Music continued.

Slowly, awareness.

I hadn’t set the alarm.

That wasn’t the alarm.

Throwing back the quilt, I bolted for my handbag.

Sunglasses. Wallet. Makeup. Checkbook. Calendar.

“Damn!”

Frustrated, I upended the purse and pulled my mobile from the heap.

The music stopped. The digital display told me I’d missed one call.

Who the hell would call at five in the morning?

Katy!

Heart racing, I hit LIST.

Anne’s cell phone number.

Ohmygod!

I hit OPTION, then CALL.

“We’re sorry. The party you are dialing cannot—”

It was the same message I’d been hearing since Friday.

I clicked off and returned to the log. Today’s date—5:14:44 A.M.

The call had been dialed from Anne’s cell. But Anne’s cell wasn’t on.

What did that mean?

Anne had dialed, then turned her phone off? Her battery went dead? She moved out of range?

Someone else had used Anne’s phone? Who? Why?

Again scrolling through OPTIONS, I chose SEND MESSAGE, typed in “Call me!” and hit SEND.

I punched another number. Tom answered after four rings, sounding groggy.

Anne was not there. He hadn’t heard a word, nor had any of the friends he’d contacted.

I threw the phone at my pillow. Normally, I leave the phone on my bedstand at night, but the stress of events had broken that routine. I’d left the damn thing in my purse. Make one small mistake and it nails you.

Sleep was out of the question. I showered, fed Birdie, and left for the lab.

Ryan entered my office at a little past eight.

“Claudel won the lottery.”

I looked up.

“The prints taken from the fake Stephen Menard belong to a loser named Neal Wesley Catts.”

“Who is he?”

“Street corner thug. Drifter. Did one bump for peddling weed. That’s how his prints got into the system. California’s faxing his sheet.”

“Claudel’s following up?”

“He intends to know every toilet this punk ever flushed.”

“Take a look at this.” I tapped my pencil on Claudel’s MP list.

Ryan circled to my side of the desk.

“I’ve marked the possibles.”

Ryan scanned the names I’d checked. It was the majority of the list.

“The nonwhites are out.”

“And those who were too old or too tall when they disappeared.”

Ryan looked at me.

“I know. Without lower limits on age and height, I can’t really limit the subset that much.” I flapped a hand at the skeletons in my lab. “These girls could have survived years in captivity.”

Like Angela Robinson, Anique Pomerleau, and Tawny McGee.

“I cut samples for DNA testing on Angie Robinson.”

“The one wrapped in leather?”

I nodded. “I’m sure it’s her.”

“I think you’re right.”

“The coroner’s office is contacting the Robinson family. We’ll need a maternal relative to run mitochondrial comparisons.”

I slumped back.

“Anne called this morning.”

“That’s great.” Ryan’s face broke into a huge smile.

“No. It’s not.”

When I told him what had happened the smile collapsed.

“I’ve called the taxi companies. They’re checking their records for a pickup at your place Friday. Would you like me to contact rental car agencies?”

“I guess it’s time,” I said.

“It’s only been four days.”

“Yes.”

“If she—” Ryan hesitated. “If something happened we’d be the first to know.”

“Yes.”

Ryan’s cell phone rang. He checked the screen, frowned, then gave me his most boyish of grins.

“Sorry—”

“I know. Gotta take it.”

Ryan had barely cleared the door when my desk phone rang. As per my request, the librarian had found materials on sexual sadism and the Stockholm syndrome.

I was reading an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences when Claudel arrived.

“The dead man is Neal Wesley Catts.”

“S’il vous plaît.” I gestured to the chair opposite my desk. “Asseyezvous.” Sit.

Claudel tucked down the corners of his mouth and sat.

“Catts was born in Stockton, California, in 1963. The usual sob story, broken home, alcoholic mother.”

Claudel was speaking English. What could that mean?

“Catts dropped out of high school in seventy-nine, hung with the Banditos for a while, got no invite to patch up. Served one hitch in Soledad on a drug rap.”

“Did he hold jobs?”

“Flipped burgers, tended bar, worked at a window frame plant. But here’s a tidbit you’ll love. The little pervert liked ogling forbidden grail.”

I listened without interrupting.

“Catts was hauled to the bag several times on peeping complaints.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”