Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(34)

“Yes?” My rising inflection indicated puzzlement at Larabee’s question.

“Amelogenin indicated the saliva was left by a male.”

“Is Parent sure?” Of course she was. She wouldn’t have called on a whim.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t amelogenin occasionally wrong?”

“There have been some cases of false-positive female readings. Probably because the Y chromosome–specific allele was deleted. But I’ve never heard of an error going the other way.”

I knew that. The shock was causing me to blurt dumb questions.

Larabee rehooked his mask and took up his blade. “I’ll let you know if Parent gets any hits locally or with CODIS.”

I returned to my office. Sat and listened to the silence. Stunned. Disappointed. Mostly confused.

Were Slidell’s bosses correct? Was Leal’s murder unrelated to that of Gower and Nance? To the others’? Was her killer a man?

But the patterning in victimology and MO. The similar ages and physical traits. The broad-daylight abductions. The posing and lack of concealment of the bodies.

It had to be one doer. It had to be Pomerleau.

The name triggered another neural flare. Blood oozing from a dime-sized hole, across a hairline, a temple, a cheek. Brain matter splattering a dim parlor wall.

Sweet Jesus. Could that be it?

I called Ryan.

“Oui.”

I relayed what Larabee had said.

“It could be nothing. Someone’s face accidentally brushed the jacket.”

“The print had clean edges.”

“Meaning?”

“It wasn’t created by a casual swipe.”

“We have no idea how long it was there. Could have been weeks, months.”

“On nylon? Outside? No way. There was too much detail. Contact happened close to the time Leal was killed.”

Ryan was silent a long moment. I knew his thoughts were traveling the same path mine had.

“You’re thinking she has an accomplice,” he said.

“Another sick twist like Catts.”

Again, there was a long pause. I could hear male voices in the room. Sharp.

“What about the hairs Larabee found in Leal’s throat?” Ryan cut off my question about the background row.

“He didn’t mention it.” And I’d been too channeled on amelogenin to ask.

“Slidell’s going to shit his shorts,” Ryan said.

“Where is he?”

“Here. His license plate search generated twelve hundred hits. He just finished re-interviewing the wit who saw the kid on Morningside.”

“Hoping for what?”

“Maybe nail down digit order, vehicle color, four-door versus two-door, that kind of thing. To get a sense which hits are good.”

“How did it go?”

“The car was blue or black. And the seven on the tag might have been a one.”

“Skinny’s not happy.”

“That’s an understatement. Then Tinker showed up. They’ve been locked in a dick-measuring contest ever since.”

“What’s Tinker doing?”

“Going through the Leal file and answering the hotline.”

“Any interesting calls?”

“The usual wingnuts. A teacher wanting to discuss the immodest dress habits of today’s youth. A man ranting about Muslims. A woman pointing the finger at declining church attendance.”

“Awesome. How’s your search going?”

“I finished with Gower. That Rodas is one thorough guy.”

“Umpie.”

“What?”

“His name is Umpie.”

“Then I worked through Koseluk and Estrada. Reports, statements, phone messages, tips. Nothing. I left Donovan for you.”

“Now what?”

“I’m turning the heat up on Pomerleau, following up queries I sent to Quebec, Vermont, and statewide here. This time I’m requesting they run possible aliases. I made a list of names.”

“How?”

“People aren’t all that creative. They tend to use something that’s easy, usually a variation on their own name or initials. Ann Pomer. Ana Proleau. That sort of thing.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Next I’ll work the DMV, social security records, tax rolls. It’s a long shot, but what the hell.”

“A long shot is better than no shot at all.” How often had Ryan and I said that over the years?

The background squabble grew more heated. A door slammed. I wondered whether Slidell or Tinker had stormed out.

Ryan ignored the spat. “When Pomerleau slipped the net in ’04, we sent her picture out over the continent.”

“Right.” I actually snorted. “A mug shot taken when she was fifteen.”

“Granted. But the image generated dozens of calls.”

I remembered. Pomerleau had been sighted in Sherbrooke, Albany, Tampa, Thunder Bay.

“Your point?” I asked.

“We’re running out of road here.”

“And?”

“Maybe there’s something there.”

I nodded. Pointless. Ryan couldn’t see me.

“We need to go to Montreal.”