Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(92)

Peering past me, she warbled, “No one looks under the porch!”

I must have shown surprise.

“You think I’ve lost my mind.” Throaty chuckle. “It’s from a story Mary Louise loved when she was little. She’d hide, I’d call out, she’d pop up and run to a new hiding place. I know she’s much too grown up for such games now.” Again the chuckle. “But it’s still our secret little thing.”

“I came to see if Mary Louise wanted to go for frozen yogurt at Pinkberry.”

“But she’s with you.”

“No.” A tickle of unease. “She isn’t.”

“She said she’d be visiting you after school.”

“She called, but I was unavailable today.”

“No worries.” Warm smile, but a note of uncertainty. “She’ll turn up.”

“You’re sure?”

She shrugged as if to say, “My kid—what a scamp.”

Retracing my steps, I pulled out my iPhone. No calls.

No messages on the landline at the annex.

What the hell?

At six I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Yvonne Marcus called as I was taking it out.

“Mary Louise still isn’t home, and she’s not answering her cell. I was wondering if she’d shown up at your place?”

“I haven’t seen her. You’ve no idea where she might have gone?”

A pause. Too long.

“Mrs. Marcus?”

“Mary Louise and I had a little tiff this morning. Trivial, really. She wanted to wear her hair in this ridiculous upsweep, and I insisted she braid it as usual.” The chuckle sounded less genuine than earlier. “Perhaps I just don’t want my little girl to grow up.”

“Has she done this before?” I glanced at the window. It was now full dark outside.

“The little imp can hold a grudge.”

“I’m happy to look around Sharon Hall.”

“If it’s not too much bother. She often goes there to feed the birds.”

“It’s no bother.” Actually, I was glad for the diversion.

One slice of pepperoni and cheese, then I set off. Though I walked the grounds and called out repeatedly, my efforts yielded no sign of Mary Louise.

I phoned the Marcus home. Yvonne thanked me, apologized again. Reassured me there was no need to worry.

And I was back to mute phones and the silence of the annex. To the obstinate dossiers.

To subtle taunting by my subconscious.

Screw the files. I stretched out on the couch in the study. Crossed my ankles. Closed my eyes. Cleared my mind.

What had happened? What had been said? What had I read? Seen? Done?

I allowed facts and images to percolate in my head. Names. Places. Dates.

The files. The conference room boards. Gower. Nance. Estrada. Koseluk. Donovan. Leal.

The old cases in Montreal. Bastien. Violette. McGee.

The more I struggled, the more the subliminal needle lay flat on the gauge.

The interview with the Violettes. With Sabine Pomerleau. With Tawny McGee’s parents, Bernadette and Jake Kezerian.

Little blip there.

The photo. The realization that McGee had CAIS. The conversation with Lindahl.

Blip.

McGee was our perp. Though devastating, I knew it in my soul.

Where was she? Who was she?

I thought of the interviews with Slidell.

Hamet Ajax.

Ellis Yoder.

My higher centers touched something in the murky depths.

What?

Alice Hamilton.

The needle blipped higher.

Come on. Come on.

A dingy apartment on North Dotger.

The needle lifted, dropped as the thing slipped away.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

From nowhere, a comment by Slidell. Alice down the rabbit hole.

A name printed on a magazine. Alice Hamilton.

A name scribbled in a journal in a cellar. Alice Kimberly Hamilton.

The needle fired up and slapped over to the right.





CHAPTER 40


SAME DRILL.

I called Slidell. Got rolled to voicemail. Swore. Left a message that I hoped would goose his ass.

I called Ryan. Actually got him. Explained my theory. Asked him to check the evidence log from the house on de Sébastopol. To confirm.

Then I waited. Paced. Was my epiphany due to frustration? To the power of suggestion? A groundless leap triggered by a rabbit-hole quip?

No. I felt it in my soul.

When my cell finally rang, my whole body flinched. “Where the hell are you?” I barked.

A long moment.

“My cruiser.” Low and husky.

My agitated brain took a moment to process. Hen Hull. The investigator on the Estrada case.

“Sorry. I was expecting someone else.”

“I don’t envy the dude.”

I was too pumped to conjure a witty reply.

“Took some doing, but I finally located Maria Estrada,” Hull said. “Tia’s mother. She’s in Juárez and has no phone. But there’s a cousin living just outside Charlotte, in Rock Hill. I’ve got some free time, so I’m going there now.”

“That’s very generous.”

“The kid got shafted every step of the way. The family deserves the story firsthand.”