Slidell’s Taurus headed a line of vehicles circling the cul-de-sac curb. Two cruisers. A CSS truck. An unmarked SUV. Skinny wasn’t messing around.
I added my Mazda to the assemblage and got out. Walking up the drive, I noticed movement in the front window of the house to my left. A silhouette stood with arms crossed, eyes pointed in my direction. Though a reflection off the glass obscured the face, body form suggested the curious neighbor was male.
I hurried up stone steps to a darkly stained door. Tried the handle and found it unlocked.
The foyer had a slate floor, oil-rubbed bronze sconces, and a matching bronze fixture overhead. To the left, a powder room. Straight ahead were living and dining rooms. In each was a CSS tech in white Tyvek coveralls. One was taking pictures. The other was dusting dark powder onto a door frame.
Voices came from somewhere in back and to the left. Loud. Unhappy.
A mound of disposable Tyvek shoe covers lay on the slate. I slipped on a pair and moved forward.
The house’s interior looked like an attempt to re-create an old black-and-white photo. The upholstery, rugs, and walls were all variations on gray. Fog. Ash. Sweatshirt. Steel. Chartreuse accessories added splashes of color. Throw pillows. A mirror frame. A chair. DVDs crammed built-ins beside a fieldstone fireplace. A small flat-screen TV hung above.
In the dining room, a dove-gray drum chandelier dangled over a table set with chartreuse place mats. In the middle, candles that had never been burned. A chartreuse ceramic bowl sat perfectly centered on a sideboard. A painting of bright green poppies decorated a wall.
I wondered if Ajax or the builder had chosen the decor. Suspected the latter. The place had a cold, impersonal feel. As though the furnishings had been purchased at Rooms To Go and Pottery Barn, then placed exactly as displayed in a magazine spread.
I nodded to the techs as I wound my way toward the kitchen. They nodded back.
Slidell was on one side of a brown-granite-topped island. Tinker was on the other. Both wore shoe covers and latex gloves.
“—couldn’t like him or not like him. They don’t know him. The woman next door thought he worked at an Apple store.” Tinker looked red-faced and cross.
“Track down the ones you missed.” Slidell looked crosser.
“I’ll get the same story.”
“You’re the one pushed for this.”
“You don’t think Ajax is dirty?”
“I’m not saying that,” Slidell snapped.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying if Salter learns about the stall on Oklahoma, it’s my balls on a rusty hook, not yours. Not to mention blocking Ajax from his lawyer right now.”
“Or is it that those balls are already gone? Once burned, twi—”
“Get the fuck out there and bring me something!”
Tinker started to reply, heard my plastic-bottomed footies slapping the tile. Mouth tightening into an inverted U, he spun and stomped off.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“We’ve been through the whole friggin’ place. So far, nothing. No porn. No girls’ clothing. No key, no ring, no ballet slippers. No boarded windows, no padlocked doors. Nothing to suggest a kid was ever in here.”
“Prints?”
“One set, which, you can bet your ass, will come back to Ajax. Same for hairs, fibers. Either he’s the tidiest fucker on the planet or the most careful.”
“Have the techs checked the vacuum cleaner?”
“Bagged the contents.”
“The trash?”
Slidell just looked at me.
“Did they get anything that might yield DNA?”
“Toothbrush. But Ajax ain’t on file.”
“We can compare it to DNA from the lip print on Leal’s jacket.”
“Right.”
“Did you find a computer?”
A moment of hesitation. Then, “No.”
“A charger for a laptop?”
“No.”
“A modem? A router?”
Tight shake of the head.
“He could have gone online elsewhere. Maybe at the hospital.”
“Yeah.”
“Is there a basement?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“Just a crawl space. Empty except for crap the builder shoved under there. And a whole generation of spiders.”
“Garage?”
“Clean.”
“Where’s his car?”
“Uptown.”
“Is it included in the warrant?”
“No.” Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. We both knew. If this search came up empty, there would not be another.
“May I look around?”
“Don’t touch nothing.”
Slidell looked so glum, I let the grating command pass without comment.
After retracing my steps, I turned left at the foyer. The hall led to a pair of bedrooms, each with an en suite bath.
I entered the one at the front of the house. Here the theme was green. The furnishings included a bed, a side table with lamp, a desk. Their boho styling screamed Restoration Hardware. Two bookshelves by the desk looked more Staples or Costco.
I believe bathrooms reveal a lot about a person. I started there.
The medicine cabinet was open, its mirror coated with fingerprint powder. Ditto the glass shower stall. Both were empty. No soap, no shampoo, no washcloth or loofah. The sink was pedestal, zero place to stash anything. The room was sterile. Not a hint of personality.
I returned to the bedroom.
The shelves held sets of professional journals. I crossed to observe them up close. Emergency Medicine Journal. The Journal of the American Medical Association. The New England Journal of Medicine. Annals of Emergency Medicine.
I shifted to the desk. Centered on it was the most recent issue of JAMA, closed, with a small plastic ruler marking a page. I wondered what Ajax had been reading. Remembered Slidell’s warning and didn’t look.
Stapler. Tape holder. Letter opener. Leather cup with pens and pencils. A small stack of envelopes that looked like bills.
Nothing in the wastebasket. Probably the work of the CSS techs.
The room was clearly Ajax’s office. Yet he went elsewhere to use the bathroom. At least for more than toilet needs. Habit? Eliminating the need to clean more than one?
I crossed the hall to the bedroom opposite. It was marginally larger and done in shades of blue. Same RH vibe but different finish and detail work on the wood. A more urban-chic style. As before, I started in the bathroom.
Unlike its counterpart, this one was used. Black flannel pajamas hung from a hook on the door. The shower stall held one bottle each of shampoo and conditioner, a bar of Ivory soap, and a long-handled brush.
The medicine cabinet contained Advil, Afrin, ChapStick, CVS-brand plastic bandages, Degree antiperspirant, a Gillette disposable razor, a can of Edge shaving gel, Oral B dental floss, and a tube of Crest.
The sink was set into a black wooden vanity. Open drawers revealed a brush and comb set, tweezers, scissors, a home barber kit, and a battery-operated nose- and ear-hair trimmer. Linens, toilet paper, and backups for all toiletries were stored in a tall slatted cupboard that matched the sink. When Ajax shopped, he bought to last months.
I thought of the array of products in my bathroom. Of the state of hygiene in my cabinets and drawers. Slidell was right. The place was extraordinarily clean. An obsession? A covering of tracks?
Back to the bedroom.
A book of crossword puzzles was propped against the lamp on the bedside table, a pen clipped to its cover. A reprint from the European Journal of Emergency Medicine. I twisted sideways to read the title. “Reducing the Potential for Tourniquet-Associated Reperfusion Injury.” Yep. That’ll get you to sleep.
Three framed photos sat equidistant from one another on the dresser. I crossed to study them.
And felt my skin goose up into tiny bumps.
CHAPTER 33
NONE OF TH
E photos looked recent. One was posed. A woman, seated, a baby on her lap and a toddler at her side. A red velvet band held long black hair back from her face. The woman looked straight at the camera with large brown eyes. Sad eyes.
The other two pictures were snapshots. One captured the woman walking hand in hand with two little girls. They looked about three and five. In the other, the trio was seated on a wall. Same kids but older, maybe six and eight.
Both girls had the woman’s dark eyes and hair. On both occasions, their hair was center-parted, braided, and tied off with bows.
My mind popped a series of flashbulb images. Leal. Donovan. Estrada. Koseluk. Nance. Gower.
I hurried back to the kitchen. Slidell was peering into the fridge. “Did you check out the photos in the bedroom?”
“Probably the wife and kids.” Slamming the door.
“Did you see the resemblance—”
“You telling me how to do my job?”
Cutting, even for Slidell. Knowing pressure from Salter and friction with Tinker were combining to make him overly defensive, I let it go. “Are you getting any feel for who Ajax is?”
“Bollywood freak.” Far from apologetic but more tempered.
“The DVDs?”
Slidell nodded. “Lousy dresser. Eats healthy. Likes baseball.” I cocked a questioning brow. Wasted, since Slidell wasn’t looking at me. “He gets the major league package on cable.”
I scanned the countertop beyond the island. Not a crumb or smudge. No canisters or cookie jar. Only a portable phone in a charger.
Slidell turned and saw where I was looking. “Yes. I hit redial. The last call went to Mercy.”
“Any stored numbers?”
“No.”
“Any messages?”
“No.”
“You’re right about the place being spotless.”
“The worm’s got every spray and polish ever put in a bottle.” Jerking a thumb at a pantry I hadn’t noticed before.
“Does he use a cleaning service?”
“None of the neighbors ever saw anyone but him come and go. Hell, they hardly ever saw him.”
“Yard service?”
“No.”
“What about mail?” I noticed a small white box on the wall beside the back door.
“Utility bills. Circulars. Catalogues. Nothing personal.”
“No indication he maintained contact with his family?”
“They’re in India.”
“They have phones and mailboxes there.”
“No shit.”
“Catalogues might mean he shopped online.” The box had a sticker.
“I don’t shop online, and I get the same crap.”
“Was the security system activated when you came in?” The sticker had a logo. ADT.
“Yeah.”
“Ajax gave you the code?”
“I persuaded him that sharing was in his best interest.”
“So he sets the alarm when he’s away.”
“Where you going with this?”
“If ADT keeps records, they could tell you when Ajax entered and left the house.”
“They could tell me when someone entered and left the house.”
“So this was a bust,” I said.
“You kiddin’? Double score.” Slidell stripped off his gloves. “First, this house ain’t a crime scene.”
Slidell’s phone buzzed. He yanked it from his belt. Checked the screen. Sighed and raised it to his ear. “Slidell.”
A tinny voice. Female. Strident.
“Yeah?”
The voice boiled again.
“Musta been a misunderstanding.”
More boiling.
“On my way.” Hooking the device back into place. “Salter’s putting me up for cop of the year.” Slidell looked at me, eyes bloodshot from worry and unrest. Then strode toward the door.
“And the second?” I asked.
“What?” Turning.
“What’s the second thing you learned?”
“The prick keeps another crib for his dirty work.”
While Slidell reported to Salter, I went to the MCME.
Larabee’s bones weren’t as straightforward as he’d hoped. Though far from complete, the skeleton was obviously human. A male, middle-aged, edentulous, probably white. Cortical flaking, discoloration, and adherent fibers suggested the man had occupied a coffin for many years.
Larabee was off somewhere. I wrote a preliminary report and left it on his desk. It would be up to him to investigate or not.
Slidell phoned late in the afternoon. His mood made the morning’s seem happy-go-lucky.
Salter had gotten two calls before noon. One was from Ajax’s lawyer, Jonathan Rao, accusing the CMPD of denying his client the constitutional right to counsel. The other was from the judge who’d issued the search warrant—Rao had also reamed out Her Honor.
Since neither caller was happy, Salter wasn’t happy. After laying into Slidell, she’d relented and said he could re-interview Ajax. Wearing gloves made of very young goat. The session yielded nothing. The few answers Ajax gave were filtered through Rao. At three, both walked out the door. It was the last time anyone would talk to Hamet Ajax.
Slidell had received video from Walmart and Harris Teeter that covered the day Leal went missing. So far, he hadn’t spotted Ajax or his car. He planned to continue working through the footage.
I got through two reports, knocked off at five. Back home, I ate Bojangles’ chicken with Bird and watched a rerun of Bones. For some reason, the cat is nuts about Hodgins.
Slidell called again at nine. “He’s on tape.”
“Which one?”
“Walmart and the Manor.” Gloomy. Obviously not wanting Ajax to be there.
“LSA for Leal was 4:15 at the convenience store on Morningside.”
“Ajax was in the Walmart on Pineville-Matthews Road. Entered at 3:52. Left at 5:06.”
“Rush hour, and those locations are at least ten miles apart.”
We both gnawed on that.
“Maybe you were right.” Slidell sighed. “Maybe this douchebag don’t work alone.”
Or maybe. Just maybe.
I didn’t say it.
That night, sleep was elusive.
The rain was back. I lay in the dark, listening to drops hit the screen and patter on the sill. To the subtle hum of my bedside clock.
And thought the thought again.
Impossible.
I reviewed what I knew about serial killers. Their victims usually conform to a type. A tall blond woman. A teenage boy with short brown hair. Cher. A hooker. A homeless codger with a cart full of trash.
The individual means nothing to the killer. He or she is irrelevant, a bit player in a carefully constructed ballet. The dance alone matters. Each battement and pirouette must be carried out with precision.
The killer is both dancer and choreographer, in control at all times. Victims enter and leave the stage, interchangeable, bit players in the corps.
I thought about Pomerleau. About Catts. About the mad tango that had left so many dead in Montreal.
I thought about Ajax. To what sick music was he moving? Did he learn it from Pomerleau? Or did he compose the score himself?
In his subconscious, who might Ajax be killing? His daughters? His wife? The babysitter who seduced him and ruined his life?
Birdie jumped onto the bed. I scooped him close. He readjusted, settled, and head-bumped my palm. I stroked him and he started to purr.
Ajax was shopping when Shelly Leal disappeared. Did he have an accomplice? Was it someone at the hospital? If not there, where? Did he have a killing place, as Slidell believed?
Or.
I thought of the home on Sunrise Court. So architecturally right and yet so wrong. Lifeless. Sterile.
I pictured Ajax working crossword puzzles in his bed. Paying bills at his desk. Watching baseball or DVDs from the chartreuse chair. Alone. Always alone. A common pattern with serial killers.
/>
In my mind, I went back through each room. Recalled not a single thing to suggest that Ajax had a life outside his home or the hospital. No woman’s robe in the closet. No Post-it on the fridge saying, Call Tom. No picture of himself with friends or co-workers. No reminder on a calendar to meet Ira for lunch. Nothing to suggest anyone in Ajax’s life cared about him. That he cared about anyone.
No. That wasn’t true. He’d kept the three photos. Old photos. Of whom? Had to be his wife and daughters. Was the woman the template for his victims? One of the girls? Why?
No one at Mercy knew Ajax. No one on his street. No one in New Hampshire or West Virginia remembered him.
Again the unsettling thought. Could we be wrong? Could Ajax be innocent?
Could we be bullying a man who cut himself off from the world out of self-loathing? A man who had made a hideous mistake and lost everything? A man unable to forgive his own actions? Unwilling to trust himself outside the confines of the workplace or home?
There was no excuse for taking advantage of a child. But had anyone followed up on that? Talked to those involved in the arrest and prosecution? The babysitter would be in her thirties now. Had anyone talked to her?
I would ask Slidell in the morning.
Outside, the rain fell softly. Inside, the annex was dark and still.
My mind refused to clock out.
Over and over, I glanced at the time.
11:20.
12:10.
2:47.
My iPhone woke me from a sound sleep. The room was dim. The digits on the clock said 5:40.
Mama!
Heart banging, I clicked on.
My mother wasn’t dead.
Hamet Ajax was.
CHAPTER 34
SLIDELL PICKED ME up with no more greeting than a sour glance. Which was fine.
He handed me a Styrofoam cup with a white plastic cover. The tepid contents bore some vague resemblance to coffee.
As we drove, the horizon bled from black into pearly pink. Trees and buildings took shape, and gray oozed into the spaces between.
The lighter it got, the worse Slidell looked. His lower face was dark with five o’clock shadow; the bags under his eyes were large enough to house small mammals. His outfit was a color-clashing, coffee-stained rumple that stank of cigarettes and sweat.