“I took the liberty of ordering!” he shouted through the door.
She pulled it wide, shaking her head at him. “What is this?”
“I feared you'd be too exhausted to come back out after all you've been through, and I know how I am after my evening shower. Last thing I wanna do is go back out. Just wanna curl up is all,” he spoke as he wheeled the cart into the center of the room.
“You can be honest, Darwin. You saw a woman dead on her feet and you took pity.”
“Ahhh… that, too, yeah, so I brought dinner to you, along with the murder books.”
“You had the casebooks all along?”
“Trunk of my car.”
“You do have it all worked out, don't you, Darwin.” She closed the door and grabbed a huge strawberry and dipped it into a small vat of chocolate, chomping down, famished and unable to wait.
Agent Darwin Reynolds arranged everything on the balcony at the table there, even the two thick facsimiles of autopsy and police reports bound in the covers of what police officials called murder books-all the paper that made up the Sarah Towne murder investigation in Oregon and the Louisa Childe murder investigation in Minnesota.
“A working dinner then,” she said, accepting the chair he held out for her.
Jessica lifted the cover off her meal, a steamy chicken marsala with a side dish of spaghetti in marinara. Between bites, once he sat down and joined her, taking up his meal and pouring wine, she told him about Richard Sharpe, who he was to her, and how he was on his way to Minnesota.
“To do what in Minnesota?”
“To find whatever blood or DNA evidence might help the cause.”
“DNA evidence? But authorities in Millbrook told me they had no DNA evidence from the crime scene.”
“Perhaps there's something hiding in the old evidence lockup. We don't any of us know for certain, now do we? If anyone can inventory the evidence and see beyond the obvious, it's Inspector… ahhh… Agent now, Richard Sharpe.”
“Maybe this Sharpe fella can rattle their cages. I'll certainly keep my fingers crossed.”
“Sharpe has indeed rattled a few cages in his time, and I'm betting Millbrook's finest will be no match for a former Scotland Yard investigator.”
“Those guys in Minnesota who worked the case seemed genuinely concerned and professional.”
“You want to explain your disappearing act?” she asked.
“Whataya mean?”
“Where you've been all this time, if you had the murder books in your trunk?”
“Phone calls. I still have a life.”
“I'm glad one of us has, and one day I damn well will carve one out for myself.” Jessica got quickly back to Richard. “Agent Sharpe cares, and he will do a thorough job in Millbrook, leaving none of the proverbial stones unturned.”
“I doubt he'll find anything useful after three years. What blood they processed all turned out to be the victim's. Don't really see that going there is going to, you know, accomplish anything. Still, I do appreciate his help.”
She forked up more food, famished from the long day of not eating, of being unable to stomach anything. Wiping her mouth with the large cloth napkin, she said, “Millbrook police are as prone to mistake as any agency, and autopsy folks make errors more often than I care to tell. We're not all as adept and agile as the perky young things on CSI, Darwin. And Richard is trained on the scent that ineptness leaves behind. Trust me. Or rather, trust Richard Sharpe. He has absolutely perfect instincts.”
Darwin replied, “One of the detectives on the case passed away not long ago. The other guy keeps his cards close to his chest, and he hates it that this case has gone unsolved. Damned angry and defensive about it.”
“What's your point?”
“Sharpe is going up against a wall there in Millbrook. I mean I appreciate his effort, but it will be a wasted one.”
“We don't know that.”
The sound of the street, like a strangely languorous melody rose up to the balcony where they dined. Jessica asked him what he knew of the medical examiner who had prepared the autopsy report on Louisa Childe.
“Nothing really. Seems competent enough for a smalltown M.E.”
“I know him well. Have met him on occasion at conventions of the American Medical Examiners Association. I've heard him speak. He does shoddy research from what I know. It's bound to spill over in his day-to-day. So, perhaps there is something lurking in Millbrook we have no clue about.”
“And when you need a clue that's not there?”
“Send in Scotland Yard.”
The rattle of stainless-steel utensils against dishware diminished and died. They sat looking across at one another, Darwin lifting his wineglass to accept her toast. “May we all be successful in our endeavors, you, me, Sharpe.”
He drank to this.
“Then again, you are wise to be skeptical. After all, a two-year-old case gets a lot of cold on it.”
“Still, it could save an innocent man if we can connect this murder to the other two.”
“I hope we can find some hard evidence to bolster your cause, Agent. Now, let me read what is before me.”
“I'll shut up and be patient then.”
“Thank you.” She sat back and lounged with the first murder book, that of Louisa Childe, propped atop that for Sarah Towne.
She sipped at her wine as she read. “You can walk me through the reports. I assume you've read both carefully.”
“Nine and ten times over yes.”
“And what strikes you as the most salient feature or point of comparison between the two?”
“The missing spine, of course.”
“What else?”
“The control he obviously exerted over the situation in both cases and the killing here in Milwaukee. Cold and calculated, hence the use of the charcoal drawings.”
“Let me read on through each book.” Her unfocused eyes steadied and met his. “If there's any stone left unturned, we'll find it and exploit it.”
FIVE
Demons are among us, and we must learn to spot them before they feed on us.
The same night in Milwaukee
Giles Ramsey Gahran walked out into the evening air on Loomis Street, going toward Lucinda Wellingham's art gallery. Under a slight, tapering-off drizzle, his thoughts wandered back to his mother. Lucinda reminded him vaguely of his mother, something around the eyes, the curve of the strong chin and the upturned nose, that perpetual half grin. He fantasized at length about Lucinda falling in love with his artwork and with him. Something he had never really ever had: honest, unwavering, unquestionable true love. Even his mother had disliked him, always deriding him, beating him, telling him he was just like his father, but never telling him anything substantive about his father, only nebulous references to his having been a horrible husband, a loser, a callous, thoughtless monster, a major disappointment to all who had known him, a failed artist, a teacher fired from every position he'd ever held, a jobless bum, a disappearing act. He was all of these things, and Mother was ever mindful that Giles
