“Her mother was killed in the Red Phoenix restaurant just a month before that.”
“Yeah, I know. Rotten luck in that family.” He sipped his scotch. “Money can’t stop the Grim Reaper.”
“You think that’s all it was? Rotten luck?”
“Lou Ingersoll and I talked and talked about it. We couldn’t see a way to tie the two events together, and we looked at it every which way. Custody fight over Charlotte? Nasty divorce? Money?”
“Nothing?”
Buckholz shook his head. “I’ve gone through a divorce myself, and I still hate the bitch. But Patrick Dion, he and his ex-wife stayed friends. He even got along with her new husband.”
“Even though Arthur ran off with Patrick’s wife?”
He laughed. “Yeah, can you figure? They started off two happy families. Patrick, Dina, and Charlotte. Arthur, Barbara, and their son, Mark. Both kids attended that snooty Bolton Academy, which is how the families met. They started having dinners together. Then Arthur hooks up with Patrick’s wife, and everyone gets divorced. Arthur marries Dina, Patrick gets custody of twelve-year-old Charlotte, and they all go on being friends. It’s unnatural, I tell ya.” He set down his glass. “The normal thing would’ve been to hate each other.”
“Are you sure they didn’t?”
“I guess it’s possible they hid it. It’s possible that five years after their divorce, Patrick Dion stalked his ex-wife and her husband to that restaurant and shot them in a fit of rage. But Mark Mallory swore to me that everyone was friendly. And he lost his own father in that shooting.”
“What about Mark’s mother? Was she hunky-dory about losing her husband to another woman?”
“I never got a chance to talk with Barbara Mallory. She had a stroke a year before the shooting. The day Charlotte vanished, Barbara was in a rehab hospital. She died a month later. Yet another bad-luck family.” He waved at the bartender. “Hey, I need another one here.”
“Um, did you drive, Hank?” asked Jane, frowning at his empty glass.
“It’s okay. I promise, this’ll be my last.”
The bartender set another scotch on the counter and Buckholz just stared at it, as though its mere presence was enough to satisfy him for the moment. “So that’s the story in a nutshell,” he said. “Charlotte Dion was seventeen, blond, and gorgeous. When she wasn’t attending that boarding school, she lived with her rich daddy. She had everything going for her, and then-poof. She’s snatched off a street. We just haven’t found her remains yet.” He picked up the scotch, his hand now steady. “Hell of a thing, life.”
“And death.”
He laughed and took a sip. “So true.”
“You have any thoughts about the other girl who vanished? Laura Fang?”
“That was Sedlak’s case, rest his soul. But I did review it, because of the Red Phoenix connection. Didn’t find anything to make me think the abductions were related. I think Charlotte was a spontaneous spot and snatch. Laura, she was a different case. It happened right after school got out and she was walking home. One of her schoolmates saw Laura voluntarily climb into someone’s car, like she knew the driver. But no one got a license plate and the girl was never seen again. So that’s another body that’s never been found.” He stared at the bottles lined up on the other side of the counter. “Makes you wonder just how many skeletons are piled up in the woods, in the landfills. Millions of people missing in this country. All those bones. I can accept the fact I’m gonna die someday, as long as there’s a nice marker to tell the world it’s me buried there. But to never be found? To end up hidden under some weeds? That’s like you never even existed.” He shuddered. “Anyway, that’s the Charlotte Dion case in a nutshell. Does that help any?”
“I don’t know. Right now, it’s just one piece of a very confusing puzzle.” Jane waved to the bartender. “Let me have the tab.”
“No way,” said Buckholz.
“You just did me a favor, telling me about Charlotte.”
“I’m here all the time anyway. This seat, this bar. You know where to find me.” He looked down at her ringing cell phone. “I see you’re a girl in demand. Lucky you.”
“Depends who’s calling.” She answered her phone. “Detective Rizzoli.”
“I’m sorry to have to make this call.” It was a man’s voice, and he did indeed sound reluctant to be talking to her. “I believe you’re Detective Tam’s supervisor?”
“Yes, we work together.”
“I’m calling on behalf of all the victims’ families. We’d prefer not to deal with Detective Tam anymore. He’s managed to upset everyone, especially poor Mary Gilmore. After all these years, why are we being subjected to these questions again?”
Jane massaged her head, dreading the talk she would need to have with her younger colleague.
“Patrick Dion.”
She straightened. Looked at Buckholz, who was following the conversation with keen interest. Once a cop, always a cop. “Dina Mallory was your ex-wife?” she said.
“Yes. And it’s painful, being reminded of how she died.”
“I understand it’s difficult for you, Mr. Dion. But Detective Tam needs to ask these questions.”
“Dina died nineteen years ago. There was never any doubt about who killed her. Why is this coming up again?”
“I can’t really discuss it. It’s-”
“Yes, I know. It’s part of
“Because it’s true.”
“Mark Mallory is livid about this, and it’s got both Mary Gilmore and her daughter upset. First we get those notes in the mail, and then Detective Tam starts calling us. We’d all like to know why this is happening now.”
“Excuse me,” she cut in. “What’s this about getting notes?”
“It’s been going on for six, seven years. Every March thirtieth they show up in our mailboxes, like some grim anniversary reminder.”
“What’s in these notes?”
“I always get a copy of Dina’s obituary. On the back, someone writes:
“Do you still have those notes?”
“Yes, and Mary has hers. But Mark was so angry, he tossed his out.”
“Who’s sending these things? Do you know?”
“I have to assume they come from the same person who took out the ad in the
“Why would Mrs. Fang be doing this?”
There was a long pause. “I hate to speak badly of Mrs. Fang. She lost her husband so I know she’s suffered, too. I feel sorry for her. But I think the issue is quite obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
“The woman,” said Patrick, “is insane.”
TWELVE
BY THE TIME HER DOORBELL RANG, MAURA HAD THE DINNER TABLE set and a leg of lamb roasting in the oven. Teenage boys were notorious for their appetites, so she had brought home both a blueberry and an apple pie, had baked four potatoes and shucked half a dozen ears of corn. Did the boy eat salad? She didn’t know. During those desperately hungry days they’d spent together in the Wyoming wilderness, she and Rat had survived on whatever they could forage. She had watched him devour dog biscuits and tinned beans and tree bark. Surely he
