I can’t listen to any more of this. I need to be out of the kitchen. “I’ve got a fax waiting in Grandpapa’s office. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“He should be home soon,” she says. “You know he doesn’t like people in his private office when he’s not there.”
“When’s he due back?” I ask, heading for the door.
“Today is all I know.”
I start to leave, then stop at the kitchen door and turn back. “Mom, do you have anything personal left of Dad’s?”
“Like what? Pictures? What?”
“Like an old hairbrush.”
“A hairbrush? What on earth for?”
“I was hoping you might have some of his hair. Sometimes people keep a lock of hair when they lose a loved one?”
She’s suddenly frozen in place, her eyes wide. “You want it for a DNA sample.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes. To compare to the blood on the floor of the bedroom.”
“I don’t have anything like that.”
“The carpet is the same one as when I lived here, isn’t it?”
The two red circles have darkened on her cheeks. “You don’t remember it?”
“I just wanted to be sure. Is the bed the same?”
“For God’s sake, Catherine.”
“Is it?”
“The frame is the same. I had to get rid of your mattress.”
“Why?”
“Urine stains. You wet the bed so often when you were a child.”
“I did?”
Puzzlement in her eyes now. “You don’t remember that?”
“No.”
She sighs wearily. “Well, it’s best forgotten. Just part of being a child.”
“What did you do with the mattress?”
“The mattress? I’m sure Pearlie had Mose take it to the dump.”
“I saw Mose outside earlier. I can’t believe he still works here.”
“He refuses to quit. He’s not as strong as he used to be, but he’s still going.”
I hate to push her, but what do I have to lose now? “I know it’s a long shot, Mom, but do you think Daddy ever donated to a sperm bank or anything like that?”
My mother stares at me as though she can’t believe I’m her child.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I have to do this. I have no choice.”
After a long look, she turns away and takes a sip of coffee.
Knowing that no words from me will make her feel better, I walk outside and make my way across the garden to the rear of Malmaison’s left wing. My grandfather’s study is on the ground floor.
Entering the mansion, I walk with bored familiarity past priceless antiques, eventually making my way to the library, which functions as my grandfather’s study. Patterned after Napoleon’s library, it’s a world of dark wooden columns, rich upholstery, and broad French doors that open onto the front gallery. Civil War muskets are mounted on the ceiling beams, and twin crystal chandeliers light the room. Leather-bound volumes line the shelves, with paintings suspended on velvet cords in front of them. A few of the canvases show English hunting scenes, but most depict Civil War battles-Confederate triumphs all. The room’s only concession to modernity is a long cypress table beside my grandfather’s rolltop desk. On it stand a computer, printer, copier, and fax machine. The fax tray is empty. I take out my cell phone and speed-dial Sean.
“Cat?” he says over the chatter of the squad room.
“I’m standing by the fax machine,” I tell him. “Nothing’s come yet.”
“I’m sending it through now. There’s a decent amount of public information on Malik, but it’s mostly scholarly stuff. When you get right down to it, it’s hard to get a feel for what makes this guy tick.”
“When is the task force going to talk to him?”
“They still haven’t decided. Like you said, they feel they have some time before he hits again. Nobody wants to screw this up.”
“Okay. I’ll get back to you if I notice anything interesting.”
“Hey?” Sean says.
“Yeah?”
“Get back to me anyway. I miss you.”
I close my eyes as a wave of heat runs up my neck. “Okay.”
I hang up, then sit at my grandfather’s desk and wait for the fax to come through. The room smells of fresh cigars, old leather, good bourbon, and lemon oil. Intrigued by Michael Wells’s story of a front company buying up downtown Natchez, I consider poking through my grandfather’s desk, but it’s locked.
Tired of waiting for Sean’s fax, I pick up the phone, dial information, and get the number of Dr. Harold Shubb in New Orleans. Before second thoughts can stop me, I let the number automatically connect, then identify myself as a fellow dentist to Dr. Shubb’s receptionist.
“Just one moment, Doctor,” says the woman.
After a brief pause, a man who sounds excited to be taken away from his operatory chair comes on the line. “Cat Ferry! I always knew this call would come. I look forward to it and dread it at the same time. Has there been a plane crash?”
Dr. Shubb has naturally assumed that I’m calling to activate the volunteer disaster identification unit. “No, Harold. I’m calling about something just as serious, though.”
“What’s going on? What can I do for you?”
“Have you been following the recent murders in town?”
“Sure, yeah, of course.”
“There’s a bite mark angle to the case.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard that.”
“The police are keeping it from the public. What I’m about to tell you, you can’t mention to a soul.”
“Goes without saying, Cat.”
“We-that is, the task force working the case-we have a suspect. He’s one of your patients, Harold.”
Stunned silence on Dr. Shubb’s end of the line. “Holy God. Are you kidding me?”
“No.” I hear his breathing, shallow and irregular.
“May I ask who it is?”
“Not yet. This is an informal call, Harold.”
Another pause. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“The FBI is probably going to contact you today-officially-to get a look at any X-rays you might have on this patient. The NOPD, however, wants you and me to have an informal conversation a little sooner than that.”
Dr. Shubb processes this. “I’m listening.”
“I’m worried that any specific discussion we have about X-rays or teeth could later wreck the chance of a conviction.”
“You might be right. If you don’t have a court order, I mean. All this HIPAA privacy crap is driving me insane.”
“I’m sure. Look, what I was thinking was that we could have a general conversation about this patient, but without getting into his mouth. Would you have a problem with that?”
“Fire away. I won’t tell a soul.”
I pray this is true. “The suspect’s name is Nathan Malik. He’s-”
“A shrink,” Shubb finishes. “Holy
