vans — if it wasn’t profane to use a word such as
He and Ricci were ahead of the pack but Thibodeau believed it wouldn’t be long before the rest caught up. And while Ricci’s gut might fill with acid when he thought about the FBI joining the case, his own concern was having the press toss themselves into the mix. For reasons that didn’t exactly align, both men were very eager to talk to Rob Howell before others got wind of his whereabouts.
As a result, Thibodeau could sense the impatience with which Ricci glanced at their passenger’s pale, exhausted face in the rearview mirror.
“Okay,” Ricci said in his peculiar uninflected tone. “You want to go tell your brother why we’re here?”
Meredith Wagner nodded and reached for her door handle.
“I’ll let you know when he’s ready,” she said.
She went and talked with Howell for a couple of minutes. They saw him abruptly turn toward their parked car, saw him look back at his sister and talk to her some more. Then she waved them over, waited for them to approach, and sort of drifted off along the tennis court’s painted white foul line. Giving them room for privacy, Thibodeau supposed, but remaining close enough to cut short their conversation if Howell became too upset.
“Mister Howell—” Thibodeau began.
“Rob’s fine.” He shook their hands. “Meredith says you work for Julia’s dad. Private security, is it?”
Peripherally aware of the dogs in their circular sprint around the court, Thibodeau nodded, gave him their names, told him how sorry they were for his loss, and explained that what they wanted to ask wouldn’t take long.
“We know you been through everything with the police, ain’t about to put you on that go ’round again,” he said.
Howell cast his sunken eyes down at the ground a moment. Then he raised them to Thibodeau’s face and shrugged. “It’s all right. If it can help you find Julia, I don’t mind.”
Ricci looked at him. “Julia,” he said, “and the people who took what they did from you.”
Howell turned his way.
“My daughter was only six months old,” he said.
Ricci remained tunneled on his eyes, noticing their glazed appearance.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I got a call from him this morning, you know. The detective in charge. He didn’t want me to talk to anybody about what happened, mentioned you two in particular. In case you showed up at Merry’s.”
“He say why?”
“I guess just what you’d expect,” Howell said. “Something about how they don’t want their investigation compromised by outside parties.”
“You’re allowed to talk to whomever you want. Nothing legal they can do to stop you.”
“I figured that,” Howell said. “And if he’s right and we’re wrong, I can always claim not to remember his words.”
Ricci nodded a little.
“The medication,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Besides,” Ricci said. “We aren’t at Merry’s.”
A faint, desolate smile touched Howell’s lips, revealing little white flecks of dried saliva at their corners. He checked on the dogs with a glance over his shoulder, thrust his hands back into his pockets, and quietly bowed his head toward the synthetic grass again, his thoughts slipping into their own nebulous, faraway space.
“We were at the center before,” Ricci said. “The cops gave us a look around. Probably decided to phone you because I got on their nerves asking questions they didn’t want to answer.”
Howell brought up his head, slowly, working against the heavy resistance of the tranqs.
“What sort of questions?”
“There was blood on the floor of the shop,” Ricci said. “Near the door. The detective was ready to tell me it wasn’t Julia’s, but he wasn’t so ready to tell me the blood came from a dog that’d been shot.”
Howell nodded.
“Vivian,” he said.
“That be one of the rescues?” Thibodeau said.
Another nod.
“Julia favors her. The first day she came to work for me, I remember lecturing her about how our policy’s not to become too attached.” Howell gestured toward the whirling dogs behind him with a slight roll of his shoulder. “Being firm’s how I wound up with five of my own.”
Ricci looked at him. “With all the things the police shared with us, we have to wonder how come they kept quiet about the dog. Vivian.”
Howell’s mouth worked.
“Evidence,” he said after several moments. “She’s just evidence to them. It’s why they won’t let me anywhere near her. They call it a safeguard.”
Ricci let his eyes rest on him. “It’s important for us to know what’s happened to her body.”
Howell’s expression was odd.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.
Ricci paused a beat.
“When a pet’s remains have to be examined during an investigation, the police bring them to a lab for tests,” he said. “Depends on the case, but they’ll usually give them back to the owner after they’re through—”
Howell was shaking his head.
“You don’t understand,” he said.
Ricci looked at him.
“Don’t understand what?”
“Viv’s alive,” Howell said.
Aware Gordian would want to see it with his own eyes, Pete Nimec had hardcopied the e-mail aboard the chopper, printing it out on a single sheet of paper he’d folded into his wallet. Behind the closed sliding doors of Sheffield’s visitor parlor now, he sat on the couch with him and heard that paper rattle in his trembling hand.
“There’s nothing else?” Gordian said. His face was chalky. “This message is
“So far,” Nimec said. “Yeah.”
Gordian shook his head. “Ashley…”
“She doesn’t know yet. Meg’s been leaving messages for her to get in touch.”
“I’ll contact her myself.”
Nimec looked at him and nodded. He heard the paper rattle.
“You’re sure it’s the truth… about the tattoo?” Gordian said. “Because if Julia had gotten something like that put on her body, she’d tell me just to see my face turn red. You know her, Pete. How she is. She acts like it’s
“She told Megan. Some kind of secret thing between them. I think she was going to make a presentation of it the next time you saw her.”
“My God,” Gordian said through a harsh exhalation. “If not for that poor woman… her baby… killed, shot
