Chapter 25
Was Ruthie out of line? Or just being a normal, temperamental teen?
Was her response to Meloy’s admission justified? Or an overreaction triggered by hormones and worry?
Worry about what?
Those were my thoughts as I drove to work the next morning.
When I’d left the Annex, the temperature was already nudging into the eighties, and the humidity was thick enough to float small boats. But the radio meteorologist had tiptoed around the possibility of rain. Dark shadowing along the horizon hinted that the odds could be better than she’d implied.
Mrs. Flowers was at her effervescent best. I endured a brief chat about her nephew’s role in his high school play before I managed to escape.
Entering my office, I dropped my case on the desk and shrugged into the sweater I keep in one of its drawers. Though it was Tropic of Cancer outside, Nguyen could be counted on to keep the facility in a state of arctic freeze.
I’d barely settled in my chair when my mobile rang.
After checking caller ID, I answered.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Adina said, echoing my greeting. “What’s up in the world of corpses?”
“Maggots and decomp.”
“How is it you always have all the fun?”
“Not to mention the glamour.” I smiled for the first time that day.
“Nothing says elegant like blood spatter on a lab coat.”
“Amen to that,” I agreed.
“Listen, I’m calling to ask if you want to go to a concert week after next.”
“To see who?” Whom, Ryan might have corrected. I smiled more broadly, thinking of him.
“Dirt Monkey.”
“I’m not familiar with the group. What are they—heavy metal? Doesn’t sound like a jazz quartet.”
“Or a trio of harpists. Actually, my younger colleague who gave me his tickets seemed totally bummed that he’d developed a conflict and couldn’t make it. Apparently, they’ve got quite the following.”
“Can I get back to you on that?” I asked, thinking about the last concert I’d attended a couple years prior.
A seventies band on their third “farewell tour.” An older couple in front of Ryan and me had seemed determined to smoke up the bountiful supply of weed they’d brought along.
By the band’s second set the fumes they’d created were so pungent that Ryan and I decided to pack it in.
“Sure.”
Sudden thought.
“While I have you on the phone, may I pick your psychologist brain?”
“Sparse pickings, but shoot.”
“My niece is acting moody.”
“Ruthie, right?”
“Yes.”
“She’s sixteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“Is it whiny I’m-going-to-die-of-boredom moody? Get-out-of-my room moody? Buzz-off-you’re-the-dumbest-person-on-the-planet moody?”
“I doubt kids say ‘buzz off’ these days.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
“We were having a picnic yesterday when the subject of dogs came up.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Katy, Ruthie, a guy named Lester Meloy, an engineering grad student, and myself.”
“What grad student?”
“Danielle Hall. She also works for the city.”
“The gorilla with the funky hair and eyebrow ring?”
“That’s unkind.”
“She chooses that look.”
I could think of no rejoinder, so I offered none.
“Do you know Hall through UNCC?” Adina asked.
“I don’t really know her.”
“Then how did this little gathering of odd fellows come to be?”
“Hall is Meloy’s friend. They both belong to a campus club called Live. Maybe Live.” I pronounced the name both ways. “The group has taken Ruthie under their wing.” Its wing? Jesus. Why was my brain so concerned with grammar?
“You’re a big, bad professor,” Adina said. “Investigate the group through school channels.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I learned zip.”
“How can that be?”
“It’s not an officially recognized organization.”
“Back up. How did Ruthie meet these people?”
“She did one of those tours meant for prospective students and parents. Meloy was the guide.”
“O-kaay.” Intonation suggesting maybe it wasn’t.
“You’re an excellent judge of character, right?” I asked.
“Ted Bundy is permanently off my Christmas card list.”
“I’m serious.”
“Sorry.”
“Meloy kind of sets off alarms,” I said.
“What sort of alarms?”
“What do you mean?” Where was she going with this?
“Christ, Tempe. Goose-bumpy skin? Warbly echoes deep in your id? Or are you saying the guy literally smashes the glass on little wall-mounted boxes and pulls down the levers?”
“Of course he doesn’t do that. At least not that I know of.”
Impatient breathing riffed across the line.
“I don’t know, Adi. He’s just too…” I groped for a word. “Nice.”
“Holy shitbuckets, girlfriend. You should have said so right off. Hang up and I’ll call the crisis helpline.”
“There is such a thing?”
“Yes. I think you dial nine eight eight.”
I stashed that tidbit for potential use with my sister, Harry.
Then I took a moment to gather my thoughts on Meloy. To review mental images and replay conversations.
“What I mean is, the guy’s almost too witty, too charming.”
“He’s slick? Shallow? Phony?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“You’re saying that a lot.”
“I am.”
“Maybe try a concrete example?”
I told her about Meloy’s retriever, Poppy. Described how he’d shown no remorse over shooting the dog.
“That does seem cold. But it doesn’t mean he’s evil.”
“Right.” A beat, then, “Just a minute ago you mentioned Ted Bundy.”
“Scratched from my holiday card and invitation list. What about him?”
“Bundy was handsome. He used his good looks when trolling for victims.”
“I’ve dated a lot of guys like that.”
“One of Bundy’s tricks was to wear a sling and pretend his arm was broken.
He’d stand outside a store with a bag of groceries and ask a young woman to help him load the bundle into his car.
Once she got far enough into the passenger seat, he’d snap the lock on her side, then drive to some remote place to rape and kill her. Later, he’d feel zero remorse.”
“You suspect Meloy of being a serial killer?” Adina sounded simultaneously shocked, alarmed, and dubious.
“Of course not. It’s just, I keep thinking about those behaviors you mentioned, along with others I’ve read about: glib speech, superficial charm, manipulativeness, callousness, failure to accept responsibility for one’s actions.”
“Sounds like a personality profile for a psychopath. And I also add narcissism, impulsivity, sexual promiscuity, poor behavioral control, and a parasitic lifestyle. Does Meloy exhibit any of those traits?”
“He has a high opinion of himself.”
“He’s a man.”
“You think I’m nuts, right?”
A pause as Adina chose her words carefully.
“I think you’re uncomfortable with Ruthie hanging with an older crowd. And that you may be overly judgmental when it comes to Meloy.”
“Do you think I should ask her to stay away from them?”
“Would that do any good?”
Remembering myself as a teen, I doubted it would. “Not likely,” I said.
“She’s a smart girl, Tempe. Trust the kid.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, not sure that she was.
“Or not.”
“Or not.”
We both laughed.
“Whatever happened with the nut job ornamenting trees with glittered-up animal corpses?”
“Nothing.”
“The creep is still out there?”
“As far as I know,” I said. “But I think you nailed it.”
“No pun intended.”
“Sharp point.”
“It’s too early.” Adina groaned at my pun. “You win.”
“Anyway, he—”
“Or she.”
“The doer is upping his or her game.”
“How so?”
I described the latest in the string of decorated remains.
I could almost hear Adina’s brain working through the series. Then,
“He’s gone from small forest creatures to larger animals, to pets, to cemetery remains, to live human victims.” All levity was gone from her voice.
“The man in Cordelia Park. Quaashi Brown. Ralph Balodis.”
“From total strangers to people you actually know.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I was right. The prick is escalating.”
I said nothing.
“The next target could be someone close to you. Or, God forbid, it could be you.”
“Let’s not get overly dramatic.”
“I’m glad Ryan will be there with you for a while.”
“Are you saying I need a man’s protection?”
“I’m saying I’m glad you won’t be alone.”
A beep announced an incoming call.
I tipped the phone to read the screen.
Unknown Number.
Normally I wouldn’t answer an anonymous call. But Ryan was on his way, and I feared another travel misadventure.
“Gotta go, Adi. Thanks for listening to my angsty ramblings.” Wanting to end on a positive note.
“Anytime, girlfriend. Let me know about the Dirt Monkey concert.”
“Will do.”
“Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
I disconnected and hit the button to accept the incoming call.
“Temperance Brennan.”
No one responded to my greeting.
“Hello?”
Hollow background noise.
“Is someone there?”
Nothing.
“Dickhead.” Jabbing an irritated thumb.
A case arrived at noon, bones found in a cardboard box marked Peony in the basement of a Baptist church off Beatties Ford Road. Dry, discolored, and odorless, one look told me they were the remains of a long-dead pig.
When I phoned, the pastor, an elderly gentleman named John-David Nellie, agreed to collect and inter the deceased in the property’s small burial ground.
RIP Peony.
At two, I headed out.
A not-so-quick stop at Whole Foods, then I spent an hour making space in the fridge and pantry for all the impulse purchases I’d made.
Frosted pretzels. Organic red cherries. Fuji apples.
Avocados. Baby Bella mushrooms. Boston lettuce.
Bok choy. Sliced prosciutto and honey maple turkey breast. Five different cheeses.
Butter croissants, with and without chocolate chips.
Pecan pie. Two New York strips large enough to feed Croatia. You get the picture.
At four, I showered, then spritzed myself with the Jo Malone London Rose & White Musk Absolu body spray Ryan had gifted me on my last birthday. Applying it in the only correct way, according to Harry. Pointing the nozzle into the air, then stepping into the cascading mist.
Birthday suit, birthday spray, some cluster of neurons chirruped as the tiny droplets settled on my skin.
I know what you’re thinking. But it had been weeks since Ryan and I had been together. My mind was as bubbly as newly uncorked champagne.
When Ryan phoned at quarter past five, I set out for the airport.
I’d just turned onto Woodlawn when I noticed a black Honda in the rearview mirror.
Other images flashed. A black Honda Accord on the circle drive outside the Annex. Another leaving the Red Rocks Cafe.
Something had bothered me at the time of the second sighting. Was it coincidence? The same vehicle? If so, did it mean anything?
Having caught part of the plate, I’d done some half-hearted research but learned nothing. Deciding that I was being overly suspicious, I’d forgotten all about it.
You’re acting paranoid again, Brennan.
Without thinking, I hung a right.
The Accord hung a right.
I made a left.
The Accord made a left.
Heart skipping a little faster, I sped up.
The Accord stayed with me.