Page 167 of Cold, Cold Bones

Leading the charge was my dislike of Henry. The woman had rubbed me wrong from the moment we’d met. Why? Her ability to dress with more aplomb than I could afford—the designer outfits, the pricey leather, the flashy jewelry? The California lingo? Her height? Her youth? Was I capable of such pettiness, or was my antipathy justified? Based on paranoia? On Harry’s gut chemistry theory?

Searching for the source of my animosity, I roped in my horses, one by one.

Fact: Slidell disapproved of Henry.

Big deal. Skinny disapproved of most people.

Fact: Henry had entered my office and, uninvited, handled a picture of Katy and Charlie.

Big deal. The pic was on full display.

Fact: Henry had put no effort into researching Soto’s locket.

Big deal. Her butt had been lassoed to search for Olivia Lakin.

Fact: Henry arrived in Charlotte about three years ago.

My crazy neighbor, Alasdair Campbell came into my life three years ago.

Sanchez and Boldonado—the earliest of the copycat cases—dated to three years ago.

Notre-Dame burned down three years ago.

Big deal.

Fact: Not every case that had been mimicked was public knowledge. Some of the deaths may have received zero coverage. Ergo, the copycat killer had access to insider intel?

Henry was a cop.

Big deal. The CMPD had more than two thousand employees.

Fact: A member of law enforcement may have accessed the coroner’s report on Noble Cruikshank.

May have. The form was almost illegible.

Henry was a cop.

Like two thousand others.

An idea took shape in my pain-addled brain.

A name floated up.

“What do you think?” I asked Birdie when he hopped onto the sofa.

The cat began licking his toes with a diligence I had to admire.

“I agree,” I said. “One must be thorough.”

I searched my contacts. Brown, Micaela. A decade my junior and my counterpart in LA, Mickey and I had tossed back a few in my drinking days. Quite a few. Though booze was now history for me, Mickey and I still got together whenever we could. I’d hit the Perrier. She’d throw down shots of tequila.

Three rings, then a raspy Whoopi Goldberg voice answered.

“Goddam, Brennan. How the hell are you?”

“Perfect today, better tomorrow.” Except that my frontal lobe was exploding.

“Hot damn, girl.”