miles north of Nogales on Route 19 after being stopped for a routine check by Border Security officials nearly three weeks ago. Since that time Lynch has confessed to eight murders, all young females.” She turned and the camera went wide. “Special Agent in Charge of the Tucson Bureau of Investigation Office, Roger Morrison.”
Morrison flashed a look that said he’d wanted to clear his throat but now there was no time for it. “Thank you, Belinda. The FBI Violent Crimes Task Force commends our agents operating in conjunction with county law enforcement under the highway serial murder initiative, which led to the arrest of Floyd Lynch without incident. The members of the FBI’s Violent Crime Task Force and Highway Serial Killer Initiative include the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, the Tucson Police Department, and the FBI. This cold case, approximately twelve years old, is now officially closed.”
After Morrison’s carefully prepared statement a picture of me as the unsuccessful investigating agent all those years ago completed Belinda’s report. They didn’t have a problem with showing my face now that I wasn’t undercover anymore. It was the formal portrait taken upon the occasion of my retirement.
“Look, that’s you,” Carlo said.
“Was that thunder?” That was always a good distraction in a land where annual rainfall measures eleven inches.
Carlo looked sideways at me where I sat in Jane’s matching armchair. “Is this where you went yesterday?” he asked as a shot from a news helicopter showed the abandoned car.
“It’s nothing, Perfesser. Max just asked me to tie up some loose ends, you know, give my opinion on a cold case. I’m done now. You don’t want to talk about it.”
That got a raised eyebrow but no further questions. We watched an episode of Law & Order because Carlo enjoys my telling him where they make mistakes. Then, “Let’s walk the Pugs, O’Hari.” he said. He calls me O’Hari (short for Mata O’Hari) because of my being Irish and having a mysterious past. I don’t mind that as long as we keep it light.
We each took a Pug, leashed it, grabbed a poop bag, and walked around the block, the light barely dimmed in a long day. I introduced those nearly inconsequential topics that make up marriage. Whether to attend his grandniece’s baptism in Des Moines (no). How the back fence needed a coat of Rustoleum (yes). Whether the brief sprinkle that afternoon counted as rain (hell no). It was all really normal.
When we got back there was a text message on my phone from Coleman, asking if I’d watched the video yet. It said, U wch vid?
“Go away,” I laboriously texted back, not being comfortable yet with the common style.
Then while I had the phone in my hand I checked in with Zach. He was watching a movie, he said. No, he hadn’t decided yet when he was going home, he said.
I looked out the back window at Jane’s life-size statue of Saint Francis that sat on a bench next to a birdbath, and beyond that the now-darkening silhouette of Mount Lemmon, the sight that in the past had rested my soul. From our window you couldn’t see the road we had taken up the northern slope, but just the same the mountain made me imagine mummies in abandoned cars and from now on always would.
Shaking off that thought, I lured Carlo to bed early and thereby managed to stave off any return to questions. I wasn’t being manipulative. Truth is, even with the sadness, or maybe because of it, there’s something about criminal cases that makes me frisky. He still looked at me with unasked questions, but after a few moments got into the spirit.
Afterward, while I listened to Carlo sleep, I thought I should get up and look at that video. Then I heard Sister Marie Theresa’s voice from fourth grade religion class, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” When you’re ten years old that doesn’t make a lot of sense with or without the “unto” and “thereof.” But today I understood Sister Marie Theresa. Today there had been enough evil. The video could wait until the early morning, when I was strong enough to confront whatever awaited me in it. I got up, took a sleeping pill to dam up my brain, and went back to bed.
Twelve
At a decent hour the next morning I called Zach’s cell number and left a message. When he didn’t return that call I called his room number, thinking there might be something wrong with