Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

They waited together in the alley beside Kougar’s Pharmacy beside Victor’s body.

And Lissy’s.

71

* * *

WILLICOTT, MARYLAND

FRIDAY MORNING

Ty pulled her Silverado into the Corsica driveway at 7:30 a.m., too early for Lynn Corsica to have left for the library. Charlie answered the door wearing jeans and a T-shirt, sporting a bad case of bedhead. “Chief! Agent Porto, what’s going on? Is something the matter? Let me get my gun!”

Ty grabbed his arm. “No, it’s all right, Charlie. Sorry we’re here so early without calling, but I need to speak to your mom.”

“My mom? But—”

“Didn’t you tell me your mom is the smartest person you know?”

“Well, yes, but—” Charlie heard the urgency in her voice, stopped. “My mom’s in the kitchen, making me and my dad blueberry pancakes.” He added over his shoulder as he trotted away from them, both Ty and Sala on his heels, “Dad’s still in bed. He had a late night, some sort of infestation on his prize bougainvillea.” Ty knew Mr. Corsica owned the largest nursery and landscaping company in these parts, so there was no need to explain.

This was Ty’s first visit to the Corsica home in a very long time. It was a ranch-style 1980s-vintage split-level set in the middle of a large lot surrounded by oaks and maples, and, of course, superbly maintained flowers and trellised roses in boxes, no doubt thanks to Mr. Corsica’s business.

“Chief Christie—Ty!” Lynn Corsica, a spatula in her right hand, was walking out of the kitchen toward them, her feet bare, her blue bathrobe flapping around her legs. She stopped and gathered herself.

“Mom, Ty wants to speak to you.”

“Yes, of course. All right. How can I help you, Ty?”

Ty quickly introduced Sala then drew out a photo she’d printed from a website and handed it to Mrs. Corsica. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Lynn Corsica looked down at the publicity photo, a head shot of a beautiful dark-haired young woman who looked both serious and kind. “I don’t think so.” She cocked her head at Ty. “Why did you think I would recognize her?”

“Mrs. Corsica, I’d like you to subtract fifteen years from the woman’s face, change the hair color, maybe blond or light brown, and imagine she has blue eyes. Take away the makeup. Focus on her eyes, the shape of her mouth.”

Mrs. Corsica studied the photo. “She looks about thirty in this photo, so I have to picture her at fifteen?” She studied the photo some more, frowned, then slowly, she raised her head. There was wonder in her voice. “It’s Albie Pierson, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I believe it is,” Ty said. “Her family wasn’t here long enough for her to be in a yearbook, but I hoped you’d remember her. Can you describe her?”

“She was a pretty little thing, slight, fine-boned, with lovely blond hair like you said, and light blue eyes. She always wore her hair in a French braid, long, past her shoulders.

“I remember clearly she was in the library the very first week her family moved into Gatewood. I gave her a library card myself. Such a sweet smile she had, and she was always very polite, listened when anyone spoke to her. I liked her.” She paused. “Then of course her whole family was murdered, and she disappeared. They couldn’t find her body, so people being people, some said she murdered her family, maybe she snapped because of sexual abuse, something like that. One of her teachers came forward to say she thought she’d seen bruises on Albie’s arms, but I knew none of that was true. I’d gotten to know Albie. I was also a rape counselor over in Bowie before we moved here. I would swear Albie had never been abused. That’s what I thought, anyway, but it didn’t matter much, since they never found her.”

Mrs. Corsica looked down at the spatula in her right hand, dripping batter on the oak floor. “Look at me, keeping you standing here in the hallway. Come into the kitchen and have some pancakes and coffee.” She didn’t wait for an answer, turned on her bare heel and walked into a bright kitchen, its walls a pale yellow and windows looking out over a beautiful, manicured backyard, with more wildly blooming flowers planted along a white fence.

She waved them to chairs, poured them coffee. “Charlie, you sit, too. We won’t wait for your dad. He was still asleep as of a few minutes ago.”

She turned back to the stove to ladle more batter into a hot skillet. Ty wanted to get to Haggersville now, face down Susan Sparrow, tell her they knew she was Albie Pierson. But her stomach growled as Mrs. Corsica sprinkled blueberries on top of the batter. Sala grinned at her. They’d only had a quick cup of coffee before leaving the cottage.

Soon they were all buttering pancakes, pouring maple syrup over them, and forking crispy bacon off a plate. As they ate, Mrs. Corsica said, “I haven’t thought of Albie Pierson in years. I used to wonder what happened to her, wondered if the monster who’d stabbed her family to death had taken her with him, killed her, and buried her somewhere. Then life happened, as it always does, and we all forgot. Where is she now, Chief?”

“In Haggersville. Her name now is Susan Sparrow.”

“You mean the Sparrows who own the Sparrow Crematorium?”

“Yes, those Sparrows,” Sala said. “She married Landry Sparrow six years ago and has been there since.” He held out his plate for two more pancakes.

Mrs. Corsica served him while her pancakes still lay uneaten on her plate. She said quietly, “Imagine, she’s been close by. I’m so glad she surv