Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

ived. Tell me, are you going to arrest her for the murder of her family when she was fifteen?”

“No,” Ty said. “She didn’t kill her family, no disagreement with you on that. I think it was a stranger, and Albie hid, knowing what he was doing, what he’d done. When she was sure he left, she took the cash out of her father’s safe and ran. I don’t think she was afraid of the police. I think she ran because she was afraid of the monster who’d murdered her family. We would like to speak to her about that day, and then about something else entirely.”

Mrs. Corsica searched her face, then said slowly, “It’s all about those bones found in Lake Massey, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ty said. “And who those people were.”

“But what does it mean?”

“As soon as we resolve this, Charlie can tell you all about it.”

Sala sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. “Thank you, Mrs. Corsica, for the outstanding breakfast. We would appreciate your not mentioning anything we spoke of here to anyone, all right? You too, Charlie.”

“No, of course not,” Mrs. Corsica said. “You either, right, Charlie?”

Charlie nodded. “Chief Christie’s my boss, Mom. If I did, she’d fire my butt.”

“Deservedly so,” his mother said, and sighed. “But I still wonder what it all means. The belt buckle, Susan Sparrow really being Albie Pierson, and all those bones.”

“Give us another day. Thank you very much for confirming Susan Sparrow’s identity, and the breakfast was delicious.”

They left three minutes later, waved to Mrs. Corsica standing in the open doorway, the spatula still in her hand, an older man now standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. They walked to Ty’s Silverado, Charlie, still barefoot, beside them. “You know everything, don’t you, Chief?”

“No, but we have a good start. Give us today, Charlie, to nail everything down.”

72

* * *

HAGGERSVILLE, MARYLAND

FRIDAY MORNING

Ty turned onto the interstate, flashed a look at Sala. “It’s hard to believe all this started only a week ago.” A week ago today. And Octavia was dead, and so was her killer, Victor Nesser, shot in an alley beside a pharmacy in Fort Pessel last night.

Sala said, “It’s tough to get my head around what Savich told us—Victor and Lissy dying together. He said he spoke to both of them, they were both there. And Lissy spoke to them. It makes my hair stand on end.”

“It does sound unbelievable,” Ty said.

When they wended their way through morning traffic, finally arrived at the Sparrow Crematorium, Sala’s cell phone buzzed. “Porto here. Dr. Thomas, good timing. What do I mean? Nothing, really. What have you got for me?”

Ty stopped, shut off the engine, turned to listen.

Sala said, “A moment, please, Dr. Thomas, let me put you on speaker so Chief Christie can hear.”

“Chief, Agent Porto, the majority of bones we’ve cleaned and examined so far show considerable trauma inflicted near time of death, repeated stab wounds, to be precise. I’m not a medical examiner, but I’d say a similar knife was used—a common six-inch fixed-blade hunting knife, like a Buck. So, Agent Porto, this is not a reprise of the crematory in Noble, Georgia. This is something else entirely.”

Sala said, “So you believe these people were murdered, all of them stabbed to death, and the killer used Lake Massey as a dumping ground.”

“Yes. As I said, we’ve only examined about a third of the bones, but I can’t see the pattern changing.”

“Have you found the remains of a Caucasian man, about five foot ten, seventy-five years old?”

“Yes, there was an older man, probably in his seventies, maybe early eighties. Multiple stab wounds, like the rest.”

“If we provide you with a Mr. Henry LaRoque’s autopsy report, do you think you could make a positive identification?”

“It would be possible, yes.”