‘GoPro,’ Pancho Rozakis said. Pancho, whose real first name was Juan, was half-Mexican, half-Greek, and all clever. He had been the Examiner’s chief photographer before he got laid off, six months earlier. Since then, he’d been scrounging freelance work for the Examiner and Chicago’s dozens of local neighborhood rags.
‘Those little cameras?’ Rigg asked.
‘Everybody’s using them. Realtors, surveyors, men living next door to ladies sunning topless.’
‘You’ve got one?’
‘Several, and two drones.’
‘Legal?’
‘Sure, but since when did you care about that?’
‘I don’t want you to get arrested.’
Rozakis laughed. ‘So long as you’re not around, I’m safe,’ he said, and clicked off.
Rigg called Glet’s cell phone again, but the cell phone only wanted to take a message. He called the sheriff’s department and asked for the man of the hour. The operator didn’t hesitate before saying Glet was not in. Glet had been unavailable ever since his star appearance on the stairs of the sheriff’s headquarters.
He didn’t bother asking for McGarry when he called the Dead House, because McGarry was likely to remain a shadow until things settled down, much as he hoped the mound would settle down in his backyard. By now, Rigg was sure there was nothing else that would explain why McGarry had twice gone behind his mansion to move snow.
Rigg asked for Corky because, as he and Aria had agreed, Corky was almost always available.
‘At the beginning of the Stemec Henderson investigation,’ Rigg began, ‘McGarry said there was unidentified DNA on two of the boys. I assume you swabbed Kevin Wilcox.’
‘Mr McGarry won’t allow the release of information without his approval,’ Feldott said.
‘Since McGarry’s never available, you’d rather I speculate about why Glet is so positive Wilcox killed the boys?’
‘I can tell you off the record that we took a DNA sample from Mr Wilcox, but it’s out for analysis.’
‘It’s being compared to the foreign DNA found on both Bobby Stemec and Johnny Henderson?’
‘Mr McGarry—’
Rigg cut him off. ‘Someone from your office must have encouraged Glet, for him to sound so positive about Wilcox.’
‘The DNA is out for analysis, Mr Rigg. There’s been no encouragement that Wilcox’s DNA was found on Johnny Henderson.’
‘Or Bobby Stemec?’ Rigg asked.
‘The DNA is out for analysis.’
Rigg gave it up. ‘Glet’s not sounding like he’s seeing any link between Wilcox and the girls.’
‘As you know, nothing was recovered from the Graves sisters.’
The pup was fencing. ‘Not even from penetration?’
‘There’s been no mention of penetration.’
‘You’re sure? No signs of forced sexual activity?’
‘Darn it, Mr Rigg, you’re just throwing out wild questions.’
‘Jennifer Ann Day,’ Rigg said. ‘She was too long in the water to give you anything?’
‘Mr McGarry is rigid in instructing us to—’
‘When will McGarry be available?’ Rigg interrupted.
‘Off the record, he hasn’t been here in days,’ Feldott said. ‘He’s probably at Sheriff Lehman’s office.’
‘Helping to ready Lehman’s own warrant to arrest Wilcox, like Glet inferred?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know where McGarry is, do you?’
‘I can’t comment, Mr Rigg.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, meaning McGarry’s gone underground. Which leaves us with Richie Fernandez,’ Rigg said, mostly because he’d run out of other things to ask.
‘I can’t comment—’
‘McGarry accompanied Lehman to bust Fernandez.’
‘So you say, Mr Rigg. So nobody else corroborates.’
Rigg thanked him for nothing and hung up.
Pancho’s email came at five fifteen. He’d taken two dozen aerial pictures of McGarry’s estate. Seventeen of them showed the ground behind the last of the estate’s outbuildings. Despite the falling snow, the high mound far behind the house was easily visible.
Rigg’s cell phone rang a moment later. ‘See the pictures?’ Pancho asked.
‘They’re swell. No signs of life out there?’
‘It was snowing. Nobody was outside and, as you can see, no car was in the driveway.’
The evening, though young, was dark. Rigg made one more call.
‘I’m going to write that you’re blowing smoke,’ he said to the voicemail.
Glet eased on to the passenger seat of Rigg’s Taurus an hour later. Again, the deputy had parked elsewhere in the Robinson Woods.
‘You’re offering no proof. I’m thinking you got the wrong guy, Jerome,’ Rigg said.
Glet laughed. ‘Don’t bet against me on this one. Otherwise, you’ll be writing for that suburban stuffer for the rest of your life.’
‘What’s making you positive?’
‘About Wilcox doing the boys? How about proximity?’
‘Proximity of the stables to Robinson Woods isn’t enough,’ Rigg said. ‘How about DNA?’
‘I was straight up with all of you reporters,’ Glet said, evading.
‘You weren’t straight up at all. You’re teasing, offering nothing concrete. You know you need more than proximity to charge Wilcox for the boys. You’re acting like you got a heads-up on a DNA match.’
‘I got plenty working for the boys.’
‘And for the girls?’ Rigg asked. ‘The fact that the yellow index card links the boys’ killer to the girls?’
Glet shifted his bulk on the seat. ‘More than that.’
‘What could be more than that, especially if the Feds already have in custody the person you’re convinced killed the boys? A little more work and you’ve got the guy who killed the girls.’
‘I’m looking into things.’
‘You’re holding back, or you’re bluffing.’
‘Wilcox was selling handguns out of a stable less than a mile from here.’
‘Proximity is nothing. All you’ve got is a suspicion that the boys were at the Happy Times Stables that day and saw something they shouldn’t have. DNA is more.’
Glet turned to face Rigg squarely. ‘I’m being very careful. You of all people should appreciate that. No mistakes this time, Milo.’
‘Feldott’s being cagey on the DNA. He’s saying it’s still out for analysis, that you’ve not been tipped to any match.’
Glet laughed. ‘Like I keep saying, Milo, I’m being careful. One step at a time.’
‘Richie Fernandez,’ Rigg said. ‘Lehman’s afraid of Richie Fernandez. And so is McGarry. He’s disappeared from the Dead House.’
‘I don’t know about McGarry.’
‘You need to chase Richie Fernandez.’
Glet pushed his way out of the car and turned to lean back in. ‘I ain’t saying Fernandez ain’t important, Milo.’
‘I need you to make a phone call,’ Rigg said.
He pulled into a drive-thru. It could have been a McDonald’s or a Burger King or something else. It didn’t matter, so long as they had cheeseburgers. He ordered two and a Coke. The Coke was good. The first burger was easy to eat as he drove, because it was thin and he was famished. But he had no appetite for the second. When he passed two raccoons ambling alongside a wood, he unwrapped the second burger and threw it at them. Likely enough, they’d be surer of their next steps than he was.
In his apartment, he sat for some minutes, staring at his wall of file boxes. And then he called Carlotta. She’d still be up. She was like him. She was always up.
‘Come over,’ she said.
‘Did your boys ever go to stables?’
‘Come over now,’ she said.
‘Did your boys go to stables?’
‘Those stables where that Wilcox man worked? I suppose. My boys went all over, bowling, swimming in the summer, Cubs games when they could sneak in.’ She started crying. ‘I don’t know about horses.’
He said he’d call soon, and, despicably, he hung up.
He made a weak Scotch and sat some more, staring at the files. He’d conned himself, thinking they held answers. There was nothing in them about any stables.