“We’ve been reviewing the case files sent this morning, and Salazar found a murder-suicide eight months ago in Galveston. A husband who killed his wife and two children, then used his own pistol to kill himself. Nothing that really catches the eye there, but there’s more: an older son wasn’t home, so that’s one step closer to the profile we’re looking for. In the crime scene photos we have here, the bodies are close together and side by side. There’s no way to tell if they’re oriented toward the north. Can’t see any marks around the wrists. Ballistics report is sketchy; just says there’s gunpowder residue on the father’s hands and the bullets extracted postmortem match his pistol, a twenty-two. The gun was found on the floor beside him.”
“You think our man might be behind it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to establish. But we urgently need to talk to the investigating officer. Report’s signed by a Brad Nelson, homicide detective in Galveston.”
“And?”
“Turns out Detective Nelson moved to Tampa. Seems his wife is there, and Nelson now works for the Tampa police.”
“We’re on it. You can imagine the chaos here at headquarters, but we’ll track him down. Let’s have a conference call in fifteen minutes. I’ll give you the number.”
In the interval, Amaia went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and put her wrists under the gush of cold water. She sensed the intense heat was bringing on a headache. She wet a towel and wiped her neck.
“Salazar!” Johnson poked his head through the doorway, startling her. “It’s time.”
Tucker took over. “Agent Johnson, Assistant Inspector Salazar—Agent Emerson is here with me. We’ve learned that Detective Brad Nelson went out with the first batch of volunteers dispatched to the disaster zone, and he’s not likely to be back any time soon. I spoke to him by radio. Here’s what I have so far: the gun was a Smith & Wesson twenty-two-caliber revolver, and bullets of the same caliber were taken from the bodies. The detective thinks the son’s refusal to accept the police’s conclusion is simply the boy’s inability to accept what his father did and the consequences for his family. The young man’s a student at Tulane in New Orleans. The case is closed. The boy still telephones Nelson practically every week, insisting it has to be reopened. Most recent call was yesterday, from New Orleans. He hasn’t evacuated, so maybe you can find him and talk to him. Name is Joseph Andrews, same as his father.”
Johnson watched Amaia for a reaction. She pressed her lips together, shook her head, and shrugged slightly. This didn’t really add much to what they’d already found in the file. Sure, they could interview the boy, but if Nelson was right, he was a grieving youth who refused to accept a horrible reality.
Tucker’s voice vibrated over the phone line. “I asked him about the mess in the house too.”
Amaia held her breath.
“A tropical storm hit Galveston that day. Not a bad one; there were no deaths or injuries, mostly fallen trees and minor property damage. The father didn’t go to work because his firm told all their employees to stay home. The family was new to the city, and they’d never been through a coastal storm. The mess in the house was caused by violent gusts through the broken windows. The detective thinks that at some point during the storm, they opened a window, and the sudden change in pressure blew out several more. There were no cuts on the bodies, no injuries from flying glass. There were marks on the father’s wrists, but the police concluded that they were self-inflicted, tentative attempts at suicide. No sign at the scene of any kind of bindings. They left that out of the report; considered it irrelevant. He says that without rereading the report, he can’t be absolutely sure how the bodies were oriented, but he’s practically certain the heads were aligned toward the north.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Amaia couldn’t contain herself. “Is Agent Dupree going to think this one matches close enough to investigate?”
Johnson said goodbye to Tucker and called Dupree, though not on speakerphone. He outlined the new information and listened intently. Amaia watched Johnson’s face, trying to guess what would come next.
“He told us to go to the campus, but he insisted Bill and Bull go with us.”
“Do you think they’re still downstairs?”
“Sure,” Johnson said as he collected the photos and returned them to the file. “And I suspect they’re having a good time. The hotel owner told me that for years the bar was the reception room for May Bailey’s brothel.”
Amaia nodded with a smile. She’d guessed right. The owners did tell that story to all their clients.
13
MISERY, DEAF AND MUTE
Elizondo
Annoyed, Engrasi raised a hand and pushed the remains of an old spiderweb away from her face. She’d been kneeling in the most cramped section of the attic, looking for Christmas ornaments. As usual, she’d found everything except what she was looking for. Boxes of clothes she’d worn only on the streets of Paris, tons of handwritten notes in French from her days as a psychology student, cartons of books that had filled the shelves of the house she’d shared with the man she loved. These things had once meant the world to her, but now she saw them only through a haze of nostalgia: emblems of a bygone life, as remote and unattainable as if she’d been reborn into a completely different existence. She closed a box and leaned to one side so the light from the open attic door fell across the dial of her watch. She’d lost track of time. Amaia should have been home already.
She crawled back toward the stairs and noticed, close to the doorway, a little wooden chest she’d brought back from Paris. She heaved a sigh, knowing exactly what was in it. She stopped at the door, one foot on the first step, and before leaving the attic, she raised the chest’s lid just enough to slip a hand inside, extract a sheaf of papers, and tuck them beneath her jacket. She quickly descended, having made a mental note that the boxes of garlands and tinsel she had been looking for were at the far end of the attic. She called out to Amaia in hopes that the girl had scurried into the house like a timid little mouse while Engrasi was in the attic.
She saw her own reflection in the window, for it was already dark outside. Her hair was unruly, her brow was furrowed with worry, and the bulky folder was obvious under her jacket. She had to deal with the documents first. She fished in her blouse for the tiny gold-colored key that always hung from a delicate chain around her neck. She used it to open the only locked drawer in her wardrobe, deposited the folder, closed the drawer, and dropped the key back inside her blouse. She picked up the phone from the little table by the sofa and dialed a number from memory. The call went through. She shaded her eyes to peer through the window at the street.
The warm voice of her brother responded on the other end. “Hello! Mantecadas Salazar.”
Normally Engrasi would have smiled, but tonight she was worried. Her brother had always answered the phone with an unobliging grunt; he’d changed his ways recently, no doubt under the tutelage of his ambitious wife.
“Juan, is Amaia with you?”
“No, she’s not.”
“It’s just . . . she’s not home yet, and I’m worried.”