“Did you ever see him with a man named Lewis, who was maybe wearing a security uniform?”
“He’s just my renter. I don’t keep track.”
“Did anyone ever park a big trailer here?”
“You can bet I’d have kicked their ass if they had.”
“Mind if we have another look at that apartment you rent?”
“Why would I care? A whole river of cops have already been through there. Is that it? We done here?”
They felt the door slam at their backs. Although Dross still had a key to the apartment, they found the place unlocked. Inside, it looked torn apart, which was not much different from how it had looked the last time Cork had been there.
Dross said, “Probably nothing here’s going to be much help.”
Cork walked slowly through the mess of the apartment, then stepped into the tiny kitchen area. He spotted a mouse as it scurried along a baseboard and slipped through a door in the counter next to the sink. He opened the door, exposing the sink drainpipe and a small plastic wastebasket. He lifted out the basket. Inside was a blackened banana peel and a mess of coffee grounds. Beneath the coffee grounds, he spotted a small, flattened green cardboard box. He reached in and pulled it out.
“What is it?” Dross asked.
“An ammo box. Remington thirty-aught-six. Same caliber as the bullet that was fired at Waaboo this morning.”
“Doesn’t necessarily prove anything,” Dross said. “Pretty common brand and caliber.”
“Still, might be evidence. What do you want to do?”
“We can’t take it without a warrant.”
Cork thought a moment. “If maybe you could convince the landlady that she should put the contents of the wastebasket in the trash bin at the curb in order to keep mice out of this place, you wouldn’t need a warrant.”
Dross gave him a little smile. “Put the box back in the wastebasket. I’ll go talk to the landlady.”
After she left, Cork spent a little more time looking over the messy apartment. Something felt just a bit off. By the time Dross returned, he had it.
“She’s getting some clothes on,” Dross said. “She’ll be right out to take care of that wastebasket.”
“Paavola’s been back here,” Cork told her.
“What makes you think so?”
“The police scanner’s gone.”
“The BCA or FBI could have taken it.”
“Maybe. But what about the PlayStation? First time we visited him, he was playing a video game.” Cork pointed toward the big-screen television. “The system’s gone now.”
“BCA or FBI might have taken that, too.”
“Can you think of a reason why? It’s not like a computer that might have information on it. But someone looking to entertain himself while he hides out might risk coming back for it. And as for the scanner, if you were worried about the police coming for you, that might prove handy.” Cork looked around again. “I’m pretty sure Mathias Paavola has gone to ground somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Maybe if we can find Lewis’s trailer, we’ll have our answer.”
At Sizemore School, Daniel and the others were told that Candyce Osterkamp had left the campus earlier that morning and wasn’t expected back until the next day. They asked if there was anyone at the school who might be familiar with a former resident named Fawn Blacksmith and were directed to the art teacher, one Malcolm Crowe. They found him in the art room, which smelled of oil paint and was brightly adorned with the work of young hands. He was a small, wiry man of about forty, a pencil-thin mustache above his lip, his red hair neatly parted. They introduced themselves, showed ID.
“We were told you might know something about a former resident, Fawn Blacksmith,” Agent Shirley said.
“I can understand why they sent you to me. I’m not sure there’s anyone else still here who was around when Fawn came to us. We have a lot of turnover. These kids can be difficult. I arrived a few months before Fawn.”
“What can you tell us about her?” Agent Shirley said.
“She had problems. All the kids come here with problems. But generally speaking, they’re not bad kids. They’ve just had it rough. Fawn could be hostile, but I believe that was because she was so desperately in need.”
“Of what?” Daniel asked.
“Love. Or probably simply to know that she was worthy of being loved. If you looked at her file, you’d see that she’d been in and out of foster care, and I’m sure her treatment was often lacking in the warmth a kid needs. Here, we try to give them a sense of their worth.”
“Did she have a special relationship with anyone at Sizemore?” Monte asked.
“She had a hard shell, wouldn’t let anyone get too close. But let me show you something.”
Crowe went to a file cabinet in the corner, opened a drawer, and took something from a folder. He brought it to his desk and set it down for the others to see. It was a detailed pencil drawing of a woman Daniel recognized. Daisy Blacksmith.
“She was quite talented,” Crowe said. “Just look at this drawing. There’s love in every line. She had it inside her. She was just afraid to let it out. Or to let anyone inside.”
“We think she might have been willing to let someone inside. Does the name Billy Bones ring a bell for you?”
“Can’t say that it does. Another student?”
