“That’s not enough? After all these years, I thought I was being pretty darn encyclopedic.”

“You are. That’s why I keep turning pages. So Dale was good with all the animals.”

“Better than good,” said Shantee Moloney. “Tender. Especially the little ones. Not just babies, anything small — he really had a thing for puppies and toy dogs. Nastiest little critter, he could calm it down. I got a sense he’d had experience with the teeny ones.”

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER
20

Ansell Dennond Bright’s DMV photo came through at ten a.m. the following day.

Thirteen-year-old shot, when Bright was twenty-nine.

Six feet, two ten, blond and brown, needs corrective lenses.

Relaxed expression, nothing ominous in the eyes.

True to Shantee Moloney’s description, lank, pale strands obscured Bright’s brow, draping his ears and fanning his shoulders.

The beard was a broad, brown sheet, pelting his face from Adam’s apple to the bottoms of his eye sockets.

Nothing to see but hair.

Art of the misdirect.

Did that explain Bright’s lie about not eating animals? Manipulating Shantee Moloney, but to what end? Bright had never received a penny for his work at the shelter.

Love of the game or a need to feel virtuous?

Or both.

All that hair; nature’s costume.

I thought of High Plains drifter duds. Plaid cap, old man’s shuffle, conspicuous wheels. It all added up to clever theater.

In Kat Shonsky’s situation, the Bentley would’ve been enough to lower her guard but I wondered if the killer had gone further.

Angry man with a thing for A-lines and heels, still seething at Kat’s ridicule. What sweeter revenge than to stalk her in drag?

I pictured the big black car gliding by as she fretted in her Mustang. Passenger window sliding down, revealing a driver in a bouffant wig, designer dress, maybe a discreet string of pearls.

That extra touch.

A pretty, diaphanous scarf.

Kat’s driver’s license — the symbol of her identity — had been wedged in her private parts.

Some killers take souvenirs, other leave them. It’s always about a message.

The message Kat’s killer had delivered was You’re not the woman you think you are. Mock me at your own peril.

Kat. An animal name.

Too perfect to resist.

Milo phoned just before two p.m., yawned a greeting followed by a bout of coughing.

I said, “Rock-and-roll pneumonia or boogie-woogie flu?”

“Oh, man, it’s way too early for humor.”

“It’s the afternoon.”