Stiles nodded. “That’s right. He thought it looked kind of odd. Plus, it was running.”

“The engine was on?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s not now.”

“He says he turned it off, but left everything else as it was.”

Keeping his hands inside his pockets, Duckworth walked slowly around the car, leaning in over the driver’s seat, noticing that the key was still in the ignition.

“What do you see?” Trevor asked.

Another raised finger.

Duckworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He pointed to a spot about ten feet away and said to Trevor, “I want you to stand over there.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Trevor took five steps back. “This okay?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“That’s fine.”

Duckworth went back to the open door and leaned down to flick the tab that opened the trunk. The lid lifted an inch.

“Why are you looking in there?” Trevor asked.

Duckworth said nothing. He came around to the back of the car and, using one gloved index finger, gently lifted the lid.

Even from where Trevor was standing, it was clear what the trunk contained.

“Oh Jesus,” he said, moving forward.

Duckworth quickly turned around. “Do not take a step closer.”

“It’s her! Oh my God, it’s her. It’s Carol.”

“No . . .” Duckworth said slowly.

“What?

Duckworth examined the body of the woman in the trunk of the Corolla. He needed a moment to remember where he had seen her before. Definitely not at Starbucks with his son.

Of course, she looked different now. Her face bloated, the blue strangulation marks around her neck.

But he was pretty sure this was the woman who could not believe he had never watched an episode of Seinfield.

It was Dolores, from the tattoo parlor.

Dolly to her friends.

Thirty

THIRTY

CAL

JEREMY and I followed the ambulance carrying Charlene Wilson to a hospital that was no more than ten minutes away from the hotel. The paramedics handled her with great care, but there did not seem to be a strong indication that Charlene was seriously injured. It would probably take an X-ray before anyone knew for certain.

Charlene had given me her cell phone and brought up a number where I could reach her mother, whose name was Alicia. (So I was right about the Alicia Wilson mentioned in that story about the party at Galen Broadhurst’s place.) I made the call while we were en route to the hospital.

I guess I was expecting a more frantic reaction, but Alicia Wilson was all business once I had explained who I was and why I was calling.

“Where did this happen?”

I told her.

“Which hospital are they taking her to?”

I told her.

“Will the boy be there?”

I told her he would be.

“Forty-five minutes.” She hung up.

I looked over at Jeremy. “What’s the story on Charlene’s mother?”