The same kind of binder the department used to employ before the switch to plastic.

He took hold of the top of the bag with his fingertips and carried it inside the house. Sat down in the living room, heart racing, hands icy, because he knew exactly what would be inside. Knew also that despite the certainty, he’d be shocked.

His jaw hurt and his back ached as he opened the book to Janie Ingalls’s case file.

Very thin file. Milo’s own notes on top, followed by the official death shots and yes, Schwinn had lifted the photo out of this set. Body drawings with every wound delineated, autopsy summary. Not originals, nice clean photocopies.

Then, nothing else. No tox screens or lab tests, no investigative reports by the Metro boys who’d supposedly taken over. So either that had been a lie, or pages had been left out.

He flipped to the postmortem summary. No mention of semen—of anything much. This had to be the sketchiest autopsy synopsis he’d ever read. “This white, adolescent, well-nourished female’s wounds were accomplished by sharp, single-bladed . . .” Thanks a heap.

No sign of the toxicology screen he’d requested. He didn’t need official confirmation; Melinda Waters had said Janie began the evening stoned.

No semen, no foreign blood types. Forget DNA.

But one detail in the autopsy summary did catch his eye: ligature marks around Janie’s ankles, wrists, and throat.

Same pattern of restraints as in the hotel.

Vance Coury spotting Janie and going for an encore.

This time, adding his buddies to the mix.

He reread the file. Nothing revelatory, but someone wanted to make sure Milo saw it.

He settled his head with vodka and grapefruit juice, checked the mail, punched the phone machine.

One message from Rick, who’d made it easy for him by taking on an extra shift.

“I won’t be through until tomorrow morning, probably crash in the doctor’s room, maybe go for a drive afterward. Take care of yourself . . . I love you.”

“Me too,” Milo muttered to the empty house. Even alone, he had trouble saying it.

CHAPTER

29

I opened the door for Milo at 9 A.M., doing my best impression of awake and human. Last night, I’d woken up every couple of hours, thinking the kind of thoughts that erode your soul.

Three calls to Robin had gone unanswered. Her hotel refused to say if she’d checked out—guest security. Next stop, Denver. I pictured her on the bus, Spike sleeping in her lap, gazing out the window.

Thinking of me, or anything but?

Milo handed me the blue binder. I thumbed through it and led him into my office.

“Your typing wasn’t any better back then,” I said. “Any theories about who delivered it?”

“Someone with a talent for grand theft auto.”

“Same messenger who sent me the deluxe version?”

“Could be.”