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"Except for the pervert part," I said. "There was no sign of--"
Adam nudged me to shut up, then said to Carol, "Your pastor is right. It's your subconscious speaking. You feel guilty, but you've used it to turn your life around, and that's the important thing."
She nodded, satisfied.
I wasn't.
Maybe that was the humane thing to do--give the old woman some peace. But I couldn't cut her any slack. If she'd cared, she should have done something before her daughter died. If she felt guilty now, she should be out volunteering at a day care or soup kitchen, not sitting around listening to gospel music and moaning about how guilty she felt.
thirty-two
After we left, I said, "Were you serious about that dream crap?"
Adam shrugged. "It makes sense. Her psyche can't deal with the guilt, so it displaces it with a dream about the death of someone else's daughter."
"It's not just her psyche that can't deal. Carol Degas is a human ostrich. And that dream? I think it's bullshit."
"Well, one thing I'm ninety-nine percent sure on is that Brandi wasn't a witch. Nor did Carol somehow find out that Tiffany Radu was one and kill her, thinking she was following a Christian precept. Seeing all the religious stuff in her house made me think we might be onto something, but there's no witch-hunter--" He stopped, frowning.
"What?" I said.
"Nothing. Just ..." He shook his head. "Nothing. Anyway, back to the dream, I'm wondering if it's more than a garden-variety guilty conscience. "
"You think she had something to do with her daughter's death?"
"Not overtly, but maybe there's something she's not telling us. Or something she isn't really aware of herself."
"If she does remember something, we'd better hope it comes in another dream, because short of hypnosis, that woman isn't going to ..."
When I trailed off, it was his turn to look over and say, "What?"
"I need to trace a call," I said.
I CONNECTED TO the office database and dug up the number of a half-demon phone company exec who helped us whenever she could, repayment for Paige getting her out of a Cabal commitment uglier than any cell phone contract.
"Lina," I said when she answered. "It's Savannah Levine. Can you check a phone record for me?"
"Absolutely. Do you have the number?"
I gave it to her, then said, "I need to know if any calls were placed from that number on the night of November 18 last year."
"There's one." She rattled it off. "Do you want me to check the source?"
"No, I recognize it. Any other calls after that?"
"No." Keyboard tapping chattered across the line. "But there is one from the second number, made just over an hour later to a cell phone." She gave me the number. "Do you want me to check with the cell company for the registered owner?"
"Maybe not. Hold on." I pulled up my contact list and entered the number. "No, seems I already know it."
I thanked her, then signed off and told Adam what I'd found.
"Shit," he said.
"Do you remember what caliber of gun was used in the murders? Thirty-eight, wasn't it?"
"Right."
"The kind of gun a guy in Columbus might keep under his mattress, wave around when he's drunk, get confiscated if it's not properly registered ..."
