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At length, I stated the discouragingly obvious.
“Besides the bar, the restaurant, and the body dump site, there are no overlaps.”
“This was a total waste of time. We’ve got jackshit.”
Monck yanked his mobile from his pocket and checked for messages.
“Gotta go.”
With that, he strode from the room.
Ignoring Monck’s rudeness, I refocused on the map. At the pins dotting every sector save the far northwestern end of the island.
Was I viewing the killer’s hunting ground? If so, his territory was adamn big one. Did he live within it? Far enough out of it to avoid suspicion?
Whatdidwe have?
The killer was probably single, knew Provo, and killed hand-some men.
Monck was right.
We had jackshit.
28
FRIDAY, JULY19
I was brushing my teeth, thinking about breakfast, when my mobile sounded.
“Good morning, Detective Monck.”
“Good morning. I just got word. Musgrove’s memorial service will be at four Sunday afternoon at Our Lady of Divine Providence Catholic Church.”
Crap. Stuck for two more days.
“Where is it?”
“On the Leeward Highway. Across from—”
“Cheshire Hall Plantation.”
Christ. I’d been here so long I was learning the landmarks.
“It’s cool if you’d rather not hang.”
“I can compose a report here as well as back home,” I said, resigned.
“Right.”
I waited out a pause.
Monck cleared his throat and dove in: “Compelled by yesterday’sspectacularly fruitless exercise, and desperate to jog something loose, I went fracking through Musgrove’s file again, rereading everything in it. Seven years’ worth of shit.”
“And?”
“First, let me explain, Musgrove had a process. After talking to a witness or a POI—”
“Person of interest.”
