“I don’t know why the killer chose the name Casanova,” Declan says. “The original was a famous libertine who had a lot of affairs. But he wasn’t violent or blatantly misogynistic.”
As I scan the phone, I shake my head curtly. “Casanova was a pedophile and a rapist. Women were a commodity. He bought a prepubescent Russian girl as a sex slave. He also thought education was wasted on women.”
“He did?” Declan says in surprise.
“Yeah, he was a disgusting asshole,” Reynolds says. “He advocated for incest, too. And had a threesome with hisowndaughter.”
Declan scowls. “Are you serious?”
“Very. He preyed upon girls as young as nine years old,” Reynolds says before turning to me. “Erik, the original Casanova “carnivalestory” was where someone said it would be funny to abduct and rape a woman, right? And seven of them did?”
I nod.
“Then, it sounds like this maestro guy and his friends gang-raped someone in South Padre on a Spring Break trip. I wonder if we could figure out the year it happened? We might be able to find a police report.”
“Maybe. But that’s the long way around,” I say. “For when we’re mopping up cold cases. You guys can do a reverse lookup for mobile phones, right? Get us a name for this number.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” Declan says. “The software’s installed on the war room computer.”
Reynolds shoots to her feet with Wilson’s phone and hurries after Declan. I rise and stretch my fingers, feeling the tightness where the scabs are trying to knit my flesh closed.
It’s two am. Once we get the name, Reynolds will expect us to give it to law enforcement immediately. Which means I won’t have much time to get to Casanova first. I may have to pull an all-nighter.
Climbing the old stairs, I feel like my feet are made of lead. I join them in the upstairs study where Declan sits at the computer.
“Of course.” Declan frowns. “It’s a burner phone with pre-paid minutes. Bought with cash.”
That’s actually fine with me. I have the names of at least two men who know who the maestro is. One way or another, I’ll get them to give me his name.
“Declan, can you find out where the phone was purchased and when?” Reynolds asks. “617 is a Boston area code. Maybe we can show a phone belonging to one of the remaining suspects was in the area at the time FMH bought the burner phone.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Declan types several things but then shakes his head. “There’s no way to tell exactly when or where the phone was purchased using the searches that are available. Let me think. There’s probably another way to get the information.”
“Maybe law enforcement could subpoena more detailed records? You can talk to the FBI about it,” Reynolds says.
Declan yawns and rubs his right shoulder. “Yeah, but I want to be sure we’ve got everything organized when we present it to them. My family’s experience is that it takes a preponderance of evidence to get them to act.”
I rub my eyes. “It’s late. I’ve got aDispatcharticle due to Heinrich at seven am about your uncle. Then I need a few hours of sleep.”
“Of course,” Reynolds says quickly. “Thanks for covering the Stowe murder. I felt it would be a conflict of interest for me to do it. It was bad enough that we found the body. How’s Arya doing? It really upset her to see it.”
My first reaction to hearing a question about Arya is to shut down. Every thought about her makes me feel as though concrete blocks are sitting on my chest, crushing the breath out of me.
“She seems fine,” I lie, impressed at the level tone to my voice.
“Good. She’s a badass, but even badasses get rattled by some things.”
I can’t talk about Arya.
“See you in the morning,” I say.
After a last look at the stack of Casanova files, I turn and head out.
Once I’m downstairs, I take my phone to the kitchen and open the document I need to finish. A noise in the hall causes me to look up.
Arya, appearing like a phantom, strides toward the front door. I climb out from behind the kitchen table and move to the hall. She’d better not be thinking of going outside.
Instead of going to the door though, she veers right, into the formal front room. I return to the kitchen, but I’m not there more than a minute before I hear her again.
