“What hospital?”
Looper bristled slightly.
“Palmetto Health Richland. He’s in cardiac intensive care. His doctor’s name is Kenneth MacMillan.”
Slidell moved toward the door. I rose and approached Looper.
“Are you going to be all right?”
Looper nodded.
Digging a card from my purse, I scribbled my name and cell phone number, handed it to him, and squeezed his hand.
“If you come across the missing file, please let me know. And please call when Dr. Cagle wakes up.”
Looper looked down at the card, flicked a glance at Slidell, came back to me.
“I will definitely call you.”
He turned to Slidell.
“You have a really special day.”
Looper’s left hand still gripped the phone so tightly his wrist cords bulged like the live oak’s roots.
* * *
Slidell lit up as soon as we hit the sidewalk. At the Taurus, I opened my door and waited out his Camel moment.
“Think there’s any point to swinging by the hospital?” I asked.
Slidell flicked his butt, ground it with the ball of one foot.
“Can’t hurt.” Blotting his forehead with one wrist, he yanked open the driver’s side door and jammed himself behind the wheel.
Slidell was right. It didn’t hurt. Nor did it help. Walter Cagle was as dead to the world as Looper reported.
His doctor could offer no explanation. Cagle’s vital signs had stabilized and his heart showed no damage. His white count, EEG, and EKG were normal. The man simply wasn’t waking up.
We’d barely left the hospital when Slidell started in.
“Sounds like trouble in queen city.”
I did not reply.
“The princess thinks the contessa was getting his weenie stroked behind his back.”
Nope.
“And he don’t like the fact that the whistling gypsy lover is a looker.”
Catching the look on my face, Slidell fell silent. It didn’t last.
“Suppose Looper and that Gestapo secretary are describing the same squirrel?”
“It’s possible.”
“Think Cagle was seeing this guy on the side?”
“Looper may have imagined the romantic angle. It could have been anything.”
“Such as?”
I’d been asking myself that same question.
“Such as a potential student.”
“Gestapo Gert said the guy asking for Cagle wasn’t a kid.”
“Adults enroll in college courses.”
“Someone interested in a program would have left a message at the department office.”
True.
“A workman of some sort.”
“Why meet the guy in a coffee shop?” Slidell asked.
“An insurance salesman.”
“Ditto.”
“Walter Cagle is a grown man.”
Slidell snorted. “Squirrel probably vacations at the Y.”
Slidell’s homophobia was getting on my nerves.
“There are any number of persons with whom Walter Cagle might have shared a cup of coffee.”
“A pretty boy with drop-dead good looks that nobody close to the guy ever laid eyes on?”
“A lot of men fit that description,” I snapped.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Real men?”
“Ball busters!”
“You know any?”
“My daughter’s boyfriend,” I shot back without thinking.
“You sure he’s a boy?” Slidell patted his hair, flopped one wrist, snorted at his own joke.
Closing my eyes, I chose lyrics in my head. The Eagles. “Take It Easy.”
We drove out of Columbia, four o’clock sun flickering through the trees like light off a pinwheel. I felt so hostile toward Slidell I didn’t speak the entire way to Charlotte. When he lit up, I merely lowered my window, continued processing the events of the day in my mind.
Why had I thrown out that reference to Palmer Cousins? Was it merely a knee-jerk reaction to Slidell’s wheedling, or was my subconscious seeing something that I was missing?
Did I distrust Palmer Cousins? Honest reply: yes.
Why? Because he was dating my daughter? Because of his seeming lack of knowledge of his own profession? Because he was handsome and lived in Columbia?
Who had Cagle met in the coffee shop? Who had visited the anthropology department? Was either man involved in the disappearance of Cagle’s report? Was either responsible for Cagle’s collapse? Were Looper and Dolores describing the same man?
Always, I came back to the same question.
Where was that report?
I vowed to find out.
My vow paid off sooner than I’d expected.
IT WAS FIVE-THIRTY WHEN SLIDELL DROPPED ME AT THE MCME. Tim Larabee was on his way out.
“What’s the word on Ricky Don?” I asked.
“No signs of trauma. Looks like an overdose, but we’ll have to wait for the tox report.”
“Find signs of chronic use?”
“Yes. Course, that doesn’t mean someone didn’t nudge him over last Friday.”
I summarized my trip to Columbia with Slidell.
“Where’d you say this Cagle lives?”
I told him.
“Looper took him to Richland Hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“Odd, since Baptist is right there at Sumter and Taylor.”
“Richland isn’t the closest hospital?”
“No.”
“Maybe Looper didn’t know that.”
“Maybe.” Larabee wagged his head. “Folks is dropping like flies, ma dear.”
“I’m going to phone Lancaster County, see if I can shake something loose on Cagle’s report.”
“Go, girl.” Larabee pushed open the glass door and was gone.
Seated at my desk, I looked up the number and dialed.
“Lancaster County Sheriff’s Department.”
After introducing myself, I asked for the person in charge.
“Chief Deputy Roe is unavailable at the moment.”
I gave a two-sentence synopsis of the potential Foote farm privy–Lancaster County skeletal connection, and of my problems in obtaining a copy of the anthropology report, and asked if anyone else could help me.
“Let me see if one of the investigating officers is in.”
Pause. Several clicks, then a female voice.
“Terry Woolsey.”
I repeated my spiel.
“The guy that caught that one has moved on. You’ll have to talk with Chief Deputy Roe.”
“Are you familiar with the case?”
“I remember it. Headless skeleton, turned up over at the state park about three years back.”
“I understand there was a different sheriff then.”
“Hal Cobber. Lost the election, retired to Florida.”
“The coroner was Murray Snow?”
“Yes.” Guarded.
“Did you know Mr. Snow?”
“Dr. Snow. He was an obstetrician. The position of coroner isn’t full-time down here.”
“Who is the current coroner?”
“James Park.”
“Another doctor?”
“Park owns a funeral home. Bit of local irony. Snow brought folks into the world. Park sends ’em out.”
It sounded like a joke that had been told a few times.
“Is Park an easy guy to work with?”
“He does his job.”
“Any reason he’d be holding back on that anthropology report?”
“None he shared with me.”
What the hell. Try the sisters-in-arms approach.
“Right.” Moment of poignant hesitation. “Listen, I’m working with Detectives Slidell and Rinaldi up here in Charlotte,” I said, frustration tinging my voice ever so slightly. “I’ll be honest, Detective Woolsey. I don’t think t
hese guys are really keeping me in the loop.”
“What’s your point?”
So much for sisterhood.
“It doesn’t seem likely that Dr. Cagle’s report would just vanish from the system.”
“Shit happens.”
“You ever encountered that problem on a case?”
She ignored my question.
“Surely this anthropologist kept records. Why not ask him for his copy?”
“I did. Cagle’s had some sort of medical crisis and his file and photos have gone missing.”
“What sort of medical crisis?”
I explained about Cagle’s collapse and subsequent coma.
There was a long pause, squad room noises in the background.
“And this dossier had been removed from his files?”
“Looks that way.”
I heard her take several breaths, then rattling sounds, as though she was switching the receiver from one hand to the other.
“Can you meet me tomorrow?” Scratchy, as though her lips were now closer to the mouthpiece.
“Sure.” I tried to keep the surprise from my voice. “Headquarters is on Pageland Road, right?”
“Don’t come here.”
Another, shorter pause while we both thought that over.
“You know the Coffee Cup, near where Morehead passes under I-77?”
“Of course.” Everyone in Charlotte knew the Coffee Cup.
“I’ve got some business up your way tomorrow. Meet me at eight.”
“I’ll be at the counter.”
When we’d disconnected, I sat for a full five minutes.
First Zamzow and now Woolsey. What could the detective have to say that couldn’t be said in Lancaster?
* * *
When I got home, Boyd and Birdie were asleep in the den, dog on the couch, cat burrowed into a hidey-hole on a bookshelf behind my desk.
Hearing footsteps, Boyd oozed to the floor, lowered his head, and looked up at me, tongue dangling from between his lower front teeth.
“Hey, big guy.” I clapped my hands and squatted.
Boyd bounded over, placed both paws on my shoulders, and lunged forward to lick my face. The force of his enthusiasm knocked me to my bum. Rolling to my stomach, I threw both arms over my head. Boyd sprinted three circles around me, then attempted to resume the saliva facial.
When I sat up, Birdie was looking at us with as much disapproval as a cat face can register. Then he stood, arched, dropped to the floor, and disappeared into the hall.
“Listen, Boyd.”
Boyd froze a nanosecond, hopped back, and made another loop.
“Look at me. I’m out of shape. You saw Ryan. What did you think?”
Boyd ran another lap.
“You’re right. Exercise.”
Scrambling to my feet, I climbed to my bedroom and changed into running gear. When I returned to the kitchen and unpegged Boyd’s leash, the chow went berserk.
“Sit.”
Boyd attempted a sudden stop, lost his balance, and slid into a table leg.
I did my short route up Radcliffe, over to Freedom Park, a loop around the lake, then back down Queens Road West. Boyd padded along, now and then suggesting stops at points that held particular canine allure.
We ran through a late-August afternoon of young mothers pushing toddlers in strollers, of old men walking old dogs, of kids throwing Frisbees and footballs and riding on bikes.
The hot, heavy day made me acutely aware of sound. I heard leaves whispering in the slight breeze. A child’s swing moving back and forth in the park. A lone frog. Geese overhead. A siren.
Though I stayed vigilant, I saw no sign of a cameraman, heard no shutter click. I was grateful for Boyd’s company.
By the time we got back to Sharon Hall I was soaked with sweat and my heart rate was somewhere in the seven hundreds. Boyd’s tongue hung from the side of his mouth like a thin slice of flank steak.
To cool down I allowed Boyd to sniff the grounds at his pace. The chow trotted from bush to tree to flower bed, perfecting his sniff-squirt-and-cover routine, now and then stopping for more in-depth snuffling and peeing.
In keeping with my new fitness campaign, dinner consisted of a large salad, fresh produce courtesy of Andrew Ryan. Boyd had brown nuggets.
By ten I was starving. I’d just dug yogurt, carrots, and celery from the fridge when the phone rang.
“Still think I’m the most handsome, intelligent, and exciting man on the planet?”
“You’re dazzling, Ryan.”
The sound of his voice perked my spirits. Grinning like a kid, I took a bite of carrot.
“What are you eating?”
“Carrots.”
“Since when do you eat raw veggies?”
“Carrots are good for you.”
“Really?”
“Good for the eyes.”
“If carrots are so good for the eyes, how come I see so many dead rabbits on the road?”
“Is your niece OK?”
“Nothing’s OK. This kid and her mother make the Osbourne family look normal.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But it’s not hopeless. I think they’re listening. Shouldn’t be but a couple more days here. I’ve been thinking of putting in for a third week of vacation.”
“Oh?” My grin now sent sparkles into the air.
Boyd carried a mouthful of nuggets from his bowl and dropped them on my foot.
“I’ve got some unfinished business in Charlotte.”
“Really?” I shook my foot. The slimed-out nuggets slid to the floor. Boyd ate them.
“Personal business.”
My stomach was too grossed out by the nuggets to flip. But it took notice of the comment.
“How’s Hooch?”
“He’s fine.”
“Any developments on the privy bones?”
I described my sortie to Columbia.
“¡Caramba! A road trip with Skinny.”
“The man is a Neanderthal.”
“See any dead rabbits?”
“The anthropology department secretary said Cagle had a visitor she didn’t know, short guy with dark hair. Looper also spotted Cagle with a stranger.”
“Same description?”
“Roughly. Though Looper emphasized the fact that the guy was gorgeous. Saw him as competition.”
“That happens to me a lot.”
“The secretary didn’t indicate Cagle’s visitor was particularly good-looking.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“I think her eye might have picked that up.”
“The doctors are stumped about Cagle’s collapse?”
“Apparently.”
I told Ryan about my conversation with Terry Woolsey, and about the meeting scheduled for the following morning.
“She’s a detective, so I’m sure she’s legit.”
“We’re all sages and saints.”
“I have no idea what she wants.”
“An idea can be a dangerous thing.”
“It’s odd, Ryan.”
“It’s odd.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I know what I’d rather do to you.”
A stomach cartwheel.
“Have you received any more threatening e-mails?”
“No.”
“They still got stepped-up patrols past your place?”
“Yes. And past Lija’s town house.”
“Good.”
“I’m starting to think Dorton was behind the whole thing.”
“Why?”
“Ricky Don turns up dead, the e-mails stop.”
“Maybe. Maybe someone took Dorton out.”
“Thanks for the reassurance.”
“I want you to be careful.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You can be a real pain in the ass, Brennan.”
“I work at it.”
“Hooch getting enough attention??
??
“We had a nice, long run this afternoon.”
“It was fifty-two degrees in Halifax today.”
“It was ninety-four degrees in Charlotte today.”
“Miss me, Miz Temperance?”
Here we go.
“Some.”
“Admit it, darlin’. This hombre is your dream come true.”
“You’ve stumbled upon my fantasy, Ryan. Men in chaps.”
“Happy trails.”
After disconnecting, I called Katy.
No answer.
I left a message.
Boyd, Birdie, and I watched the last few innings of a Braves-Cubs game. I finished the carrots, Boyd gnawed a rawhide bone, and Birdie lapped at the yogurt. At some point the two of them switched. Atlanta kicked ass.
Dog, cat, and Miz Temperance were down and out by eleven.
CHARLOTTE HAS MANY INSTITUTIONS DEVOTED TO THE PRESER-vation and veneration of beauty. The Mint Museum of Art. Spirit Square. The McGill Rose Garden. Hooters.
The intersection of Morehead and Clarkson does not make that list. Though just a few blocks from the trendy, yuppie ghetto, this sliver of Third Ward has yet to experience a similar rebirth, and highway overpasses, aging warehouses, cracked pavements, and peeling billboards remain the overriding architectural theme.
No matter. Business booms at the Coffee Cup.
Every morning and noon black and white professionals, government workers, blue-collar laborers, lawyers, judges, bankers, and realtors are packed shoulder to elbow. It ain’t the ambience. It’s the cookin’—down-home food that will warm, then eventually stop your heart.
The Coffee Cup has been owned by a loosely affiliated group of black cooks for decades. Breakfast never changes: eggs, grits, fatback, deep-fried salmon patties, liver mush, and the usual bacon, ham, hotcakes, and biscuits. At lunch the cooks are a bit more flexible. The day’s menu is posted on two or three blackboards: stew meat, pig’s feet, country steak, ribs, chicken that’s fried, baked, or served with dumplings. Vegetables include collard greens, pinto beans, cabbage, broccoli casserole, squash and onions, creamed potatoes, and black-eyed peas. At lunch there’s corn bread in addition to biscuits.
You’d never catch Jenny Craig or Fergie dining at the Cup.
I arrived at seven-fifty. The lot was overflowing, so I parked on the street.
Worming through those patrons waiting inside the door, I noticed that every table was full. I scanned the counter. Seven men. One woman. Tiny. Short brown hair. Heavy bangs. Fortyish.
I walked over and introduced myself. When Woolsey looked up, two turquoise and silver earrings swayed with the movement.