As we exchanged introductions, a place opened up two stools down. The intervening men shifted over. Patches over their pockets identified them as Gary and Calvin.
Thanking Gary and Calvin, I sat. A black woman moved toward me, pencil poised over pad. Screw the diet. I ordered fried eggs, biscuits, and a salmon patty.
Woolsey’s plate was empty save for a mound of grits topped by a lake of butter the size of Erie.
“Not fond of grits?” I asked.
“I keep trying,” she said.
The waitress returned, poured coffee into a thick white mug, and placed it in front of me. Then she held the pot over Woolsey’s cup, put a hand on one hip, and raised her brows. Woolsey nodded. The coffee flowed.
While I ate, Woolsey provided what background she deemed appropriate. She’d been a detective in Lancaster for seven years, before that, a uniform with the Pensacola, Florida, PD. Moved north for personal reasons. The personal reasons married someone else.
When I’d finished breakfast, we took coffee refills.
“Tell me the whole story,” Woolsey said, without preamble.
Sensing this was a woman who did not fancy equivocation, I did. Woodstove. Bears. Cessna. Privy. Cocaine. Macaw. Missing fish and wildlife service agents. Headless skeleton. Cagle report.
Woolsey alternated between sipping and stirring her coffee. She didn’t speak until I’d finished.
“So you think the skull and hands you found in the Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, privy go with the bones we found at the state park in Lancaster County, South Carolina.”
“Yes. But the Lancaster County remains were destroyed, and I haven’t been able to read the anthropology report or view the photos.”
“But if you’re right, the John Doe is not this FWS agent.”
“Brian Aiker. Yes. His dentals exclude the skull.”
“But if the skull and hands are not a match to the skeleton, our Lancaster unknown could still be Brian Aiker.”
“Yes.”
“In which case you guys would still have an unknown.”
“Yes.”
“Who could possibly turn out to be the mother of the dead baby or her boyfriend.”
“Tamela Banks or Darryl Tyree. Very unlikely, but yes.”
“Who might have been involved in trafficking drugs, bear galls, and endangered bird species.”
“Yes.”
“Out of this abandoned farm where the bears and the skull turned up.”
“Yes.”
“And these dealers might have been business associates of two guys who crashed a Cessna while dumping coke.”
“Harvey Pearce and Jason Jack Wyatt.”
“Who might have been working for some cracker who owns strip joints and wilderness camps.”
“Ricky Don Dorton.”
“Who turned up dead in a Charlotte flophouse.”
“Yes. Look, I’m just trying to put the pieces together.”
“Don’t get defensive. Tell me about Cagle.”
I did.
Woolsey lay down her spoon.
“What I have to say is for your ears only. Understood?”
I nodded.
“Murray Snow was a good man. Married, three kids, great father. Never thought about leaving his wife.” She took a breath. “He and I were involved at the time of his death.”
“How old was he?”
“Forty-eight. Found unconscious in his office. Flatlined almost immediately at the ER.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
Woolsey shook her head.
“Murray’s family has a history of cardiac problems. Brother died at fifty-four, father at fifty-two, grandfather at forty-seven. Everyone assumed Murray had had the big one. Body was released and embalmed within twenty-four hours. James Park handled everything.”
“The funeral operator who replaced Snow as coroner?”
Woolsey nodded.
“It’s not really that unusual for Lancaster County. Murray had a bum ticker, his wife was pretty hysterical, and the family wanted things wrapped up as quickly as possible.”
“And there was no coroner.”
She snorted a laugh. “Right.”
“Seems pretty fast.”
“Pretty damn fast.”
Woolsey’s eyes shifted up the counter, then returned to me.
“Something didn’t ring true to me. Or maybe I was just feeling guilty. Or lonely. I’m not sure why, but I dropped by the ER, asked if there was anything I could send for tox screening. Sure enough, they’d drawn blood and still had the sample.”
Woolsey paused while the waitress refilled Calvin’s mug.
“Tests indicated Snow had large quantities of ephedrine in his system.”
I waited.
“Murray suffered from allergies. I mean suffered. But he was a doctor with a sketchy heart. The man wouldn’t touch anything with ephedrine. I tried to talk him into an over-the-counter sinus medication once. He was adamant.”
“Ephedrine is bad for people with weak hearts?”
Woolsey nodded. “Hypertension, angina, thyroid problems, heart disease. Murray knew that.”
Leaning toward me, she lowered her voice.
“Murray was looking into something shortly before his death.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. He started to tell me once, stopped, and never talked about it again. Two months later he died.”
Something I couldn’t define eclipsed her face.
“I think it involved that headless set of bones.”
“Why didn’t you open an investigation?”
“I tried. No one took me seriously. Everyone expected Murray to die young of a heart attack. He did. No mystery. End of story.”
“The ephedrine?”
“Everyone also knew about his allergies. Sheriff didn’t want to hear a conspiracy theory.”
“That’s what he called it?”
“Said next I’d be talking about grassy knolls and second shooters.”
Before I could speak, my cell phone warbled. I checked the number.
“It’s Detective Slidell.”
Woolsey snatched the tickets tucked under our plates.
“I’ll get this and meet you outside.”
“Thanks.”
Winding through the tables behind Woolsey, I clicked on.
“That you, Doc?” I could barely hear Slidell.
“Hold on.”
Woolsey queued up at the register. I stepped out to the parking lot. The morning was hot and breathless, the clouds gauzy wisps against a dazzling blue sky.
“That you, Doc?” Slidell repeated.
“Yes.” He was expecting Oprah Winfrey on my cell phone?
“Rinaldi had a pretty good day yesterday.”
“I’m listening.”
“He may be putting some flesh on those bare bones of yours. Get it? Bare bones? Bear bones?”
“I get it.”
“Turns out Jason Jack Wyatt, our mysterious passenger, spent a lot of time stalking and trapping. Gramma over in Sneedville puts him one notch above the Crocodile Hunter. Only, get this. J.J.’s specialty was bear. A city slicker booked into Wilderness Quest, laid down a thousand clams, J.J. scored him a bear for his trophy wall.”
A car pulled up and a black couple got out. The woman wore a tight red miniskirt, pink blouse, black hose, and stiletto heels. Flesh bulged from every place her clothing allowed a gap. The man had well-muscled arms and legs, but a belly that was yielding to a love of fatback and grits.
As Slidell talked, I watched the couple enter the Cup.
“Nothin’ illegal, of course,” I said.
“Of course not. And the other Sneedville young’un could have been president of the chamber of commerce, were it not for the Lord calling him home so soon.”
“Ricky Don.”
“The Donald Trump of Sneedville.”
“The grandmother admitted the two knew each other?”
“Ricky Don ga
ve his gifted but less fortunate cousin seasonal work at the Wilderness Quest hunting camp. Also sent him on errands from time to time.”
“Errands?”
“Seems J.J.’s job involved terrific travel benefits.”
“Ricky Don’s plane.”
“Also made long car trips.”
“Think Wyatt was boosting drugs for Ricky Don?”
“Could explain the blow we found in his cabin.”
“No kidding.”
“Would I kid you?”
“Rinaldi got a warrant?”
“He would have, of course. But Gramma insisted on a look-see to make sure no one was messing with J.J.’s posessions since his passing. She asked Rinaldi to carry her on over there in his automobile.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“So J.J. the bear slayer might have been muling for Ricky Don Dorton and dealing a little gall on the side.”
“Granny know anything about little J.J.’s phone calls to Darryl Tyree?”
“Nope.”
“Sonny Pounder talking yet?”
“Remains mute as a dead cat.”
“What’s the word on the pilot?”
“We’re still digging on Harvey Pearce.”
A tall man in cornrows, gold chains, and overpriced designer sunglasses approached the door just as Woolsey started through it. Something about him looked familiar.
The man stepped back, allowed Woolsey to pass, slid the shades down his nose, and followed the progress of her buttocks.
Slidell was saying something, but I wasn’t listening.
Where had I seen that face?
My brain struggled toward pattern recognition.
In person? In a photo? Recently? In the distant past?
Slidell was still talking, his voice tinny through the cell phone.
Seeing my expression, Woolsey turned back toward the Cup. The man had disappeared inside.
“What?”
I held up a finger.
“Hel-lo?” Realizing he’d lost it, Slidell was trying to regain my attention.
I was about to disconnect and return to the restaurant when the man reappeared, white paper bag in one hand, keys in the other. Crossing to a black Lexus, he opened the rear door, placed the food on the seat, and slammed the door.
Before sliding behind the wheel, the man turned in our direction.
No shades. Full frontal view.
I studied the features.
Remove the cornrows and curly little pigtails.
Synapse!
The temperature seemed to drop. The day compressed around me.
“Holy shit!”
“What?” Slidell.
“What?” Woolsey.
“Can you follow that guy?” I asked Woolsey, pointing the phone at the Lexus.
“The guy with the cornrows?”
I nodded.
She nodded back.
We bolted for her car.
“BRENNAN!”
I clicked my seat belt and braced against the dash as Woolsey made a U-ey and gunned it up Clarkson.
“What the hell’s happening?”
Slidell’s voice had the agitated sound of someone in jammies calling out to things going bump in the night.
I put the phone to my ear.
“I just spotted Darryl Tyree.”
“How do you know it’s Tyree?”
“I recognized him from Gideon Banks’s Polaroid.”
“Where?”
“Picking up takeout at the Coffee Cup.”
“That way,” I said to Woolsey, pointing up Morehead.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Slidell.
“Tailing him.”
The wheels screeched softly as Woolsey whipped left onto Morehead, ignoring the sign prohibiting such a turn. I could see the black Lexus a block and a half up. Tyree didn’t respect traffic controls, either.
“Don’t tip him that we’re following,” I said to Woolsey.
She gave me a “thanks for the advice” look and focused on her driving, hands clamped at ten and two o’clock on the wheel.
“Jesus H. Christ. Are you crazy?” Slidell bellowed.
“He may lead us to Tamela Banks.”
“Stay the fuck away from Tyree. That Looney Tune’ll cap you without breaking a sweat.”
“He won’t know we’re on him.”
“Where are you?”
I braced as Woolsey made another turn.
“Freedom Drive.”
I heard Slidell call out to Rinaldi. Then his voice went jumpy, as though he were jogging.
“Jee-zus, Brennan. Why can’t you and your friends just go to the mall.”
I didn’t favor that with a reply.
“I want you to pull over right now. Leave this to detectives.”
“I’m with a detective.”
“Who?”
“Terry Woolsey. She’s got a badge and everything. Visiting us from South Carolina.”
“You can be a real pain in the ass, Brennan.”
“You are not alone in that opinion.”
I heard doors slam, then an engine turn over.
“Give me your position.”
“We’re heading east on Tuckaseegee,” I said. “Wait.”
Seeing brake lights, Woolsey slowed to drop back. Tyree made a right. Woolsey sped up and made the turn. Tyree was making a left at the next intersection.
Woolsey raced up the block and rounded the corner. Tyree was turning right at the end of the block.
Woolsey shot ahead and made the turn. This time the Lexus was nowhere in sight.
“Shit!” Simultaneous.
“What?” Slidell.
We were in a neighborhood of meandering streets and dead-end cul-de-sacs. I’d been lost in such residential labyrinths many times.
Woolsey accelerated to the mouth of a small street entering from the left.
No Lexus.
As Woolsey sped up the block, I checked driveways and parked cars.
No Lexus.
At the next intersection we both looked left then right.
“There!” I said.
The Lexus was parked two-thirds of the way down on the right. Woolsey made the turn and slid to the curb.
“—the fuck are you?” Slidell sounded apoplectic.
I put the phone to my ear and gave him the address.
“Don’t do anything! Nothing! Not a goddamn thing!” Slidell shrieked.
“OK if I order out for Chinese? Maybe have some spring rolls delivered to the car?”
With a click of my thumb, I cut off the explosion.
“Your friend’s got some thoughts on our coming here?” Woolsey asked, eyes sweeping the street.
“He’ll warm to the idea.”
“He a tad rigid?”
“Skinny’s nickname doesn’t come from the size of his shorts.”
I took in my surroundings.
Save for a slab of plywood nailed here and there, the houses looked like they’d gone through few changes since their construction sometime during the Great Depression. Paint was peeling, rust and dry rot were running a footrace.
“Your boy’s probably not here for a Rotary meeting,” Woolsey remarked.
“Probably not.”
“Who is he?”
I explained that Tyree was the drug dealer linked to Tamela, her baby, and her missing family.
“I can’t help thinking everything’s related,” I said. “I have no proof, but my gut feeling is that Tamela holds the key to the whole situation.”
Woolsey nodded, eyes roving, assessing.
A man emerged from a house two doors over from the one Tyree had entered. He wore a do-rag and a black silk shirt flapping open over a dingy white T. Next came a woman in hip-hugging jeans, her belly hanging out like a large, brown melon. Both looked like they could use a stretch at Betty Ford.
I glanced at my watch. Seven minutes since I’d cut Slidell off.
A rusted-out Ford Tempo rolled past
us, slowed opposite Tyree’s Lexus, then accelerated and disappeared around the far corner.
“Think we’ve been noticed?” I asked.
Woolsey shrugged, then reached out and jacked up the AC. Cold air blasted from the blower.
Time check. Eight minutes since I’d disconnected with Slidell.
A group of black teens, all with baggy pants, back-turned visors, and gangsta struts rounded the corner and moved up the sidewalk in our direction. Spotting Woolsey’s car, one elbowed another, and the group formed a scrum. Seconds later, they performed handshake acrobatics, then continued in our direction.
Reaching us, two of the teens hopped onto the hood, leaned back on their elbows, and crossed ankles ending in designer Nikes. A third circled to Woolsey’s door, a fourth to mine.
I noticed Woolsey’s hands drop from the wheel. Her right arm stayed lightly cocked, hand tense beside her right hip.
I glanced at the gangsta who’d stationed himself on my side. He looked about fifteen and slightly larger than a pet ferret.
The ferret indicated I should lower my window. I ignored him.
The ferret spread his feet, folded his arms, and gave me a hard sunglasses stare. I held the stare a full five seconds, then turned away.
Ten minutes.
The ferret’s counterpart was older and accessorized with enough gold to refinance WorldCom. He tapped the knuckle of an index finger on Woolsey’s window.
“Wassup?” His voice sounded muted inside the closed-up car.
Woolsey and I ignored him.
The kid draped a forearm crossways on Woolsey’s window, bent, and leaned his forehead on it.
“Yo, white sisters. You lookin’ to do some bidness?”
When the kid spoke, only the right half of his face rode along, as though the left suffered from Bell’s palsy, or had sustained an injury that deactivated the nerves on that side.
“You lookin’ fine, pretty mamas. Lower the glass so’s I can talk wit’ chew.”
Woolsey flipped him the bird.
The kid pushed upright with both palms.
Woolsey made a shooing motion with her left hand.
The kid took one step back and gave Woolsey the ghetto glare.
Woolsey glared back.
Eleven minutes.
Bracing his feet, the kid wrapped both hands around Woolsey’s side mirror and turned to her. One half of his mouth smiled. His eyes did not.
I’ll never know if Woolsey was reaching for a gun or reaching for a badge. At that moment Slidell’s Taurus rounded the corner, pulled over, and lurched to a stop behind us.