“Let me guess,” I said. “The FBI suspected Hand and the Patriot Posse were planning a bioterrorist attack like the one in Oregon, this time with ricin.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you were treading eggshells back in 1998.”
“We couldn’t risk setting them off.”
“But it never happened.”
“No.”
“How would Hand get hold of ricin?” Larabee asked.
“We think he may have been producing the toxin himself.”
“Ricinus communis grows in North Carolina?”
“Easily.”
We all thought about that.
“So how did Hand end up in a barrel of asphalt?” I voiced the question in everyone’s mind.
“Accidentally poisoned himself? Fell on his head? Got taken out by his pals? We honestly don’t know.”
“What happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble?” I asked.
“Same answer.”
“Was either of them working inside for the bureau?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Uh-huh.”
I held Williams’s eyes with mine. He didn’t blink.
The small office filled with tense silence. When Williams broke it, his voice was elevated a microdecibel. It was as excited as I’d seen him.
“The long shot paid off, Dr. Brennan.”
“Sorry?” The quick segue lost me.
Williams cocked his chin toward his partner.
One word and I knew why Randall spoke so rarely. His voice was high and nasal, more suited to a Hollywood hairdresser than an FBI agent.
“Alda Pickerly Winge has owned a home on Union Cemetery Road in Concord since 1964. The property is less than a quarter mile from the Circle K from which the call was placed to your mobile last night.”
I felt centipedes crawl my arms.
“Alda is related to Grady?” Stupid. I knew the answer to that one, too.
“He is her son.”
“You think Grady Winge called in the tip on Eli Hand?”
“Winge’s truck is currently parked at his mother’s house. We believe it has been there all night.”
“Who’s Grady Winge?” Larabee asked.
“A Speedway maintenance worker who saw Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette argue with a man, then enter a car shortly before they disappeared.”
Again the troublesome tickle in my brainpan.
What?
“A ’sixty-five Mustang,” Williams added.
Suddenly, the tickle exploded into a full-blown thought.
I shot upright in my chair.
“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield. That’s what Winge told Slidell and me at the Speedway last Monday. Can you check his statement from 1998?”
The specials exchanged one of their meaningful glances. Then Williams lowered his chin almost imperceptibly.
Randall got up and went into the hall. In moments he was back.
“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”
“You’re sure that’s what he said?”
“That was his statement verbatim.”
“What are the chances a witness would use the exact same words and phrasing so many years apart?” I was totally psyched.
Williams appeared to consider that. “You think Winge made up his story? Practiced it to be sure he’d get it right?”
“It would explain why the Mustang could never be traced. Think about it. A car that rare?”
“Why would Winge lie?”
No one had an answer.
“Slidell says Winge is as dumb as a bag of hammers,” Larabee offered.
“He’s not a smart man,” I agreed.
“Why tip you about Eli Hand?” Williams asked.
“Maybe Winge was involved in Hand’s death and is feeling guilty,” Larabee tossed out.
“After more than a decade?” Williams sounded skeptical.
“He claims to have found Jesus,” I said.
“You believe him?”
I shrugged. Who knows?
“Maybe Winge was involved in what happened to Gamble and Lovette.” Larabee was hitting his stride. “Maybe he killed them. Maybe he killed Wayne Gamble because the guy was figuring things out.”
We all went still, realizing the implications of that line of reasoning.
Might Winge think I was figuring things out? Had he left me the threatening voice mail? Might he be planning a similar “accident” for me?
“We’ve got Winge under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Williams said. “If he changes his socks, we’ll know about it.”
Williams stood.
Randall stood.
“Until this is resolved, I’m going to ask the CMPD to run units by your town house on an hourly basis.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Williams stuck out a hand. “Nice job on the Mustang catch.”
“Thanks.”
We shook. Randall did not join in.
“Perhaps it’s best if you lay low for a while.”
What the flip? First Galimore, now Williams.
I made a noncommittal sound.
“I’ll phone if anything breaks,” Williams said.
That call came very, very soon.
GALIMORE RANG AT NINE-TWENTY. THE WEEKEND’S RACES were fast approaching, and the media were growing hysterical for information on Wayne Gamble’s death. He couldn’t leave the Speedway for any reason.
Galimore sounded so rushed, I didn’t take time to mention that the landfill John Doe had been identified. Or to explain how that had come about.
Slidell phoned around ten. I filled him in on recent developments. He promised to locate Maddy Padgett once he got done checking documents and a PC confiscated from Wayne Gamble’s trailer.
Williams’s call came at eleven-fifteen. I was in the stinky room gluing cranial fragments. Wayne Gamble’s partially reconstructed skull sat in a bowl of sand at my elbow.
Williams sounded out of breath. “About the time we were leaving the MCME, Winge got into his truck and drove from his mother’s house to the Stephens Road Nature Preserve. You know it?”
“It’s between Mountain Island Lake and Lake Norman, right?”
“Exactly. Stephens Road cuts off Beatties Ford Road, winds past a housing development, then dead-ends in some fairly dense forest.”
A voice called out.
“Hang on.”
The air went thick, as though Williams had pressed the phone to his chest. In seconds, he was back.
“Sorry. Winge parked and walked into the woods. Agents found him about fifty yards north of the road. He was on his knees and appeared to be praying.”
I felt my heart rate kick up a notch.
“The agents called me. They described an area of ground slump at the spot where Winge was kneeling. I instructed them to detain Winge and ordered a cadaver dog to the site.”
My grip tightened on the receiver. I knew what was coming.
“The dog alerted at the depression.”
“What’s happening now?”
“CSU is on the way.”
“So am I.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
The sun was low by the time the bones were fully uncovered. One skeleton lay on top of the other, the arm bones intertwined, as though the victims were embracing in death.
The grave was shallow, dug quickly, filled with haste. Standard. And Winge, or whoever had done the burying, had made the usual mistake of the uninformed. Instead of leaving the fill mounded over the pit, he, she, or they had stomped it flat. With the passage of time, soil compression had led to the telltale slump.
The temperature and humidity had been so high all afternoon, the forest seemed to be rendered lifeless. Trees, birds, and insects held themselves still and silent.
The dog had rem
ained. Her name was Clara. Clara’s handler had walked her past our excavation periodically. She’d scent, then sit, tongue dangling, saffron rays of sunlight tinging her fur.
Slidell had arrived shortly after I’d staked out a square and set up a screen. He’d watched silently as I instructed the CSU techs on how to trowel and sift dirt. They worked sluggishly, immobilized by the stifling heat.
When I asked Slidell why he was there, he said his sergeant was viewing the Wayne and Cindi Gamble deaths as related. He’d been told to hustle Gamble’s laptop to the geek squad and get his ass to the burial site. From now on he was out of rotation, assigned strictly to their cases.
We’d sealed the scene with sawhorses and yellow tape, but it hadn’t been necessary. The heat and the remoteness of the location had been enough. No one had come to gawk as we went through our macabre routine.
The remains we assumed to be those of Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette lay on the surface now, zipped into two pitifully flat body bags.
I sat in a patrol unit on Stephens Road, sipping water from a plastic bottle. The radio crackled, and the usual motion swirled around me. I’d come to do my job, to be a professional. But I was finding it hard.
Had it really been less than a week since I’d learned of Gamble and Lovette? It seemed so much longer. I felt I knew them. I’d been so hopeful. Now the verdict was in. Death.
I tried to keep my brain blank. I didn’t want to replay the scene of the soil-stained bones emerging as the layers of dirt were peeled off. To visualize the skulls grinning up from the trench. To see the small round holes centered in the occipital bones.
I’d recognized the earrings instantly upon seeing them in the screen. Small silver loops with race cars dangling from one edge.
I pictured the little oval face. The pixie blond hair.
Push it away.
You didn’t kill her, I said silently to Cale Lovette. You probably tried to save her.
I’d supervised the excavation, done preliminary bio-profiles on the skeletons. Then Slidell had taken charge of the scene.
I watched him emerge from the trees now. He conferred with Williams, then turned and walked in my direction.
Hitching a pant leg, Slidell squatted next to the car, one hand on the open door’s armrest. His face was raspberry, and perspiration soaked his hair and armpits.
“Not the outcome we were looking for.” Slidell’s voice was a bit husky.
I said nothing.
Slidell reached behind his back and yanked a hankie from his pocket. His palm left a small saddle of perspiration on the vinyl armrest.
“You find anything down there with them?” he asked.
“Her earrings. Zippers. Some moldy shreds of clothing.”
“Shoes?”
“No.”
Slidell shook his head.
“You think they were killed here?” I asked.
“Hard to say. They could have been forced to take off their shoes. Or their bodies could have been transported from somewhere else.”
“They pick up anything with the metal detector?”
“Nothing useful.” He knew I was asking about bullets or casings.
Behind Slidell, I could see two attendants carrying a stretcher. Together, they transferred both body bags to the morgue gurney and buckled the black straps.
When I looked back, Slidell was studying my face.
“Can I get you something? More water?”
“I’m good.” I swallowed. “Did Winge do it?”
“Dumb-ass keeps mumbling he’s sorry. Over and over. Sounds like a confession to me.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never been able to understand how these mutants think. But trust me. We’ll get everything he knows out of him.”
The heat in the car was like hot syrup against my skin. I got out and lifted my hair to feel the breeze on my neck. There was none.
I watched the morgue attendants slam and secure the van doors.
And felt a sob build in my chest. Fought it back.
I spotted Williams walking toward us. He says one thing to me and I’ll rip his goddamn lips off, I promised myself. I meant it.
Williams spoke to Slidell. “We about done here?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Winge?”
“Being booked.”
For a few moments the three of us stood in self-conscious silence. Sensing strong emotion, the men didn’t know how to act, what to say. I didn’t feel like helping them out.
Avoiding my eyes, Slidell addressed Williams. “Meet me downtown. We’ll grill this cocksucker.”
On the drive home, my eyes burned and my chest heaved intermittently.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
Somehow, I didn’t.
A bubble bath and a change of clothes did wonders for my body.
My spirits remained in the cellar.
Slidell’s visit did nothing to lift them. Maybe it was his BO. More likely his report on Grady Winge.
“The prick’s stonewalling.”
“What do you mean?”
“He won’t talk. Keeps his eyes closed and his lips moving, like he’s praying.”
“What did he say about the graves?”
“You listening to me?”
“You must have other interrogation techniques.”
“Right. The rubber hoses slipped my mind.”
“What about a psychologist?”
“We reminded Mr. Winge of the popularity of capital punishment in this state. Now we’re letting him ponder that.”
An image of the two skeletons fountained up in my mind. I felt anger and sadness. Pushed them away.
“Now what?”
I asked. “I’m going to squeeze Lynn Nolan a little harder. This time pop her at home.”
“Why?”
“I want to know more about the guy Lovette was talking to at the Double Shot.”
“You think Nolan was holding back?”
“Let’s just say I want another run at her.”
“Did Williams tell you the FBI confiscated the Gamble-Lovette case file?”
“No.”
“He virtually admitted it.”
“Yeah?”
I described my aha! moment regarding the statements Winge gave in ’ninety-eight and on the previous Monday.
“Randall made a call, confirmed that Winge’s wording was identical. He must have had someone check the original file.”
“Those arrogant pricks.” Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. “Don’t matter. That sonofabitch is guilty and he’s going down. The question is, who else?”
“Where does Nolan live?” I asked.
“The old hometown. Kannapolis.”
It was obvious Slidell hadn’t been home. His BO was strong enough to put down a horse. The prospect of a car ride together was not appealing.
“You’re going now?”
“I thought I’d have a couple beers first, maybe catch a movie.”
The clock said 9:20.
I desperately craved sleep.
“Hold on.” I hurried to the study and grabbed my purse.
I’d overestimated the drive time. But underestimated the aromatics. By the time we got to Kannapolis, I craved another hot bath.
Nolan lived in a faux-colonial complex that looked like it had taken five minutes to construct. Her apartment was in the middle building, on the upper of two floors. Her unit and three others were accessed by the same iron and concrete staircase.
Slidell and I climbed to her door and rang the bell.
Nolan answered almost at once. She was wearing very little, most of it black and transparent.
“Did you forget your key, silly?”
Upon seeing us, Nolan’s face fired through a series of reactions. In a heartbeat, her expression went from bewilderment to recognition and finally settled on fear.
“What are you doing here?” Hopping behind and peeking around the door.
“Is this a bad
time, Mrs. Nolan?”
“Yes it is.” Nolan was looking past us toward the staircase at our backs.
“There are just a few small points I don’t understand.” Slidell was doing Columbo.
“It’s late. Can’t we do this tomorrow?” The woman was nervous as hell. “I’ll come downtown or whatever you want.”
In the lot below, a car door slammed.
Nolan’s expression morphed to terror.
Footsteps ticked up the treads.
“Don’t come here!” Nolan called out. “Go back!”
Too late.
A man’s head appeared above floor level.
At first I wasn’t sure.
Then I was.
The man froze, then reversed and thundered down the stairs.
Slidell bolted after him.
I could only stare in confusion.
WITH HIS WEAK JAW AND LONG TEST-TUBE NOSE, TED RAINES did in fact resemble a bottlenose dolphin. Adding to the effect, at the moment his forehead and cheeks were shiny and gray.
Raines was slumped across Nolan’s sofa. Slidell stood glaring down at him, face sweaty and flushed. Both men were breathing hard.
Nolan and I were across the room in cheesy Kmart armchairs. She’d thrown a fuzzy blue robe over the naughty lingerie.
“What the fuck are you thinking?” No more Columbo. Slidell was furious.
Raines just kept panting.
“Do you know how many people are looking for you, you dumb shit?”
Raines’s head turtled down between his shoulders.
“Your wife’s got every cop shop in Dixie hunting your bony ass. BOLO dispatches are out in three states.” Slidell was so keyed up, he’d slipped into police code. Be On the LookOut.
“Stop harassing him.”
Slidell swiveled to face Nolan. “You got something to say?”
“Ted’s wife is not a nice person.”
“That so?”
“Ted needed some time out.”
“Time out?”
Slidell closed in on her with two angry strides. Nolan shrank back, as though fearful of a blow.
Across the room, Raines seemed to collapse inward even more.
“Time out? That what you call this?” Slidell flapped an angry arm between Nolan and Raines.
“You’re scaring me.”
“Be scared. Be very scared.”
“We haven’t done anything illegal.”
“Yeah? Well, you and lover boy are about to experience a busload of shit coming down on your heads.”