by Kathy Reichs
“Yes.”
“Hallelujah! Everyone’s in the loop but the head of security!”
“Williams and Randall were here.”
“The freaking FBI. This happened on my patch. And what do I get to do? Freaking crowd control!”
“You going to break down now?”
“What?”
“It’s manly and all. But I’m not good with tears.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Getting in touch with your feminine side.”
For a moment I heard nothing but background noise. Then Gali-more chuckled. “You’re a real wiseass, you know that.”
“Yes. Why did you call?”
“While my people play mall cop, I’m going to do some real police work. You want to meet Craig Bogan?”
I did.
Gamble’s cranial fragments wouldn’t be ready for analysis for twenty-four hours. I had no other cases.
Hawkins would disapprove. Ditto Slidell.
Screw Hawkins and Slidell.
“I’m at the MCME,” I said. “Where shall I meet you?”
“Right outside. I’ll be there in thirty.”
I disconnected and dialed again.
This time the anger was pointed at me.
“What the hell are you thinking?”
“Good morning, Detective. Going to be another hot one out there.”
“Cotton Galimore is a slime-spewing, amoral, bastard of a scumbag.”
I had to give Slidell credit. His prose was creative.
“Don’t hold back,” I said.
“You’ve got no business breathing air with that freak show. He’ll use you, then ditch you like a snotty tissue.”
“Perhaps I’m using him.”
“Galimore’s a booger that you can’t flick off.”
“That was good. The way you expanded the metaphor.”
“What?”
“Why did you call?”
“The impending gang war turned out to be a cheating ex taking revenge on the love of his life. Killed her and the boyfriend, put the lady’s brother in the ICU.”
It is one of the most common causes of violence against women. The man threatens. The woman asks for protection, maybe gets a restraining order. Big help. The cops finally step in when Mr. Tough Guy actually batters or kills her. Every time I hear of a case like that, I feel the same outrage and frustration.
“If I can’t have you, no one can,” I said, voice coated with disgust.
“Yeah. Noble. Anyways, I’ve got a little downtime now, so I plan to check out the car Gamble and Lovette drove off in the night they disappeared.”
“The ’sixty-five Mustang described by Grady Winge.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking there couldn’t have been many of those. Wish I had the original damn file. I’m probably reinventing the wheel.”
“Are DMV registration records kept that long?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Any mention of the car in Eddie’s notes?”
“That’s where I plan to start.”
I told Slidell about Larabee’s autopsy results. And about the abrin found in Wayne Gamble’s coffee.
“What the hell’s abrin?”
I provided a quick overview. Slidell saw the connection right away. “Like the shit what killed the landfill John Doe.”
“We don’t know if the man died of ricin poisoning. He’d also suffered head trauma.”
“Guess you could say that about Gamble.”
“But it’s not just the abrin,” I said.
I told Slidell about Gamble’s calls to me, about his anxiety, and about his decision to confront the person tailing him.
“So the FBI’s thinking Wayne Gamble got iced. Why?”
“I don’t know. But there’s more.”
I relayed what Williams had shared concerning Ted Raines.
“The feebs are fingering Raines?”
“No one’s suggesting that Raines killed Gamble.”
“Then what’s the link?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re saying that a lot.”
I hesitated, decided it was better to have everyone on the same page. Leaving out the part about the shotgun, I described the encounter with Eugene Fries.
“I’m telling you. Galimore is a snake.”
“Let it go.”
Angry air whistled in and out of Slidell’s nose for several seconds. “Who would have threatened this guy Fries?”
“I’ve no clue. But they made an impression.”
“Who’s wrong? Fries or Winge?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“You think one of them lied?”
“I don’t know. But I think Owen Poteat may have.”
I walked Slidell through my interpretation of Rinaldi’s coded note.
“Sonofafrigginbitch,” he said.
“Sonofafrigginbitch,” I agreed.
GALIMORE ARRIVED BEARING CHICK-FIL-A. HIS SHIRT WAS wrinkled and sweat-stained under the arms. His eyes were puffy, his cheeks unshaven. Not the sexy unkept look Bruce Willis sometimes features. The up-all-night-and-grungy version.
Though the food was good, Galimore’s mood was not.
We ate in tense silence.
When I asked our destination, I got one word. Weddington.
As I bunched and rebagged my sandwich wrapper and waffle-fries carton, I considered briefing Galimore on the autopsy, the abrin, and the other info obtained from Williams and Randall.
Not yet.
“What does Bogan do?” I asked.
“I already told you.”
“Indulge me.”
“He grows vegetables.”
“You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“I spoke with Slidell this morning.”
“Always reason for rejoicing.”
“He questions your motive for looking at the Gamble-Lovette case after all these years.”
Galimore snorted.
“It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”
“I’d rather take a punch to the balls.”
Okay, then.
Galimore turned from Providence onto Weddington Road, which soon veered southeast. Through my window I watched malls and subdivision entrances slide past. I pictured the pretentious homes beyond the flawlessly quaint signs, each trying to be Tudor, or Tuscan, or Provençal. A few years back the area had been farmland. Where had all the countryside gone?
Eventually we entered a stretch of woodland. Galimore made a right, then another, then a third into a driveway. An engraved wooden placard announced our arrival at CB Botanicals.
Through a stand of pines, I could see a bungalow, beyond it a greenhouse. Beside the greenhouse was a small pond.
The bungalow was old but well kept. The siding was blue, probably the kind that never needed painting. The door was red, the gutters and window trim white.
The gardens bordering the house were lavish with color. I recognized some flowers. Phlox, daisies, lilies, begonias. Most I didn’t.
A kid was up on a ladder, pulling leaves from a gutter along the house’s right side. He had wires coming from both ears and didn’t look up at the sound of our car.
Galimore and I got out and followed a walk bisecting a luxuriantly green lawn. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh-cut grass. From somewhere, I heard the tic-tic of a sprinkler.
Galimore thumbed the bell. A muted chime bonged inside the house.
Seconds passed. Galimore was reaching out again when the door swung inward.
The woman was tall and weighed approximately the same as my purse. She wore black spandex shorts and an oversize tee atop a black sports bra. Which was not needed. She held a plastic water bottle in one hand.
“Yes?”
Galimore flashed some sort of badge, quickly jammed it back into his pocket.
“Sorry to disturb your workout, ma’am. We’re looking for Craig Bogan.” Sunn
y as could be.
“Why?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“Then so are his whereabouts.”
Galimore beamed a megawatt smile. “My bad. Let’s start again.” The woman took a long slug from the bottle. “You think my tits are saggy?”
“Far from it.”
“Craig does.”
“Then Craig needs corrective lenses.”
“He needs more than that.” The woman stuck out a hand. “Reta Yountz.”
They shook so forcefully, Reta’s bracelet jumped like a string of ladybugs doing a conga.
“Craig would be Craig Bogan?” Galimore asked.
Reta nodded.
“Your husband?”
“Jesus, no. We just live together.”
Reta tipped her head to one side and opened her lips ever so slightly. Her face had a sheen of perspiration that made her cheeks shine.
“Maybe I’ll get a boob job.” Looking directly at Galimore.
“A totally unnecessary expenditure.” Looking straight back.
I fought an impulse to roll my eyes.
As Galimore worked his charm, I studied Reta. Her hair was pulled carelessly up and held back by an elastic band. I guessed her age at around forty.
“We’d like to ask your boyfriend a few questions.” Galimore was oozing charisma. “Nothing big.”
“You’ll come back and see me afterwards?” Reta used the hem of the tee to wipe her throat, exposing a rock-hard midriff.
“You can count on it.”
“He’s in the greenhouse.”
The greenhouse was one of those glass and metal affairs that, from a distance, look like the skeleton of an actual building. This one was much larger than I’d expected, big enough to accommodate a couple of small planes.
When we entered, the heat and humidity felt like a living thing. The air was heavy with the smells of fertilizer, loam, and compost.
Overhead, the glass walls arched into a high dome. Underfoot, the ground was covered with gravel.
Rows of wooden planters shot the length of the building, each outfitted with pipes that ran upward into more pipes that I assumed were a central irrigation system. Baskets hung from hooks. Pots sat on the floor.
There was so much flora I could almost hear the photosynthesis going on around me. I knew some easy ones. Basil, impatiens, ferns, geraniums. The rest were a leafy green mystery.
We both looked around. Bogan was nowhere in sight.
Galimore called out, got no response.
When he called out again, a voice bellowed from beyond an open door at the greenhouse’s far end. We walked toward it between stands of toddler azaleas. Already my hair was lank and my shirt was sticking to my back.
The owner of the voice was in a small room that appeared to function as some sort of prep area. He was kneeling beside a barrel and, on hearing our approach, swiveled, trowel in one hand.
Bogan’s hair, once red, was now salmon-gray. Rosacea made it hard to tell where his pink face ended and his scalp began.
From Bogan’s greeting, I guessed the greenhouse had few walk-in customers.
“Who the hell are you?”
Galimore did the quick badge-flip thing. “We have a few questions for you, Mr. Bogan.”
“Questions about what?”
“Your son.”
“You have news of my son?”
“No, sir. We were hoping you might.”
I noticed a tremor in Bogan’s hand as he lay down the trowel. Double-gripping the barrel rim, he slowly pulled himself to his feet.
The word “flamingo” popped into my mind. The coloring. The spindly legs. Bogan’s upper body seemed far too bulky for his lower limbs to support.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Cotton Galimore. My associate is Dr. Temperance Brennan.”
Bogan bounced a glance off me but asked no follow-up question.
“We’ve been looking into the disappearances of Cindi Gamble and your son, Cale.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bogan’s eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”
“I was on the task force back in 1998.” Galimore left it at that.
Bogan seemed to consider, let it go. “The police have reopened the case?”
Galimore did not correct Bogan’s misinterpretation that he was still on the job. “Last week a body was found in a landfill next to the Charlotte Motor Speedway. You may have seen media reports.”
“I don’t follow the news.” A nod in my direction. “What’s her connection?”
“Dr. Brennan examined that body.”
Bogan turned to me. “Was it Cale?”
“I think it’s unlikely.”
“But you don’t know.”
“Not with complete certainty.”
Bogan opened his mouth. Before he could speak, music burst from my purse.
Apologizing, I withdrew a few steps, dug out my mobile, and clicked on.
And immediately regretted ignoring the caller ID.
“Sweet baby Jesus, Tempe. My life’s going to hell in a hand-basket.”
“I can’t talk now, Summer.” Hand-cupping my mouth.
“I’m going to die. I really am. No person on this earth—”
“I’ll help you later.”
“When?”
“Whenever.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“You really cross-your-heart will?”
“Yes,” I hissed.
Behind me, I heard Bogan ask, “You on some sort of personal crusade?”
“Nothing like that,” Galimore said. “I just always felt we left that investigation a little too soon.”
Outside the glass, the pond looked flat and gray, a pewter disk compressed by the afternoon’s oppressive heat and humidity.
“Say it,” Summer whined.
“Yes.”
“Say you promise.”
“I promise.”
“I’ve completely given up on Petey. I don’t like passing judgment on other people’s taste. But if you take my meaning—”
“I have to go.”
I was turning back to the others when something velvety brushed my elbow.
A tarantula image replaced the flamingo.
My instincts acted without clearance from my higher centers.
My hand flew up.
The mobile shot skyward, then augured into the gravel at Galimore’s feet.
“I’ll get it. I’m already covered with cow flop.”
Before I could respond, Bogan scooped up the iPhone, stepped to a sideboard, and wiped each surface with a rag. “Good as new.” Handing it back.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Daytona’s manners need improving.”
At my confused look, Bogan pointed to a straight-back wooden chair beside the door. On it, a black cat sat grooming itself, one leg shooting the air like a Ziegfeld girl’s.
“It’s sticky in here,” Bogan said. “Let’s go to my den.”
We walked single-file, Bogan, then Galimore, then I. Daytona abandoned his toilette to bring up the rear.
The house’s interior was dim. And at least a zillion degrees cooler than the greenhouse.
The front door opened into a small foyer. Beyond, on the right, stairs rose to a second floor. Nothing fancy. No carved spindles or sweeping handrail. Just treads and banisters screwed into the walls.
Through the ceiling came muted thuds I assumed were footfalls on a treadmill. I had to credit Reta. She was booking.
Bogan led us down a central hall past amateur watercolors hung in cheap plastic frames. A landscape. A bowl of fruit. A gaudy bouquet.
In a few short steps we reached a kitchen, and the hall made a ninety-degree turn.
“I’ll get some sodas.” A skinny finger pointed to an open door. “Y’all go in there.”
Galimore
and I went left as directed and entered what had to be Bogan’s den.
I could only stare in amazement.
THE ROOM HELD A SCRUFFY LEATHER COUCH AND MATCHING chair, a battered oak coffee table, and a flat-screen TV the size of a highway billboard. The rest of the room was a testimonial to NASCAR.
Display cases and shelving lined the walls, all crammed to overflowing. Above the cases hung framed posters, photos, and memorabilia. Freestanding items filled every unoccupied inch of floor space.
It was doubtful the Hall of Fame had more on exhibit.
My eyes roved the assemblage.
A hunk of asphalt carved into the numeral 3 and labeled as coming from turn one at Daytona. A life-size cutout of Denny Hamlin. A hunk of red sheet metal with some driver’s name incised into the surrounding plastic casing. Autographed trading cards. Commemorative coins in velvet boxes. Flags. Sweatshirts. Caps. Die-cast models of hundreds of cars.
I guessed some of the items could be valuable. A black-and-white print that looked at least fifty years old. Team suits that seemed way out of date. A car door with the number 24 painted on the outside.
“Can you believe all this shit?” Galimore was equally stunned.
“The man is a fan,” I said.
“More like a fanatic.”
I crossed to look at some of the poster-size photos. Jimmie Johnson, kissing the ground after winning the 2007 Brickyard. Jeff Gordon, making a pit stop. Tony Stewart, raising an index finger at Watkins Glen.
I checked the old picture. It showed a man wearing goggles and high boots straddling an old-fashioned motorcycle.
“You know who that is?” Bogan was standing in the doorway holding three cans of Pepsi.
I studied the scrawled signature. “Erwin Baker?”
“Erwin ‘Cannonball’ Baker won the first race ever held at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. That was in 1909, when the track was brand-new. Cannonball cycled back and forth across the country more than a hundred times, later served as commissioner of NASCAR. The guy was a legend.”
Bogan held out a Pepsi. I took it.
“That was before the fancy-pantsification of stock car racing. Before diversification.” He elongated the second syllable to show his disdain.
“Sorry?”
“Back in the day everyone knew whose sport it was. And drivers were tough.”
“They’re not tough now?”
