Flash and Bones (13 page)

“You think she went off with him?”

“Huh-uh.”

“What’s your take?”

Nolan looked from Slidell to me, then back. Her response was delivered with breathy affect. “I think Cale killed her, then ran away.”

Humid air pressed our skin as Slidell and I walked back to the Taurus. The sun was a silver-white disc in the sky. An anemic breeze carried the smell of hot brick and mowed grass.

“Brain power of a newt.”

I suspected Slidell was underestimating the amphibian. Didn’t say so.

“What was that shit above her head?”

I wasn’t sure if he meant Nolan’s updo or the logo. I went with the latter. “Genomics is the study of the genomes of organisms.”

“Like figuring out their DNA?”

“Yes. Proteomics is the study of proteins. Metabolomics is the study of cellular processes.” Oversimplified but close enough.

“How’s all that fit in with air pollution?”

“I’ll Google CRRI.”

Slidell and I got into the car. The heat was worthy of Death Valley.

“What do you think of Nolan’s theory?” I asked after securing my belt.

“That Lovette killed Gamble? The thought crossed my mind.”

“Really?”

Slidell didn’t elaborate until he’d turned the key, maxed the air-conditioning, and unwrapped and popped a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.

“In his notes, Eddie mentions a guy name of Owen Poteat.” Slidell made a U-ey toward the main drag. “Back in ’ninety-eight, Poteat claimed he saw Lovette at the Charlotte airport on the twenty-fourth of October.”

The implication was clear.

“That was ten days after Lovette and Gamble disappeared from the Speedway. How did Poteat know it was Lovette?”

“He’d seen a photo on a flyer. Said the tats and bald head caught his attention.”

“Was Poteat considered credible?”

“The task force thought so. According to Eddie, Poteat’s statement played heavy into the conclusion that Lovette and Gamble took off.”

“What about Cindi?” I asked.

“What about her?”

“Did Poteat see her at the airport with Lovette?”

“Apparently he wasn’t so sure. But here’s the thing.”

Slidell flipped a wave at the guard as we exited the gates. The young man watched us roll through but didn’t wave back.

“At the back of the notebook, Eddie had a page marked with big question marks.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he had questions.” Slidell reached out and smacked the AC control with the heel of one hand.

Easy, Brennan
.

“Questions about Poteat?” I asked oh-so-precisely.

“Who the hell knows? For that entry, he used one of his codes. Means nothing to me.” Slidell yanked his spiral from a shirt pocket and tossed it to me. “I copied the stuff into there.”

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU

Wi-Fr 6–8

When hurried or feeling the need for discretion, Rinaldi used a form of shorthand known only to him. The cryptic notations were typical.

“Maine and South Carolina?” I guessed, looking at the longer entry.

Slidell shrugged.

I played with the alphanumeric combo. “Could it be a license plate?”

“I’ll run it.”

“FU probably means follow up.”

I played some more. Came up blank.

“Can I have this?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I tore the page free and slipped it into my purse. Then, “Who is Owen Poteat?”

“I’ll know soon.”

I settled back and closed my eyes. The heat and the car’s motion acted like drugs. I was dropping off when my mobile sounded.

Joe Hawkins.

I clicked on.

“Hey, Joe.” Sluggish.

“Forensics called with a prelim on the goop from the barrel. Good old asphalt, just like we thought.”

“Not very useful.”

“Maybe no, maybe yes. The sample contained an additive called Rosphalt, a synthetic dry-mix material made by Royston. Provides waterproofing, skid resistance, protects against rutting and shoving, thermal fatigue cracking, that kind of thing. ”

“Uh-huh.” Stifling a yawn.

“Rosphalt comes in three types. One’s used mainly for roadways and tunnels, another’s used on airport runways. You still there?”

“I’m here.” Though struggling to stay awake.

“Your sample contained the third type, R50/Rx. That one’s used mostly by motor speedways.”

My brain reengaged. “At the Charlotte Motor Speedway?”

“Knew you’d ask, so I gave a call out there. The track has some pretty steep banking. What with the sun and cars screaming around the curves, the asphalt can heat up, go liquid, and sink right down. They use Rosphalt to provide better holding power.”

“I’ll be damned. So the asphalt in the barrel probably came from the Speedway.”

“Seems logical to me. The track’s right there.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

I disconnected and told Slidell. “The Rosphalt connects the landfill John Doe to the track.” I was totally pumped.

“Whaddya saying? The victim was killed at the Speedway, stuffed in a barrel, sealed in, and dumped at the landfill?”

“Why not? Thirty-five-gallon oil cans are common at speed-ways.”

While Slidell was gnawing on that theory, my phone sounded again. This time it was Larabee.

“These assholes have gone too far!”

“Which assholes?”

“They won’t get away with this.”

“Get away with what?”

“The goddamn FBI torched our John Doe!”

T
HE BUZZING IN MY PHONE WAS SO AGITATED THAT SLIDELL
kept glancing my way. Again and again I gestured his eyes back to the road.

Peppered with expletives, the story came out.

Through multiple calls, many threats, and the intervention of the chief ME in Chapel Hill, Larabee had finally pried loose information on the whereabouts of MCME 227-11. Since the presence of ricin suggested the possibility of bioterrorism, the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Patriot Act and taken to a lab in Atlanta. There the body had been re-autopsied and new samples collected.

Far from standard protocol but understandable.

Then the bombshell.

Due to an unfortunate combination of circumstances, including a mix-up in paperwork, understaffing, and an error on the part of an inexperienced tech, instead of back to the cooler, the landfill John Doe had accidentally been sent for cremation.

Larabee was livid. Before disconnecting, he threatened complaints to the governor, the Department of Justice, the director of the FBI, the secretary of Homeland Security, the White House, maybe the pope.

I decided it was a bad time to mention the Rosphalt.

As Slidell maneuvered through rush-hour traffic, I told him about the fate of the John Doe.

“That smell right to you?” I asked.

“As right as a barrel of week-old fish.”

Slidell said nothing further until we were parked beside my car at the MCME. Then he grasped the wheel and rotated toward me. “What’s your take, Doc?”

I ticked off points on my fingers.

“A couple vanishes in 1998. Family and associates disagree with a task force finding that the two left voluntarily. The missing couple has ties to and is last seen at a motor speedway. Years later a body turns up in a barrel of asphalt. That barrel is discovered in a landfill adjacent to said speedway, in a sector and layer dating from the late nineties to 2005.”

I moved to my other hand.

“The asphalt in the barrel contains an additive commonly used at speedways. An autopsy finds that the body is contaminated with ricin, a poison once favored by anti-government extremists. The male member of the missing couple belonged to a right-wing militia. When the ricin is reported to the FBI, the body is confiscated and destroyed.”

Slidell was silent for so long, I was certain he was about to blow me off. He didn’t.

“You’re thinking the landfill John Doe is connected to the Gamble-Lovette disappearance?”

I nodded.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was the stiff?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lovette?”

“The age indicators are off, but I can’t rule him out.”

“What about this guy Raines from Atlanta?”

“The barrel looked way too old. And the sector it came from doesn’t fit with a recent body dump.”

“But your voice is telling me you can’t rule him out, either.”

“No. I can’t.”

Again Slidell went quiet. Then, “Maybe Cindi Gamble’s baby brother isn’t crackers after all.”

“About a cover-up back in ’ninety-eight?”

Slidell ran a hand over his jaw. Did it again. Then, “Those fucking suits picked the wrong cop to screw with.”

“What do you propose?”

“First off, another heart-to-heart with your NASCAR buddy.”

I was approaching my kitchen door, lugging a Harris Teeter bag, when a silver Rx-8 turned in to the circle drive at Sharon Hall. Thinking it was probably my ex, and not thrilled with the prospect of another go-round concerning Summer, I paused.

The Mazda looped the front of the manor house and headed toward me. As it neared, I could see the driver’s head in silhouette. Oddly pear-shaped, its crown barely cleared the wheel.

Definitely not Pete.

Curious and a little wary, I watched the car pull to the same piece of curb occupied by Williams and Randall on Saturday.

The man who got out had a pompadour that brought his height to maybe five-four. Grecian Formula had turned the do a dead-lemur brown.

The man’s clothes looked expensive. Ice-green silk shirt. Tommy Bahama linen pants. Softer-than-a-newborn’s-bum leather loafers. Armani sunglasses perched on a hawklike nose.

“Good evening, Dr. Brennan.” The man proffered a hand sporting a sapphire the size of Birdie’s paw. “J. D. Danner.”

“Do I know you, sir?”

“Word is you know
of
me.” Despite the smile, Danner had a hostile, intimidating air.

Ping.

“You were an associate of Cale Lovette. A member of the Patriot Posse.”

“I was commander of the posse, ma’am.”

I adjusted my grip on the groceries.

Danner took a step toward me. “May I help with that?”

“No. Thank you.”

Two palms came up. “Just offering assistance.”

“Do you have information about Cale Lovette or Cindi Gamble?”

“No, ma’am. Nice kids. I hope they found what they were looking for.”

“And what was that?”

“Life. Liberty. Happiness. Isn’t that what we’re all seeking?”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Danner?”

“Get off our backs.”

“Meaning?”

“The Patriot Posse took Cale Lovette under its wing. Provided support. Guidance. A family. When he vanished, we were the first ones in the crosshairs.” Again the insincere smile. “The posse had nothing to do with whatever happened to Lovette and his girlfriend.”

“Why would Lovette need the posse’s support?”

“The kid was floundering. High school dropout. Dead-end job. Estranged father. Loony-tune mother.”

That was the first I’d heard of Lovette’s home life.

“Making him easy prey for your conspiratorial anti-American ideology,” I said.

Danner crossed his arms and spread his feet. Which were small, like the rest of him. An image of Napoleon popped in my brain.

“Back then we were undisciplined, perhaps naive in many ways. But we were far from anti-American.”

“Were?”

“The Patriot Posse disbanded in 2002.”

“What was the group’s purpose?”

“The posse functioned as an unorganized militia.”

Typical right-wing fascist-speak. In federal and state law, the term “unorganized militia” refers to the nominal manpower pool created a century ago when federal law formally abandoned compulsory militia service.

“I prefer the army, navy, air force, and marines,” I said.

“The Patriot Posse was, like other organizations of its kind, equivalent to the statutory militia. It was a legal, constitutional arm of the government. But the posse was not
controlled
by the government.” A diminutive finger wagged back and forth in the air. “That’s the difference. The posse existed to oppose the government should it become tyrannical.”

“You believe the government might become tyrannical?”

“Dr. Brennan, please. You are an intelligent woman.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Recent history speaks for itself. The elections of Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. The Rodney King riots. The North American Free Trade Agreement. The dozens of bills currently under consideration that would rob us of our firearms. The murders at Ruby Ridge and Waco.”

“Murders.”

“Of course.”

“Those compounds were stockpiled with enough firepower to take out a city.”

Danner ignored that. “The government will stop at nothing to eliminate people who refuse to conform. Independent militias must exist to protect the freedoms that our founding fathers died to ensure.”

Knowing argument was pointless, I switched topics. “Tell me about Cale Lovette’s parents.”

Danner dropped his chin. Drew a breath. Let it out through his nose. “I don’t like to speak badly, but Katherine Lovette was not what you’d call a lady. She was, how should I put it? A NASCAR groupie. If you take my meaning.”