Flash and Bones (9 page)

“Do you remember their names?”

“No.”

“Can you describe them?”

“One was tall and thin. Very polite. His accent suggested he wasn’t local. The other was coarser. He looked like a bodybuilder.”

“Detectives Rinaldi and Galimore?”

“That sounds right.”

Leaning forward, I lowered my voice to confide, girlfriend to girlfriend. “Anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you questioned by the FBI?”

As before, Bradford’s gaze jumped toward the archway behind me, then dropped. Clearly our presence was making her anxious. She nodded.

“Did you make a formal statement?”

“No.”

“Did the special agent mention the Patriot Posse?”

“I don’t recall details of the conversation.”

“Did the FBI ask you to keep your discussions confidential?” Before Bradford could answer, Slidell reappeared and tipped his head toward the door.

“One last question,” I asked softly.

Bradford raised reluctant eyes to me.

“Do you think Cindi Gamble left on her own?”

“Not for a second,” she said firmly. “I said so then, and I’ll say it now.”

Leaving our cards, Slidell and I headed out.

Back in the Taurus, I told him what I’d learned in his absence.

“Dame wanted us there about as much as a boil on her ass.”

“She seemed uncomfortable.”

“She knows more than she’s saying.”

“What reason could she have for withholding information?”

“The feebs probably fed her some bullshit about domestic terrorism and confidentiality and national security.”

“Now what?” I asked.

“Who was the lunch buddy?”

“Lynn Hobbs.”

“That name was in Eddie’s notes.”

“Think you can find her?”

“Oh, yeah.” Slidell slid knockoff Ray-Bans onto his nose. “I’ll find her.”

S
UNDAY, A MIRACLE OCCURRED. NO RAIN
.

Sadly, I had no one with whom to share the fine weather. Katy was in the mountains. Ryan was in Ontario. Harry, my sister, was at home in Texas. My best friend, Anne Turnip, was absorbed in a home renovation project. Charlie Hunt was hunkered in at the Mecklenburg County Public Defender’s Office, preparing his closing argument for the trial of a woman accused of shooting her pimp.

How to label Charlie Hunt? My friend? Suitor? Wannabe squeeze? So far, that was as hot as things had gotten. My call, not his.

I celebrated the sunshine by running my long loop through Freedom Park and around all the Queens Roads. And Charlotte has a boatload. There’s even an intersection of queens and queens.

In the afternoon I weeded the garden, then took Birdie onto the lawn for a session with the FURminator, removing several pounds of fur. After the grooming, he made himself scarce.

In the evening I caught up on paperwork, then grilled a steak and ate it listening to Foghat and Devo full blast. Dove Bar for dessert.

I am an island. A rock. Whatever.

Ryan phoned around nine. I sensed from his tone that he preferred to keep the conversation light and away from the subject of
Lily. His goal seemed to be educating me on NASCAR in Canada. Realizing his need for diversion, I mostly listened.

“Jacques Villeneuve is an officer of the National Order of Quebec and was inducted into Canada’s Walk of Fame.”

“Quite an honor for an athlete.”

“To date, no other Canadian has won the Indianapolis 500 or the F One Drivers’ title.”

“Impressive—”

“Jacques Villeneuve has had over a dozen career NASCAR starts. Five in the Nationwide Series and three in the Sprint Cup Series.”

“And the others?”

“Probably the Camping World Truck Series. I know he drove in the 2009 Canadian Tire Series. I was in the stands for that one.”

“What team is he with?”

“He was driving the thirty-two Toyota for Braun Racing. Not sure now. I think he’s trying to get back into Formula One, but the FIA World Motor Sport Council decided there won’t be any new teams this year.”

“Is Villeneuve the only Canadian NASCAR driver?”

“
Tabarnac,
no. Mario Gosselin drives in the Camping World Truck Series. Pierre Bourque, D. J. Kennington, though those guys are mostly part-timers. Jean-François Dumoulin and Ron Fellows are road-course ringers.”

“Which means?”

“They drive road courses, not ovals.” Pause. “Anything new on your landfill case?”

I briefed him on developments.

“You planning a return trip to the Speedway?”

“If necessary.”

Ryan hesitated. “If you go, will you be anywhere near the Nationwide garage area?”

When I realized where he was going, I burst out laughing.

“You want Jacques Villeneuve’s autograph, don’t you?”

“The man’s a legend.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“It’s not like I’m suggesting you steal the guy’s jockeys.”

“Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, Villeneuve groupie.”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan, all-around smart-ass.” I could hear Ryan’s blush flame across the line.

“You wear a cap with the number thirty-two and Jacques’s picture stitched on the brim?”

“Forget it. I don’t even know if Villeneuve’s racing in Charlotte.”

Ryan wished me
bonne chance,
then we disconnected.

I was settling on the sofa to watch
Boston Legal
reruns with my very dapper cat when the front doorbell bonged.

Birdie and I looked at each other in surprise. No one ever uses that entrance.

Curious, I crossed the living room and put an eye to the peephole.

And actually cringed.

Summer stood on the porch, digging in a purse the size of a mail pouch. Backlit by the carriage light, her hair looked like a nimbus of white cotton candy.

I considered a quick drop and a belly crawl to the stairs.

Instead, I turned the lock.

Summer’s head popped up at the sound of the tumblers. Even in the dimness, I could see she’d been crying.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I know it’s kinda late.”

Kinda.

“Would you like to come in?” I stood back and opened the door wide.

Summer slipped past me, leaving a tsunami of Timeless in her wake. When I turned, she was extending a box of Tic Tacs in my direction.

“Breath mint?”

“No, thanks.”

“I find the taste calmative.”

“Yes,” I agreed. Using a word like “calmative” was quite an undertaking for Summer.

Summer dropped the little dispenser into her purse and fingered the strap nervously. In her pink-sequined bra tank, pink pencil
skirt, and murderous high heels, she looked like an ad for Frederick’s of Hollywood.

“The study is more comfortable,” I said.

“OK.”

Summer clicked along behind me, head swiveling from side to side.

“Would you like something to drink?” I gestured at the sofa.

“Merlot, please.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t keep wine in the house.”

“Oh.” Summer’s perfectly plucked brows V’ed down in confusion. “OK. I didn’t really want it.”

“So. What’s up?” Suspecting this conversation was going to be unpleasant, I dropped into the desk chair and assumed a listening attitude.

“I followed your advice.”

“My advice?”

“I did exactly what you told me to do.”

“Summer, I didn’t—”

“I told Pete he had to show more interest in the wedding.” Summer crossed one long tan leg over the other. “Or else.”

“Wait. What? I—”

“I said, ‘Petey, if this snideybutt attitude continues, I don’t think things will work out between us.’ ”

Summer’s double-D cups rose tremulously. Fell.

I waited.

The tearful account poured forth.

As I listened, short phrases winged in my brain.

Run, Pete.

Run fast.

Run far.

Mean. I know. But that’s the response my gray cells offered.

I didn’t let on. Just nodded as I supplied tissues and empathetic sounds.

The longer Summer talked, the more horrified I became. How could she have misinterpreted my comments so badly?

I imagined Pete’s anger at my perceived culpability. What was Harry’s favorite saying?

No good deed goes unpunished.

Yep. Serious castigation was barreling my way.

Finally the whole sad story was told. Ultimatum. Quarrel. Sobbing exit. Slamming door.

When she’d finished, I offered another tissue.

Summer dabbed beneath each lavishly mascaraed eye.

“So.” She drew a wet breath. “What do I do?”

“Summer, I really don’t feel comfortable—”

“You have to help me.” The tears started anew. “My life is ruined.”

“Perhaps I’ve done enough damage already.” I didn’t really believe it, but the conversation was going even worse than I’d anticipated.

“Exactly. That’s why you have to fix it.”

“I don’t think that’s my place,” I said gently.

“You have to talk to Pete. You have to bring him to his senses.” Summer was creeping closer to hysteria with every word. “You have to—”

“OK. I’ll phone him in the morning.”

“Honest to God?”

“Yes.”

“Cross-your-heart promise?”

Merciful God.

“Yes.”

For one awful moment I thought she would hug me. Instead she blew her nose. Which was now the color of my Christmas socks.

But the mascara remained flawless. I wondered about the brand.

I was still wondering when Summer’s head tipped to one side.

“Oh, sweetie. You are booty-pooty-ful.”

I followed her sight line.

Birdie had entered the room. He sat watching us, ears forward, tail curling around one haunch.

Summer wiggled her fingers and spoke in the same saccharine voice. “Oh, you just come here, you little precious thing.”

Right. In addition to thunderstorms, my cat dislikes strangers and the smell of strong perfume.

To my astonishment, Birdie padded over and jumped onto the couch. When Summer stroked his back, he dropped onto his fore-paws and raised his tail high.

Summer pursed up her lips and uttered another string of baby-talk gibberish.

The little traitor actually purred.

“I apologize, Summer. It’s been a long day, and there are things I need—”

“You must think my mama taught me no manners at all.” Pecking Birdie on the head, Summer gathered her purse and rose.

At the door, she swiveled and beamed me a smile. “One day we’ll all laugh about this.”

“Mm.”

“Tempe, I take back every mean thought I ever had about you.” With that, Summer teetered off into the night.

Falling asleep, I wondered: Can one take back thoughts? Take them back from whom? To what end?

Monday morning, Birdie woke me by chewing my hair.

Fair enough. I’d FURminated off half of his undercoat.

After steeling myself with a quadruple espresso, toaster waffle, and wedge of cantaloupe, I phoned Pete.

“Summer came by my place last night.”

“Did she.”

“She was upset.”

“I expect she was.”

“Look, Pete. I did as you asked. She talked, I listened.”

“Seems you did more than just listen.”

“I offered no advice, rendered no opinion.”

“That wasn’t her take.”

I struggled to be tactful. “Summer has her own way of viewing the world.”

“You turned her into a crazoid.”

She had a huge head start. I didn’t say it.

“What did you do to make her so touchy?” Pete asked.

“She’s concerned about your lack of interest in the upcoming nuptials.”

“Who cares about napkin color? Or the flavor of frosting? Or the shape of a cake?”

“Your fiancée.”

“It’s like some monster has taken possession of her mind.”

Not much to take. Again I kept it to myself.

“You shouldn’t have told her I hate weddings,” Pete said.

“I didn’t. I simply said you weren’t big on ceremony.”

Pete had skipped his high school, college, and law school graduations. Our own marriage extravaganza was organized by my mother, Daisy Lee. Right down to the pearls on the napkin holders, which rested on the china, which complemented the linen tablecloths trimmed with alabaster lace. Pete had simply shown up at the church.

“What do you recommend?” Pete asked wearily.

Stun gun?

“Fake it,” I said. “Pick ivory or white. Raspberry or cherry.”

“She always disagrees with my choice.”

“At least you’ve made the effort.”

“I don’t need this shit at my age.”

Hell-o.

“Pete?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she really call you a snideybutt?”

Dial tone.

After the bout with my ex, I needed physical exertion.

Birdie watched as I laced on my Nikes.

“What do you see in that bimbo?” I asked.

No response.

“She has the depth of a powder-room sink.”

The cat offered nothing in his defense.

The weather was still August-hot. Eight-fifteen and already eighty-two degrees.

I opted for the short course and ran the loop up Queens and through the park. By nine-thirty I was back home, showered, and dressed.