Nevertheless, I kept it professional.
We debated the significance of Fries’s story. Galimore thought the old geezer was probably exaggerating about the threats and harassment. I didn’t think so. His house either burned or it didn’t. Easy enough to check. Why lie?
We were still confused by the contradictory statements given back in ’ninety-eight. Had Lovette and Gamble left the Speedway at six, as Grady Winge reported? Or had they left later, as Eugene Fries insisted? Had one of the two been mistaken? Or had one intentionally lied? If so, which one? For what purpose? I was putting my money for accuracy on Fries.
We discussed theories concerning the fate of Gamble and Lovette. Currently there were five.
One: Cale and Cindi left voluntarily, either to join a militia elsewhere or to marry. This was the finding of the task force. I didn’t buy into the run-away-to-marry theory. Even a halfhearted investigation would have uncovered that.
Two: Cale killed Cindi, then went into hiding. Wayne Gamble thought his sister had dumped Lovette and feared for her life. Lynn Nolan suspected Lovette was abusing Cindi.
Three: Either Cale or Cindi was working undercover for the FBI. The Patriot Posse learned of this and killed them both. This was Slidell’s suggestion.
Four: Learning that Cale or Cindi had been compromised as a CI, the FBI had pulled and routed them both into witness protection. This had been my idea.
Five: Cale did something illegal with the Patriot Posse, then he and Cindi went into hiding. Eugene Fries had concocted this scenario based largely on rumor.
Still, I was bothered by the effectiveness of the disappearances. In all those years, not one phone call. Not a single slipup. That seemed to discredit the runaway theory.
Except for Owen Poteat. His sighting suggested a mistake on someone’s part.
I remembered my conversation with Slidell. Wondered if he’d learned anything more about Poteat other than that he was dead.
As we pulled into the lot at Bad Daddy’s, Galimore proposed dinner. Though tempted and hungry, I decided against it.
Galimore confused me. He was egotistical, infuriating, and of dubious moral character. But his actions proved he was a definite asset in a fight.
Bottom line: I found him smoldering hot.
Puh-leeze!
“No, thanks,” I said. “I have a skull waiting for me.”
Galimore looked at his watch. “It’s going on six.”
“I do some of my best work at night.”
Stupid!
Before Galimore could jump on the opening, I slammed it shut. “Alone.”
Winking, Galimore opened his door. “See you, Doc.”
In minutes I was at the MCME.
Bad mistake.
I was about to take a quadruple volley.
NOT A PATHOLOGIST OR RECEPTIONIST ON SITE. THE BOARD showed one death investigator present. Joe Hawkins.
My phone’s message light was blinking. After getting a Diet Coke from the kitchen, I put the thing on speaker and picked up a pen.
Special Agent Williams, sounding annoyed. It was urgent that I call him back. I jotted down the number.
Wayne Gamble, sounding anxious. He knew who was following him and intended to confront the guy.
Earl Byrne, the mushroom-shaped reporter from the Observer, sounding eager. He wanted to write a follow-up to his original article and wondered what was taking so long with an ID on the landfill John Doe. Delete.
Special Agent Williams. Delete.
Special Agent Williams. Delete.
Cotton Galimore, sounding, what? Flirtatious? The dinner offer was still on the table. Also, he intended to visit Craig Bogan in the morning. Did I want to come along?
I was scribbling Galimore’s number when a shadow fell across my desk. I looked up.
Hawkins was standing in my doorway, a half-dozen forceps in one hand.
“Hey, Joe.”
“That Cotton Galimore?” The scowl on Hawkins’s face would have frightened small children.
“Sorry?”
“Galimore.” He jabbed the forceps toward my phone. “You talking to him?”
“Mr. Galimore was involved in the search for Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble back in ’ninety-eight.”
“You need to stay away from him.”
“Excuse me?”
“The man’s not to be trusted. You’ve got no business being anywhere near him.”
“How I choose to conduct an investigation is of no concern—”
“The man’s corrupt.”
“People change.”
“Not him.”
“That’s a bit rigid.”
“Galimore worked that case, all right. Wouldn’t surprise me if he took part in the cover-up folks are talking about. He’s probably jumping in now to protect his sorry ass.”
“Or he has a genuine interest in finding out what happened to his investigation?”
Hawkins was in full rant mode and in no mood to listen.
“Why the interest now after all these years? Could it be you’re getting to the truth and he wants to keep you close? Whatever Galimore’s motive, he’s acting solely in the interest of one person. Cotton Galimore.”
At that moment my phone rang.
Snorting his disgust, Hawkins turned and strode down the hall.
Without thinking, I picked up the receiver.
“Dr. Brennan. I’m glad I caught you.”
“I was just about to leave.” Not true. But I didn’t want another sermon. Especially from the likes of Special Agent Williams.
“I’ll keep it brief.”
“Why did you confiscate the landfill John Doe?” I decided to take the offensive.
“I explained the bureau’s reasoning to Dr. Larabee.”
“Ricin contamination.”
“Yes.”
“The ricin toxin isn’t contagious.”
“It was not my decision.”
“Was it your decision to cremate the body?”
“That was an unfortunate error.”
“What about my bone plugs?”
“What about them?”
“Were those samples also destroyed?”
“It is my understanding they’d been placed in the same body bag.”
“Could it be the bureau doesn’t want this man ID’ed?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Ted Raines turn up yet?”
Williams knew what I was asking. Did the bureau suspect that the landfill John Doe was the missing man from Atlanta?
“Not that I know of.”
“Odd coincidence. Raines working for the CDC. The John Doe showing evidence of ricin poisoning.”
“Indeed.” I heard what sounded like a ballpoint pen being clicked repeatedly. “I understand you talked to J. D. Danner.”
“Nice hair.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I could handle the groceries myself.”
A beat. Then, “I have been authorized to reveal certain sensitive information. Dr. Larabee already has it. He asked me to share it with you.”
I waited.
“In 1996 the Patriot Posse came to the attention of the FBI. The group was small and strictly local, but intel was that certain members were becoming radicalized, perhaps plotting acts of violence.”
“Which members?”
“That’s not relevant.”
“Danner?”
The pen. Click. Click. Click.
“Lovette?”
“No.”
“What was their alleged target?”
“This information is strictly confidential.”
“Oh. Wait. I’ll cancel my tweet.”
“According to our source, the posse was planning to contaminate the water supply of a nearby town.”
“Why?”
“Two gripes. The presence of a women’s clinic that provided abortions. The election of a black woman as mayor.”
A mélange of anger and disgust soured my stomach
. I reached for the Diet Coke.
“At the time Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette vanished, the posse was under surveillance,” Williams went on.
“You had someone inside?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Was it Lovette? Gamble?”
Williams ignored my questions. “Our intel also suggested that members of the group may have had ties to Eric Rudolph.”
“Did they?”
“We were unable to establish that fact with certainty.”
Click. Click. Click.
“The posse disbanded in 2002, but the bureau has continued to track some of its members.”
“J. D. Danner?”
“Danner now heads a much bigger organization called the Loyalist Movement. The group has several thousand followers throughout the Southeast.”
“Who are they?”
“Extremists who believe that the federal government deliberately murdered people at Ruby Ridge and Waco, and that door-to-door gun confiscation could begin any day. Their ideology is less white-supremacist than in the nineties, though many have now turned their venom toward followers of Islam. What holds the group together is anger at the government.”
I pictured the Tommy Bahamas, the sapphire ring, the RX-8. “Danner looked pretty flush.”
“The Loyalist Movement is well funded, and Danner skims a big chunk off the top. But make no mistake. Though he lives well, Danner is committed. The guy’s cunning as a fox and dangerous as typhoid.”
“Why are you sharing all of this now?”
“To keep you in the loop.”
“You want nothing in return.”
“Normal professional consideration.”
“Uh. Huh.”
With that, we disconnected.
Right, I thought. Who’s the fox?
After chugging the dregs of my Diet Coke, I got MCME 239-11 from the cooler.
The I-485 creek-bed skull was covered with moss and missing its entire face and most of the base. Copper staining, remnants of adipocere, tissue turned crumbly and waxy due to the hydrolysis of fats, and the presence of a shriveled mass of petrified brain told me I was probably looking at an old coffin burial. Without more contextual information, there was little I could say.
I was jotting a request to Hawkins for information about cemeteries in the vicinity of the creek bed, when my iPhone rang.
Katy.
I clicked on.
“Hey, babe. What are you up to?”
“Working late.” Her tone suggested a need to vent. “As usual.”
“Same here. Anything interesting?”
“Mind-blowing. I can hardly stay in my chair.”
“Oh?” I ignored the heavy sarcasm.
“Some guy’s in the running for most flagrant tax-fraud artist of the year. I get to plow through boxes and boxes of his papers.”
“Getting any good ideas?”
“With my salary? What would be the point of tax evasion?”
“Will you finish tonight?”
“I won’t finish until I’m ready for Medicare—one of the few systems this creep didn’t scam. Here’s a good one. He’d buy first-class airline tickets, then turn them in for a full refund and buy coach. But he’d submit the first-class receipts for tax purposes.”
“Not all that original.”
“OK. How about this one? He set up some sort of tax-free bank accounts for his kids’ education. But before they went to college, he drew out all the money. And never told Uncle Sam.”
“Isn’t the IRS able to track that sort of thing?”
“I’m probably missing something. It was complicated. And just one of the many cons el creepo got away with for years.”
I heard an intake of breath. Assuming Katy had more to say, I waited.
“Um. Have you talked to Ryan lately?”
“He’s pretty tied up with Lily.”
“How is she?”
“Eh.”
“How about Charlie Hunt?”
“He’s busy composing the world’s most brilliant closing argument.”
There was a moment of hesitation. Then she blurted, “I think he’s seeing this other lawyer in the office. They work late a lot. Together. And they just left. Together. All chatty and smiley.”
I felt a cool fizz in my chest.
“That’s fine. Charlie and I have no commitment to each other.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No.”
A little beep told me another caller was trying to get through.
“Gotta go, sweetie.”
“Come by my cubicle sometime. Reach in and take my pulse.”
I was still chuckling when I clicked over to call waiting.
The sobs put a choke hold on my mirth.
“Tempe, I do hope it’s OK to call you.” Tremulous. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“I’m at the ME office, Summer.”
“I am super, super sorry. You have such a kind nature, and I fear I am abusing it.”
Thinking decidedly unkind thoughts, I began gathering my things.
“The wedding is now a complete disaster.”
When I tossed my purse onto the desk, my wallet popped out. The page with Rinaldi’s code stuck out like a bookmark.
“Pete’s ideas are completely worthless. He chose green napkins. Green? Can you imagine?”
“Mm.”
Desperate for distraction, I teased the paper free and spread it flat with one palm.
ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU
Wi-Fr 6–8
“One of my bridesmaids is pregnant and can’t wear the dress. That’s Mary Gray. How could she do that to me?”
Galimore’s interpretation of the second line made sense. Rinaldi was interested in the contradiction in time line presented by Grady Winge and Eugene Fries. I focused on the first line.
“Sarah Elizabeth can’t get to Charlotte in time for the rehearsal. How can you have a wedding without a rehearsal?” Warbly.
Summer blew her nose loudly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Sarah Elizabeth has always been horribly thoughtless.”
My lower centers sat up.
What? Napkins? Pregnant? Rehearsal?
I stared at the alphanumeric string, only half-listening to Summer’s whining.
Mary Gray.
Sarah Elizabeth.
My mind strained, on the verge of a breakthrough.
“I swear.” More wet sniffling. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”
I ran through my conversation with Katy.
IRS? Airline tickets? Bank account?
I dug deep.
Dots connected.
I knew what was needed to decipher Rinaldi’s note.
AFTER HUSTLING SUMMER OFF THE LINE WITH SOME VAGUE promise of support, I phoned Slidell. Got voice mail. Left a message. Urgent. Call me.
I tried Galimore. Voice mail. Same message.
Frustrated, I tossed my Diet Coke can into the recycling bin, grabbed my purse and laptop, and headed out.
Something was happening at the NASCAR Hall of Fame that night. I averaged about four miles a decade crossing uptown.
The bumper-to-bumper crunch changed my supper plan. No way I’d divert to Price’s for fried chicken. A salad made from produce in my refrigerator would have to do.
I was finally heading south on Providence Road when my iPhone sounded.
Galimore.
“I think I know what concerned Rinaldi,” I said.
“You’re breaking my heart.” Galimore sounded, what? Coy? “I thought you’d changed your mind about dinner.”
“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”
“I can check.”
“Poteat had two daughters, didn’t he?”
“That sounds right.”
“Get their names, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ahead, the light turned red. I stopped at the intersection. To my left, Providence Road cut south. To my right
, it became Morehead Street.
“What about bank records? Tax records?” I asked.
“Whose?”
“Any account bearing Poteat’s name.”
“It would help to know the bank.”
The light went green. I proceeded straight on what was now called Queens Road. See. I wasn’t kidding.
“Start with Wells Fargo,” I said. “Work backward to 1998.”
“I’ve got sources who can do that. What are you thinking?”
“How long will it take?”
“The names, a matter of minutes. Tax and financial records, that’s tougher. Why aren’t you getting this through Slidell?”
“He’s either tied up or ignoring my calls.”
“Don’t expect Skinny to come around easily. The guy’s a champion grudge-holder.”
I turned in at Sharon Hall.
“I’m at my town house. I’ve got to go.”
“A quiet meal at home alone?”
“I’ll be dining with my cat.”
Birdie had other thoughts. Upon hearing me enter the kitchen, he retreated to a dining room chair.
I knew what was up. The feline coolness was a comment on the lateness of the hour. Normally Birdie eats at six.
I checked my phone, hoping for a message from Ryan or Charlie.
Neither had called.
Disappointed, I flipped on the TV. Two overly keen sports analysts were discussing potential lineups for the upcoming Coca-Cola 600. One predicted Sandy Stupak’s #59 Chevy would start near the front.
Hearing an unhappy meow, I went to the dining room, reached under the table, and stroked Birdie’s head.
“Sorry, Bird. I’ve been wicked busy.”
The cat didn’t budge.
“Cut me some slack. I’ve been to Concord and Locust all in one day. Slidell berated me. Hawkins lectured me. Ryan and Charlie have apparently dumped me. Katy and Summer both whined in my ear. Oh yeah. And an old coot held me at gunpoint with a Winchester.”
The cat remained obstinate.
After filling Birdie’s bowl, I went upstairs to shower. Then I threw on shortie-PJ bottoms and an old tee. No bra or panties. The freedom was exhilarating.
Back to the kitchen.
The tomato was flaccid, the cucumber slimy, the lettuce limp and black on the edges. So much for a salad.
Plan B. Something in a can.