Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“Do you have a picture?”

Zamzow shook his head. “Cobb didn’t like being photographed. But I can request her file if you think it’s warranted. The service has a photo ID of every agent.”

“Cobb is female?”

“Yeah. White, I’d say mid-thirties.”

“What was she working?”

“Operation FDR. Sea turtles.”

“FDR?”

Zamzow shrugged one shoulder. “Franklin wore a lot of turtlenecks. I didn’t pick the label. Anyway, think your unknown could be Aiker or Cobb?”

“Cobb’s out. DNA from the Lancaster bones came up male. But there could be a link. Was Aiker working the sting with Cobb?”

“Not officially, though I know he spent time with her.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Not much to tell. Six, seven years ago we were tipped about poachers trucking turtles up to Charlotte from the coast, transferring them on to buyers in New York and D.C. Service sent Cobb to try to infiltrate the ring. Figured a female might get inside quicker.”

“How?”

“The usual. Cobb was hanging around places the suspects frequented. Bars, restaurants, some gym.”

“She was living in Charlotte?”

“Had an apartment. One of those month-to-month deals.”

“How was it going?”

“No idea. Cobb didn’t report to me.” Zamzow snorted. “And the lady wasn’t what you’d call the social type. When she was in Raleigh, Cobb pretty much kept to herself. Guess it’s tough being under-cover in this business.”

“Or being female.”

“Could be.”

“Did Cobb and Aiker disappear at the same time?”

“Aiker failed to show up one Monday in December. I remember. It was cold as hell. We phoned for two days, eventually busted into his apartment. No sign of him.”

Zamzow looked as though he hadn’t spoken of Aiker in a long time, but had returned to the man many times in his thoughts.

“When we backtracked, last anyone had seen him was the previous Friday. We thought he might have gone through ice somewhere. Checked rivers, dredged ponds, that sort of thing. Nothing. Never found Aiker or his car.”

“Any signs he planned on leaving? Emptied bank accounts? Missing prescription medications?”

Zamzow shook his head. “Aiker ordered two hundred dollars’ worth of fishing tackle over the Net the week before he disappeared. Left fourteen grand in a savings account at First Union.”

“Doesn’t sound like a man intending to take off. What about Cobb?”

“Cobb’s disappearance was harder to nail down. According to neighbors she stayed to herself, kept odd hours, often disappeared for days at a stretch. Landlord was persuaded to open the apartment a week after Aiker disappeared. Looked like Cobb had been gone awhile.”

I thought a moment.

“Were Aiker and Cobb an item?”

Zamzow frowned. “There was talk. Aiker made several trips to Charlotte while Cobb was here. Records showed they talked on the phone, but that could have been business.”

I kept my voice level to mask my excitement.

“The skeleton I examined is tall, white, and male. From what you tell me, Aiker’s age fits and so does the time frame. Sounds like it could be your missing agent.”

“As I recall, the Raleigh PD got dental records on both Aiker and Cobb. Never needed them.”

I was so eager to talk to Slidell I nearly hustled Zamzow out of my office. But I had one more topic to broach.

“Do you know an agent named Palmer Cousins?”

Zamzow shifted in his chair.

“Met him.”

I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I asked, “Your impression?”

“Young.”

“And?”

“Young.”

“I talked to Cousins the other night, asked about bear poaching in the Carolinas. He seemed to know very little.”

Zamzow looked me straight in the eye. “Your point?”

“He knew nothing about the smuggling of exotic birds.”

Zamzow checked his watch. Then, “Don’t know Cousins myself, but the man attracts his share of admirers.”

I found the comment odd, but didn’t pursue it.

“Good luck to you, Doc.”

Zamzow stood.

I stood.

As he turned to go, I picked up the photo of Brian Aiker. “May I keep this?”

Zamzow nodded. “Don’t be a stranger.”

With that, he was gone.

Staring at the chair Zamzow had vacated, I wondered what had just happened. Throughout our conversation, the RAC had been friendly and candid. At the mention of Palmer Cousins, the man closed up like an armadillo poked with a stick.

Was Zamzow holding ranks, refusing to speak badly of a fellow officer? Did he know something about Katy’s friend that he was unwilling to share? Was he simply unacquainted with the man?

Tim Larabee interrupted my thoughts.

“Where’s your little pal?”

“If you mean Detective Ryan, he flew back to Montreal.”

“Too bad. He’s good for your complexion.”

A hand rose to my cheek.

“Gotcha.” Larabee made a finger pistol and fired it at me.

“You’re so hilarious, Hawkins may have to roll a gurney in here when I die laughing.”

I told him what I’d learned from Wally Cagle about the Lancaster skeleton, and about my conversations with Hershey Zamzow.

“I’ll call Raleigh. See if someone can drive Aiker’s dental records down,” Larabee said.

“Good.”

“Could be a breakthrough day. Jansen called. Slidell called. Tea party in half an hour.”

“Do they have news?”

Larabee checked, then tapped his watch.

“Main ballroom in thirty minutes. Dress is casual.”

The corners of Larabee’s mouth curled upward.

“Your hair’s got a gleam to it, too.”

My eyes rolled so far back I thought they might never return.

When Larabee moved on, I checked again with Mrs. Flowers. Still no fax from Cagle.

I gathered and glanced through my message slips.

Jansen.

Slidell.

Cagle.

I tried Cagle’s cell. No answer.

A crime reporter with the Charlotte Observer had called.

A colleague at UNC-Greensboro.

I tried Cagle again. He still wasn’t picking up.

I looked at my watch.

Showtime.

Placing the pink slips in the middle of my blotter, I headed for the conference room.

Larabee and Jansen were discussing the merits of the Panthers versus the Dolphins. The NTSB investigator was dressed in jeans, sandals, and a tan cotton tank from Old Navy. Her short blonde hair looked like it had just been blow-dried.

Slidell and Rinaldi arrived as Jansen and I were shaking hands.

Rinaldi was in blue blazer, gray chinos, and a turquoise and lemon Jerry Garcia tie.

Slidell was in shirtsleeves. His neckwear looked like something one got from a Kmart bargain table after the good ones had already been picked.

While the others coffeed up, I helped myself to a Diet Coke.

“Who goes first?” I asked when we’d all taken seats.

Larabee waved a palm in my direction.

I repeated what I’d told the ME about the Lancaster remains, described how I’d gotten the details from Wally Cagle, and explained the skeleton’s possible link to the privy head and hands. I outlined what I’d learned from Hershey Zamzow and Rachel Mendelson concerning bear poaching and about the illegal trade in rare and endangered species. Finally, I dropped my bombshell about the missing wildlife agents Brian Aiker and Charlotte Grant Cobb.

As I spoke, Rinaldi took notes on his designer pad. Slidell listened, legs thrust forward, thumbs tucked into his belt.

For several seconds, no one said a word. Then Jansen slapped the table.

“Yes!”

Slidell’s eyes crawled to her.

“Yes,” she repeated.

Unzipping a leather case, Jansen withdrew several papers, laid them on the table, ran her finger down the middle of one, stopped, and read aloud.