Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

There was a long pause as she chose her words.

“I may not agree with Dr. Cagle’s alternative lifestyle”—she pronounced it as two words: “alter native”—“but he’s a fine man, and I don’t question his associations.”

“Someone came to see Cagle?” Slidell asked gruffly.

One deb eyebrow shot up. “There’s no need to be a grumpy pants, Detective.”

Slidell opened his mouth. I cut him off.

“You were unfamiliar with Dr. Cagle’s visitor?”

The deb nodded.

“What did he want?”

“The man asked for Dr. Cagle. I informed him the professor was out of town.” The deb shrugged one freckled shoulder. “He left.”

“Can you describe the guy?” Slidell.

“Short. Had black hair. Lots of it. Real shiny and thick.”

“Age?”

“Wasn’t no spring chicken, I’ll tell you that.”

“Glasses? Facial hair?” Slidell’s tone was sharp.

“Don’t get snippy with me, Detective.”

The deb unfolded her arms and flicked at a nonexistent speck on her skirt, her way of allowing Slidell to cool his interrogatory heels.

“No mustache or beard, nothing like that.”

“Can you remember anything else about the man?” I asked.

“He wore funny sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes.”

“What did you see when you looked at his face?” Slidell glared at her.

“Myself.” The deb slapped a key on the desktop. “That’s for the wall cupboards. Check with me when you leave the building.”

Slidell and I spent the next forty minutes searching every remaining cabinet, drawer, and shelf in the place. We found nothing related to the Lancaster case, and nothing to indicate where Cagle had gone.

Frustrated, I returned to the desk and idly ran my fingertips under the blotter’s plastic edging.

Nothing.

I lifted a corner and peeked underneath.

A single card lay on the desktop under the blotter. I picked it up.

The logo resembled a police badge. I was about to read the printed information when the deb receptionist reappeared in the door, breathless from running up the stairs.

“I just talked with Dr. Cagle’s housemate.”

An agitated hand fanned the air in front of her face.

“Dr. Cagle’s in intensive care on life support.”

Laying both hands on her chest, the deb looked from me to Slidell and back, mascara-rimmed eyes wide with alarm.

“Sweet Lord Jesus. The doctors don’t think he’ll last out the day.”

25

CAGLE LIVED IN A SMALL BRICK BUNGALOW IN A NEIGHBORHOODof small brick bungalows a short drive from Hamilton College. The trim was lilac, and four straight-backed lilac rockers sat in perfect alignment on the broad front porch. The lawn was mown, every border edged with military precision.

An ancient live oak shaded the right half of the property, its roots crawling below the earth’s surface like giant, serpentine fingers clinging for support. Jumbles of brightly colored annuals elbowed for room in beds along the walkway and porch foundation. As we approached the house, the odor of petunias, marigolds, and fresh paint sweetened the hot, humid air.

Climbing the steps, Slidell jabbed a thumb at a green metal holder attached to the house. Someone had coiled the garden hose in perfectly matched loops.

“Guess we got the right place.”

The bell was answered within seconds. The man was younger than I expected, with black hair that had been gelled, spiked, and gathered from his forehead with an elastic headband. I guessed his age as mid-thirties, his weight at 140.

“You are the officers from Charlotte?”

Not bothering to correct him, Slidell merely held up his badge.

“Lawrence Looper.” Looper stepped back. “Come in.”

We entered a small foyer with a covered radiator to the left, sliding wooden doors straight ahead, and an open archway to the right. Looper led us through the archway into a living room with throw rugs on a polished oak floor and Pottery Barn furnishings. A wood-bladed fan turned lazily overhead.

“Please.” Looper extended a manicured hand. “Do sit. Can I get either of you a cool beverage?”

Declining, Slidell and I seated ourselves on opposite ends of the sofa. The room smelled of artificial floral deodorizer from a plug-in-the-socket dispenser.

Looper lifted a footstool, placed it against the wall, considered the arrangement, repositioned the stool.

Beside me I heard Slidell puff air through his lips. I gave him a warning look. He rolled both eyes and his head.

Feng shui restored, Looper returned and took the chair opposite us.

“Wow. Dolores is really cross with me. I suppose she has a right to be.”

“That’d be Miss Southern Charm over at the university.” Slidell.

“Hmm. I should have called her after Wally’s collapse, but…” Looper flexed an ankle, causing his flip-flop to make small popping sounds “…I didn’t.”

“And why is that?” Slidell’s voice had that edge.

“I don’t like Dolores.”

“And why is that?”

Looper looked Slidell straight in the eye. “She doesn’t like me.”

The ankle flicked several times.

“And Wally never wants anyone to know when he isn’t feeling well. He has…” Looper hesitated “…complaints.” Pop. Pop. Pop. “The man likes to keep the state of his health private, so I didn’t broadcast that he’d taken ill. I thought he’d prefer it that way.”

Pop. Pop.

“But when you two showed up, and Dolores called, well, I couldn’t lie about it.” Looper put three extra I ’s in the word “lie.” “That would have been pointless.”

“Please tell us what happened,” I said.

“There isn’t much to tell. I came home Thursday night and found Wally curled up on the bathroom floor.”

A hand came up, and a finger pointed through a second archway at right angles to the one through which we’d entered the living room.

“In there. He was having trouble breathing, and his face was flushed, and he could hardly speak, but I did get out of him that he felt tightness in his chest. That scared me to death. And I could see that he’d thrown up.”

The hand fluttered to Looper’s chest.

“I got him into the car, which, let me tell you, wasn’t easy with his legs all shaky and him moaning that he was going to die.”

I wondered why Looper hadn’t called for an ambulance, but I didn’t ask him.

“When we got to the ER, he just stopped breathing.”

We waited for Looper to go on. He didn’t.

“They placed him on a respirator?” I prompted.

“Hmm. Wally started breathing on his own, but he wouldn’t wake up. Still won’t.”

“Was it a heart attack?” I asked softly.

“I suppose so. The doctors don’t really want to tell me much.” Pop. Pop. “I’m not family, you know.”

Overhead, the fan hummed softly. The artificial bouquet was beginning to cloy.

“Wally and I have been together a long time. I really hope he’s going to pull through.” Looper’s eyes had reddened around the rims.

“I hope so, too. He’s a fine man.”

Brilliant, Brennan.

Looper laced his fingers, and one thumb began picking at the other.

“I suppose I should phone his sister, but they aren’t close. And I keep thinking that any minute he’s going to wake up and ask for his pipe and everything will be fine.”

Looper recrossed his legs, and gave the flip-flop a few flicks.

“Why is it you’re here?”

“I spoke to Dr. Cagle by phone on Thursday,” I said. “He promised to send me a case report and photos. I never received them, and Detective Slidell and I wondered if perhaps he’d brought the materials home, intending to work here.”