Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

“What was Holmes doing in Charlotte?”

“Probably here for a Rotary luncheon,” McMahon said.

“Does Holmes really know who phoned in the bomb tip?” I asked.

“At four A.M. he had an inside track. That's why the arresting officers phoned us. By the time I got there, a night's sleep had dulled the Pecan's enthusiasm for sharing.”

McMahon lifted a mug from his desk, swirled and examined the contents as one might a stool sample.

“Fortunately, at the time of his arrest the scumbag was on probation for bouncing rubber all over Atlanta. We were able to persuade him that full disclosure was in his own best interest.”

“And?”

“Holmes swears he was present when the scheme was hatched.”

“Where?”

“The Claremont Lounge in midtown Atlanta. That's about six blocks from the pay phone where the call was made.”

McMahon set down the mug.

“Holmes says he was drinking and snorting blow with a couple of Angels named Harvey Poteet and Neal Tannahill. The boys were talking about Pepper Petricelli and the crash when Poteet decided it would be cool to diddle the FBI with a false lead.”

“Why?”

“Barstool brilliance. If Petricelli was alive, it would scare him into silence. If he'd gone down with the plane, a message would go out. Talk and the brothers erase you from the planet. A freebie.”

“Why would these assholes talk business in front of an outsider?”

“Poteet and Tannahill were doing lines in Holmes's car. Our hero was out cold in the backseat. Or so they thought.”

“So the whole thing was a hoax,” I said.

“Appears so.” McMahon moved the mug beyond the edge of the blotter.

“Metraux's backing off on his Petricelli sighting,” Ryan added.

“There's a surprise.”

Down the hall a phone rang. A voice called out. Heels clicked down the corridor.

“Looks like your partner and his prisoner just got on the wrong flight.”

“So the Sri Lankans are clean, Simington is up for Humanitarian of the Year, and the Angels are nothing but merry pranksters. We're back to square one with a blown plane and no explanation.” Ryan.

“I got a call from Magnus Jackson as I was leaving Bryson City. He claims his investigators are picking up evidence of slow burning.”

“What kind of evidence?” I asked.

“Geometric burn patterns on debris.”

“Which means?”

“Fire prior to the explosion.”

“A mechanical problem?”

McMahon shrugged.

“They can separate precrash from postcrash burning?” I pushed.

“Sounds like crap to me.”

McMahon grabbed the mug and got out of his chair.

“So the Pecan may be a hero.”

Ryan and I stood.

“And Metraux's not finding a seller's market,” said Ryan.

“Ain't life grand.”

I hadn't told Ryan about Parker Davenport's insinuations concerning himself and Bertrand. I did so now, outside the Adams Mark Hotel. Ryan listened, hands tight on his knees, eyes straight ahead.

“That rat-brained little prick.” Headlights moved across his face, distorting lines and planes rigid with anger.

“This should dampen that line of reasoning.”

“Yes.”

“I'm sure Davenport's reaming me has nothing to do with you or Bertrand. That was a sidebar to his real agenda.”

“Which is?”

“I have every intention of finding out.”

Ryan's jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Powerful people.”

His palms rubbed up then down his jeans, then he reached over and took my hand.

“Sure I can't buy you dinner?”

“I need to collect my cat.”

Ryan dropped my hand, flipped the handle, and got out of the car.

“I'll call you in the morning,” I said.

He slammed the door and was gone.

* * *

Back at the Annex, my answering machine flashed four messages.

Anne.

Ron Gillman.

Two hang-ups.

I dialed Gillman's pager. He phoned back before I'd filled Birdie's bowls.

“Krueger says you've got a match on the DNA.”

My stomach and tonsils changed places.

“He's sure?”

“One chance in seventy godzillion of error. Or whatever figures those guys throw around.”

“The tooth and foot come from the same person?” I still couldn't believe it.

“Yes. Go get your warrant.”

I dialed Lucy Crowe. The sheriff was out, but a deputy promised to find her.

There was no answer in Ryan's room.

Anne picked up on the first ring.

“Figure out who your bomber is?”

“We figured out who it isn't.”

“That's progress. How about dinner?”

“Where's Ted?”

“At a sales meeting in Orlando.”

My cupboard would have made Mother Hubbard proud. And I was so agitated I knew sitting at home would be sheer torture.

“Foster's in thirty minutes?”

“I'll be there.”

Foster's Tavern is a subterranean hideaway with somber wood paneling and tufted black leather rising to midwall. A carved bar wraps around one end, battered tables fill the other. Blood cousin to the Selwyn Avenue Pub, the tavern is small, dark, and flawlessly Irish.

Anne had the Guinness stew and Chardonnay. Were I in the game, I'd have gone for a black and tan, but Anne always had Chardonnay. I ordered corned beef and cabbage, a Perrier with lime. Normally I ask for lemon, but the green seemed more fitting.

“So who's been ruled out?” Anne asked, fingertipping a speck from her wine.

“I can't really discuss that, but there's other progress I can tell you about.”

“You've figured out the early temperature history of the solar system.”

She flicked the particle. Her hair looked blonder than I remembered.

“That was last week. Did you lighten your hair?”

“A mistake. What's this progress?”

I told her about the DNA hit.

“So your foot belongs to whoever went soupy inside the wall.”

“And it wasn't any jive deer.”

“Who was it?”

“I'll bet the farm it was Jeremiah Mitchell.”

“The black Cherokee.”

“Yes.”

“Now what?”

“I'm waiting for a call from the Swain County sheriff. With the DNA match, a warrant should be a piece of cake. Even from that medieval moron of a magistrate.”

“Nice alliteration.”

“Thanks.”

Over dinner, we decided on Wild Dunes at Thanksgiving. The rest of the time Anne described her trip to England. I listened.

“Did you see anything besides cathedrals and monuments?” I asked when she paused for breath.

“Caves.”

“Caves?”

“Totally bizarre. This guy named Francis Dashwood had them dug sometime in the eighteenth century. He wanted a Gothic atmosphere, so he had this corny three-sided stone structure built around the entrance. Cathedral windows, doors, and arches, a stone-bordered portal in the center, and a black wrought-iron fence at each side. Creates a sort of courtyard. Gothic chic, complete with souvenir shop, café, and white plastic tables and chairs for the thirsty medieval tourist.”

She took a sip of wine.

“You enter the caves through a long white tunnel with a low, rounded ceiling.”

“Why white?”

“It's all fake. The caves were chiseled out of chalk.”

“Where are they?”

“West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. It's about an hour's drive northwest of London. Someone told Ted about the place, so we had to stop off on our way to Oxford.” She rolled her eyes. “Tempe, these caves are mondo bizarro. Passages meander all over the place, with little rooms and crannies and side branches. And they're filled with all sorts of creepy carvings.”

“Creepy?”

“Most of the engravings look like the work of kids, but they're way too grotesque.”