Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

Slidell made introductions and held his badge to the screen. Without studying it, Bradford stepped back and opened the outer door. I noted that she hadn’t dressed up for our visit. She wore khaki shorts, a checked cotton blouse, and was barefoot.

Bradford led us down a hall lined with framed travel photos, then through an arched opening to the right. The living room had linen drapes and a tan Oushak rug overlying a gleaming oak floor. The brick fireplace was painted white to match the woodwork and flanking bookcases.

“Please.” Bradford gestured at a leather sofa.

Slidell took one end. I took the other. Bradford sat in an armchair on the far side of a steamer trunk doing duty as a coffee table.

Before Slidell could begin, Bradford started asking questions.

“Have you found Cindi?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Is she dead?”

“We don’t know that.”

“Has new information emerged?”

“No, ma’am. We’d just like to ask a few questions.”

“Just seems odd, that’s all. After so much time.” Bradford twisted sideways and tucked her bare feet up under her bum.

“Yes, ma’am. So you do remember Cindi Gamble?”

“Of course I do. She was an excellent student. There were far too few of those. I also knew her through STEM.”

“STEM?” Slidell pulled a spiral pad from his pocket, flipped pages with a spitted thumb, and clicked a pen to readiness.

“The Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math Club. Cindi was a member. I was faculty adviser.”

“You remember when she went missing?”

Slidell got a withering look from behind the Harry Potter lenses.

“I assume you were questioned at the time,” he said.

“Briefly. The police lost interest because I couldn’t really tell them much.” Using one finger, Bradford shot her glasses up the bridge of her nose. They immediately dropped back into the groove in which they’d been resting.

“What did you tell them?”

“Cindi stopped coming to school.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I knew.”

“They talk to other teachers?”

“I suppose so. I’m really not sure.”

While Slidell asked questions, I observed Bradford. I noted that her right hand grasped one ankle very tightly. Though trying to hide it, the woman was nervous.

“What about Lovette?” Slidell asked.

“What about him?”

“Did you know him?”

“I had no personal contact with Cale Lovette. He was not a student at A. L. Brown. Isn’t this all on record somewhere? I’ve already answered these very same questions.”

“Did you know that Cindi was dating Lovette?”

“Yes.”

“She ever talk about him?”

“Not to me.”

“Were you aware of Lovette’s involvement with a group called the Patriot Posse?”

“I’d heard rumors.” Bradford’s gaze flicked toward the doorway, as though a noise or movement had startled her.

“Were the kids into that sort of thing?”

“What sort of thing?”

Slidell stared at Bradford, unmoving. I could sense his irritation.

“Cindi ever say anything about hating Negroes or Jews? Homosexuals?” Slidell pronounced it “homo-sectials.”

“That would have been out of character.”

“Abortionists? The federal government?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you don’t know.” Slidell was losing patience.

“The sad truth is, teachers know very little about their students. About their private lives, I mean. Unless a student chooses to confide.”

“Which Cindi did not.”

Bradford stiffened at Slidell’s accusatory tone. I met her eyes. Rolled mine, implying that I also found his attitude boorish.

Slidell tapped his pen on his pad, eyes locked on Bradford. She didn’t blink.

The standoff was interrupted by Slidell’s cell phone. Yanking it from his belt, he checked the number.

“Gotta take this.” Slidell shoved to his feet and lumbered from the room.

I decided to continue with the good-cop ploy.

“It must have been dreadful losing a student like that.”

Bradford nodded.

“Was there talk on campus?” I asked gently. “Among faculty and students? Speculation about what happened to them?”

“Frankly, there was surprisingly little. Lovette was an outsider. Other than STEM, Cindi wasn’t a joiner. She wasn’t”—Bradford hooked a half quotation mark with the fingers of her free hand—“popular.”

“Kids can be cruel.”

“Viciously cruel.” Bradford was falling for my female-bonding shtick. “Cindi Gamble loved engines and wanted to be a race car driver. For a female, in those days, such an avocation did not make you prom queen, even in Kannapolis.”

“I know it’s hard to remember so far back. But was there any student with whom she was close?”

The free hand rose, palm up, in a gesture of frustration. “As I understood it, she spent all of her time at some track.”

“Do you remember seeing Cindi with anyone in particular at school, maybe in the halls or the cafeteria?”

“There was one girl. Lynn Hobbs. Cindi and Lynn often ate lunch together.”

“Did Lynn give a statement?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you know where she lives today?”

Bradford shook her head.

“Would you mind telling me who interviewed you back in ’ninety-eight?” I asked.

“Two police officers.”

“From the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD?”

“Yes.”

“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.”

SUNDAY, 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.