Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

Slidell released his grip.

Posey tumbled backward, fingers clawing the counter for purchase. The towel flew. Mugs hit the floor in an explosion of glass.

Slidell chin-cocked the shards.

“Saved you some washing.”

Back in the Taurus, Slidell again attacked the AC. While he phoned headquarters, I dialed the MCME.

Larabee told me that the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Medical Examiner/Coroner’s Guide for Contaminated Deceased Body Management .

“Because of the ricin,” I said.

“Which is bullshit. The ricin toxin can’t spread from person to person. You’ve got to breathe or eat the stuff.”

Or get jabbed with an umbrella.

Slidell barked something, then tossed his phone onto the dash.

“Where was the body taken?” I asked Larabee.

“The FBI is stonewalling on that. But I’ll find out. I’ll goddamn well find out.”

Slidell positioned the mock Ray-Bans, clicked his seat belt, and shifted into gear.

“Keep me in the loop,” I said, then disconnected.

Gravel flew from our tires as Slidell gunned from the lot.

“Get an address for Danner?” I asked.

“They’re working on it.”

Knowing Slidell would share when ready, I held my tongue. It was pointless to press.

A minute later he was ready.

“Lynn Marie Hobbs attended NC State from ’ninety-eight until 2001. Didn’t graduate. Married a guy named Dean Nolan in 2002, now goes by Lynn Nolan.”

Static spit from the radio. Slidell reached out and twisted the knob.

“After leaving school, Nolan returned to the old homestead. Works for an outfit called the Cryerton Respiratory Research Institute. CRRI. Headquarters is in some sort of industrial park near China Grove.”

I thought a moment. “The Southeast Regional Research Park?”

“That’s it.”

China Grove is a stone’s throw from Kannapolis.

“I assume we’re heading there now?”

“Eeyuh.”

“Is Nolan expecting us?”

“I figure a surprise might liven things up.”

“What does CRRI do?”

“Call me crazy, but I’m guessing they spend a lot of time thinking about lungs.”

Pointedly, I turned my face toward the window.

Corn rows marched to the horizon, dark and shimmery in the afternoon heat. Above them, a red-tailed hawk looped lazy circles low in the sky.

Instead of returning to I-77, Slidell cut west on NC-152. Just before China Grove, he made three right turns, then a left onto a wide paved road.

No cornfields here. Wild flowers as far as the eye could see. A veritable Monet ocean of color.

A quarter mile up the blacktop, redbrick walls stretched to each shoulder, and large iron gates blocked access to manicured grounds beyond. A stone plaque identified the Southeast Regional Research Park.

Slidell stopped at the guardhouse and lowered his window. A uniformed young man emerged with a clipboard. “May I help you?”

“We’re looking for Lynn Nolan.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll check the list.”

“We aren’t on it.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

Slidell held out his badge.

The man studied it earnestly. “Do you have a warrant?”

“Why? Something going on here gonna cause problems?”

“I’ll have to call for clearance.”

“No,” Slidell said. “You won’t. Nolan works for CRRI. Where do I find her?”

“Building Three. Second floor.”

“You have a real special day.” Slidell hit a button and his window hummed up.

The man retreated, the gates opened, and Slidell drove through.

The Southeast Regional Research Park looked like a small college campus in Mississippi. Brick buildings fronted by broad steps, Greco-Roman pillars, porticos, and pediments. Covered parking garages. Well-groomed gardens. Boisterously green grass which seemed to stretch for several hundred acres. Small lake complete with ducks, geese, and a swan.

Yet nothing stirred. The effect was like one of those disaster movies in which a virus destroys life but leaves the hardscape intact.

Building 3 was a four-story number on Progress Avenue. Flanking both sides were half-completed foundations, suggesting progress had been less than desired.

Ignoring the no-parking signs, Slidell pulled to the curb. We got out and entered Building 3 through tinted glass doors.

The lobby was all gleaming rosewood and marble, with a futuristic stone sculpture parked in the center. A directory verified that CRRI was located in 204.

A spotless elevator took us to the second floor. There the decorator’s palette had been labeled something like sand or wheat. Beige walls, beige trim, beige carpet, beige chairs, each shade just a hair off the others. The only color came from framed black and whites with highlighted details. A woman’s red lips. A green umbrella. A blue and yellow tail dangling from a kite.

Room 204 was halfway down on the right.

A woman occupied a desk directly opposite and facing the door. She was tiny, with caramel eyes, sun-bronzed skin, and long brown hair spilling from a barrette atop her head.

When we entered, the woman’s eyes widened. A manicured hand flew to her mouth. “Are you really going to arrest me?”

So much for the guard not announcing our presence.

THE WOMAN WATCHED US CROSS TO THE DESK, HER BODY RIGID with apprehension.

“Lynn Nolan?” Not a bark, but close.

Nolan nodded, lavender-tipped fingers still pressed to her lips. Slidell flipped his badge. “Got some questions about Cindi Gamble.”

Nolan’s eyes now went impossibly wide.

“You remember Cindi Gamble?”

Nolan nodded again.

“You want we should do this standing?”

The hand left Nolan’s mouth and fluttered toward two desk-facing chairs.

As we sat, Nolan’s gaze flicked to me, but she said nothing.

While Slidell started the interview, I looked around.

The furnishings were standard reception-room walnut and tweed, including Nolan’s desk, our chairs, and a love seat centered on the back wall. Fronting the love seat was a coffee table heaped with magazines. Every title contained the terms “air,” “atmosphere,” or “energy.” As in the corridor, beige ruled.

Above Nolan’s head, a mural displayed the CRRI logo, a stylized windmill with greenery twining the central post. Three words circled the blades: GENOMICS. PROTEOMICS. METABOLOMICS.

“You the receptionist?” Slidell produced his spiral, more for effect than note-taking, I suspected.

Another nod.

“What goes on here?”

“Research.”

Slidell stared at Nolan. She stared back.

“Why am I getting the impression you’re not enjoying our visit?”

“Into air pollution.”

By my count, that brought Nolan’s total word count to four.

“Research for who?” Slidell positioned his pen.

“Industrial consortia, clinical trials companies, R and D firms, consulting groups.” The answer sounded rote. Nolan had obviously given the spiel before.

Slidell jotted something, then got to the point.

“You attended A. L. Brown High with Cindi Gamble?”

Nolan nodded again. She was very good at it.

“Tell me about her.”

“Like what?”

“Dig deep, Miss Nolan.”

“It’s Mrs.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I hardly knew her. Like, Cindi wanted to drive race cars. That wasn’t my thing.”

“But you were friends.”

“Just at school. Sometimes we, like, ate lunch together.”

Nolan was gouging a cuticle on one thumb with the acrylic nail on the other. I wondered why a visit from the cops was unnerving her so badly.