Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“Say the FBI turned Lovette.”

“Got him to work as a confidential informant?”

Slidell nodded. “Maybe the posse discovered he’d been flipped and capped him and his girlfriend.”

I rolled that around in my head.

“Or maybe the CI was Cindi,” I said. “Maybe she’d had it with Lovette’s abuse and agreed to spy on the posse for the FBI. That would explain her nervousness.”

“Eeyuh.”

“Or what about this? Cindi or Lovette is working from the inside. Their cover is blown. The FBI pulls them both and pipes them into witness protection.”

Slidell didn’t answer.

“We should talk to Cotton Galimore,” I said.

Slidell made that throat sound he makes when disgusted. He disliked Galimore. So did Joe Hawkins. Why?

“What’s Galimore’s story?” I asked.

“He dishonored the badge.”

“By drinking? Other cops have had issues with the bottle.”

“That was part of it.”

“Galimore was bounced from the force. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

The faux Ray-Bans swiveled my way. “That asshole betrayed all of us. And what did he get? A deuce and out.”

“Galimore spent two years in jail?” I hadn’t heard that. “On what charges?”

“Accepting a bribe. Obstruction of justice. The guy’s scum.”

“He must have straightened himself up.”

“Once scum, always scum.”

“Galimore is now head of security at a major speedway.”

Slidell’s jaw hardened, but he said nothing.

I remembered seeing Galimore in Larabee’s office. Recalled his interest in the body from the landfill. The body later confiscated by the FBI.

Coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidence.

I reminded Slidell. As I was speaking, his cell rang again. This time he answered.

Slidell’s end of the conversation consisted mostly of interrogatives. How many? When? Where? Then he clicked off.

“Sonofabitch.”

“Bad news?”

“Double homicide. You want I should take you home?”

“Yeah. Then I’ll head over to the MCME, tell Larabee about the Rosphalt, and see what else he’s learned about the missing John Doe.”

Though I went, that didn’t happen.

But another issue resolved itself.

ACAREFULLY PENNED POST-IT EXPLAINED THAT MRS. FLOWERS had left the MCME at 11:50, that she was lunching at Alexander Michael’s pub, and that she would return at one p.m.

Hearing a cough, I moved toward the cubicles assigned to death investigators. Inside the second sat a new hire named Susan Volpe. We’d met only once.

Volpe’s head popped up when I appeared at her entrance. She had mocha skin and curly black hair cut in an asymmetric bob. Maybe twenty-five, she was all snowy white teeth and lousy with enthusiasm about her new job.

According to Volpe, Larabee and Hawkins were at a homicide scene. I’d just missed them. The other two pathologists were also away. She didn’t know where.

The erasable board logged three new arrivals. My initials were in a little box beside the number assigned to the third, indicating the case was coming to me.

Walking to my office, I wondered if Hawkins and Larabee had gone to the same address to which Slidell had been called.

A consult request lay on my desk. MCME 239-11. After depositing my purse and laptop, I glanced at the form.

A skull had been found in a creek bed near I-485. Larabee wanted a bio-profile, and especially PMI.

First, lunch.

I went to the kitchen for a Diet Coke to accompany the cheddar-and-tomato sandwich I’d brought from home. I’d barely loosened the wrapping when my landline rang.

Volpe. A cop wanted to see me. I told her to send him through.

Seconds later footsteps echoed in the hall. I turned, expecting Skinny.

Whoa!

Standing in my doorway was a man designed by the gods on Olympus. Then broken.

The man stood six-three and weighed around 240, every ounce rock-solid. His hair was dark, his eyes startlingly green, what Gran would have called black Irish. Only two things kept Mr. God a notch below perfect: a scar cut his right brow, and a subtle kink belied a healed nasal fracture.

My expression must have telegraphed my surprise.

“The lady said to come on back.” Cotton Galimore punched a thumb in the direction of Volpe’s cubicle.

“I was expecting Detective Slidell.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Grin lines creased the perfect face.

Without awaiting invitation, Galimore entered and foot-hooked a chair toward my desk. My nose registered expensive cologne and just the right hint of male perspiration.

“Sure,” I said. “Come on in.”

“Thanks.” He sat.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Galimore?”

“You know who I am?”

“I know who you are.”

“That a plus?”

“You tell me.”

“You working with Skinny?”

I nodded.

“Condolences.” Again the boyish grin.

I didn’t smile back.

“I’m guessing Slidell’s not one of my fans,” Galimore said.

“He’s not.”

I looked at my sandwich. So did Galimore.

“These tight bastards not paying you enough?”

“I like cheese.”

“Cheese is good.”

“I can’t discuss the body from the landfill, if that’s why you’re here.”

“That’s partly why I’m here.”

“Sorry.”

“You know you’ll have no choice.”

“Really?”

“Really. Sooner or later you’ll have to deal with me.”

Astonished at the man’s arrogance, I simply stared.

Galimore stared back. His hair was grayer at the temples, his face more deeply creased than I’d noticed at first.

Mostly I noticed his eyes. They held me in a way I couldn’t explain.

Galimore looked away first. Glancing down, he drew a pack of Camels from his pocket, slipped one free, and offered it to me.

“This is a no-smoking facility,” I said.

“I don’t like rules.” Sliding matches from beneath the cellophane, he lit up, took a long pull, and slowly exhaled. Acrid smoke floated over my desk.

“Aren’t we the rebel.” Cool.

Galimore shrugged.

I fought the urge to grab the cigarette and stub it out on his forehead.

“My office. My rules,” I said with an arctic smile.

“In that case, happy to comply.”

Galimore took another draw, exhaled, then extinguished the Camel on the side of my wastebasket. When he straightened and exhaled, another noxious gray cloud drifted my way.

“Detective Slidell is not known for his objectivity,” he said.

I couldn’t argue with that.

“Did he give you the full story?”

“He told me you drank.”

“I did. But never on the job.”

“And that you went to jail.”

“I had that delight.”

“For accepting a bribe.”

“I was set up.”

“Of course.”

“You want to know what happened?”

I flipped a palm. Whatever.

“The week before my arrest, I’d busted a junkie name of Wiggler Coonts. Real fine citizen. The cops wanted me more than they wanted Wiggler, so they talked his lawyer into wearing a wire. The scumbag tracked me to a bar and started buying. I said some stupid things. No question. But it was textbook entrapment.”

“Doesn’t sound like a basis for a criminal conviction.”

“A wad of cash turned up in a storage bin in the basement of my condo complex.”

“Hardly incriminating.”

“It was my bin.”

“But not your wad.”

“Never saw it before.”

“You saying the cops planted it?”

“You saying they didn’t?”