Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“He’s an idiot.”

“According to Winge, Gamble and Lovette left the Speedway around six that night.”

“Like I said, Winge’s an idiot.”

“How could you be so certain about the time?”

“I was checking the clock.”

“Why was that?”

“A certain lady was coming to see me at nine.”

“She show up?”

“No. Look, I told all this to the cops back then. Nearly got my ass killed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I nearly got my ass killed.”

Galimore drilled Fries with a look.

“Right after I talk to the cops, I get a call. Guy says my life turns to shit if I don’t change my story.”

“Who was it?”

“If I’d known that, the prick would be fertilizing a patch of forest.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him to fuck off. A couple days later, my dog turned up dead on my porch.”

“Maybe it just died.”

“She sure as hell did. From a slug in her brain. Two days after that, my house burned down.”

“You think the caller actually followed through on his threats?” I was shocked.

“No.” Fries turned to me, contempt drawing his thin, flaky lips into a downward U. “It was Al Qaeda recruiting me to the cause.”

“Then what did you do?” Galimore asked.

“What the hell would you do? I quit my job and headed west. Few years back, my brother offered me this trailer. I figured enough time had passed, so I come home.”

“You’ve had years to think about it,” Galimore said. “You must have your suspicions.”

Fries didn’t answer for a very long time. When he did, his scraggly white brows were drawn low over his lids. “All’s I’ll say’s this. Word on the street was Lovette and his pals were trouble.”

“You’re talking about the Patriot Posse?”

Fries nodded. “Why would they threaten you?” I asked.

“What?” The brows shot up. “I look like a cop? How the hell would I know?”

I asked the same question I’d asked of the others.

“Mr. Fries, what do you think happened to Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette?”

“I think Lovette and his asshole buddies either killed someone or blew something up. Then he and his girlie split.”

“Where the hell were you?” Buckling my seat belt, adrenaline still pumping through me.

“Checking a path behind the trailer. I didn’t want Fries coming up on us from the woods.”

“Good job.”

I spent the first few miles concentrating on the road. And my nerves.

Galimore seemed to understand. Or was focused on thoughts of his own.

We were on I-485 when I finally felt calm enough for conversation. Exhilarated, almost. Being rescued from a shotgun-toting maniac and his hounds will do that, I guess.

Nevertheless, I kept it professional.

We debated the significance of Fries’s story. Galimore thought the old geezer was probably exaggerating about the threats and harassment. I didn’t think so. His house either burned or it didn’t. Easy enough to check. Why lie?

We were still confused by the contradictory statements given back in ’ninety-eight. Had Lovette and Gamble left the Speedway at six, as Grady Winge reported? Or had they left later, as Eugene Fries insisted? Had one of the two been mistaken? Or had one intentionally lied? If so, which one? For what purpose? I was putting my money for accuracy on Fries.

We discussed theories concerning the fate of Gamble and Lovette. Currently there were five.

One: Cale and Cindi left voluntarily, either to join a militia elsewhere or to marry. This was the finding of the task force. I didn’t buy into the run-away-to-marry theory. Even a halfhearted investigation would have uncovered that.

Two: Cale killed Cindi, then went into hiding. Wayne Gamble thought his sister had dumped Lovette and feared for her life. Lynn Nolan suspected Lovette was abusing Cindi.

Three: Either Cale or Cindi was working undercover for the FBI. The Patriot Posse learned of this and killed them both. This was Slidell’s suggestion.

Four: Learning that Cale or Cindi had been compromised as a CI, the FBI had pulled and routed them both into witness protection. This had been my idea.

Five: Cale did something illegal with the Patriot Posse, then he and Cindi went into hiding. Eugene Fries had concocted this scenario based largely on rumor.

Still, I was bothered by the effectiveness of the disappearances. In all those years, not one phone call. Not a single slipup. That seemed to discredit the runaway theory.

Except for Owen Poteat. His sighting suggested a mistake on someone’s part.

I remembered my conversation with Slidell. Wondered if he’d learned anything more about Poteat other than that he was dead.

As we pulled into the lot at Bad Daddy’s, Galimore proposed dinner. Though tempted and hungry, I decided against it.

Galimore confused me. He was egotistical, infuriating, and of dubious moral character. But his actions proved he was a definite asset in a fight.

Bottom line: I found him smoldering hot.

Puh-leeze!

“No, thanks,” I said. “I have a skull waiting for me.”

Galimore looked at his watch. “It’s going on six.”

“I do some of my best work at night.”

Stupid!

Before Galimore could jump on the opening, I slammed it shut. “Alone.”

Winking, Galimore opened his door. “See you, Doc.”

In minutes I was at the MCME.

Bad mistake.

I was about to take a quadruple volley.

NOT A PATHOLOGIST OR RECEPTIONIST ON SITE. THE BOARD showed one death investigator present. Joe Hawkins.

My phone’s message light was blinking. After getting a Diet Coke from the kitchen, I put the thing on speaker and picked up a pen.

Special Agent Williams, sounding annoyed. It was urgent that I call him back. I jotted down the number.

Wayne Gamble, sounding anxious. He knew who was following him and intended to confront the guy.

Earl Byrne, the mushroom-shaped reporter from the Observer, sounding eager. He wanted to write a follow-up to his original article and wondered what was taking so long with an ID on the landfill John Doe. Delete.

Special Agent Williams. Delete.

Special Agent Williams. Delete.

Cotton Galimore, sounding, what? Flirtatious? The dinner offer was still on the table. Also, he intended to visit Craig Bogan in the morning. Did I want to come along?

I was scribbling Galimore’s number when a shadow fell across my desk. I looked up.

Hawkins was standing in my doorway, a half-dozen forceps in one hand.

“Hey, Joe.”

“That Cotton Galimore?” The scowl on Hawkins’s face would have frightened small children.

“Sorry?”

“Galimore.” He jabbed the forceps toward my phone. “You talking to him?”

“Mr. Galimore was involved in the search for Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble back in ’ninety-eight.”

“You need to stay away from him.”

“Excuse me?”

“The man’s not to be trusted. You’ve got no business being anywhere near him.”

“How I choose to conduct an investigation is of no concern—”

“The man’s corrupt.”

“People change.”

“Not him.”

“That’s a bit rigid.”

“Galimore worked that case, all right. Wouldn’t surprise me if he took part in the cover-up folks are talking about. He’s probably jumping in now to protect his sorry ass.”

“Or he has a genuine interest in finding out what happened to his investigation?”

Hawkins was in full rant mode and in no mood to listen.

“Why the interest now after all these years? Could it be you’re getting to the truth and he wants to keep you close? Whatever Galimore’s motive, he’s acting solely in the interest of one person. Cotton Galimore.”