Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

Galimore’s interpretation of the second line made sense. Rinaldi was interested in the contradiction in time line presented by Grady Winge and Eugene Fries. I focused on the first line.

“Sarah Elizabeth can’t get to Charlotte in time for the rehearsal. How can you have a wedding without a rehearsal?” Warbly.

Summer blew her nose loudly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Sarah Elizabeth has always been horribly thoughtless.”

My lower centers sat up.

What? Napkins? Pregnant? Rehearsal?

I stared at the alphanumeric string, only half-listening to Summer’s whining.

Mary Gray.

Sarah Elizabeth.

My mind strained, on the verge of a breakthrough.

“I swear.” More wet sniffling. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

I ran through my conversation with Katy.

IRS? Airline tickets? Bank account?

I dug deep.

Dots connected.

I knew what was needed to decipher Rinaldi’s note.

AFTER HUSTLING SUMMER OFF THE LINE WITH SOME VAGUE promise of support, I phoned Slidell. Got voice mail. Left a message. Urgent. Call me.

I tried Galimore. Voice mail. Same message.

Frustrated, I tossed my Diet Coke can into the recycling bin, grabbed my purse and laptop, and headed out.

Something was happening at the NASCAR Hall of Fame that night. I averaged about four miles a decade crossing uptown.

The bumper-to-bumper crunch changed my supper plan. No way I’d divert to Price’s for fried chicken. A salad made from produce in my refrigerator would have to do.

I was finally heading south on Providence Road when my iPhone sounded.

Galimore.

“I think I know what concerned Rinaldi,” I said.

“You’re breaking my heart.” Galimore sounded, what? Coy? “I thought you’d changed your mind about dinner.”

“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”

“I can check.”

“Poteat had two daughters, didn’t he?”

“That sounds right.”

“Get their names, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ahead, the light turned red. I stopped at the intersection. To my left, Providence Road cut south. To my right, it became Morehead Street.

“What about bank records? Tax records?” I asked.

“Whose?”

“Any account bearing Poteat’s name.”

“It would help to know the bank.”

The light went green. I proceeded straight on what was now called Queens Road. See. I wasn’t kidding.

“Start with Wells Fargo,” I said. “Work backward to 1998.”

“I’ve got sources who can do that. What are you thinking?”

“How long will it take?”

“The names, a matter of minutes. Tax and financial records, that’s tougher. Why aren’t you getting this through Slidell?”

“He’s either tied up or ignoring my calls.”

“Don’t expect Skinny to come around easily. The guy’s a champion grudge-holder.”

I turned in at Sharon Hall.

“I’m at my town house. I’ve got to go.”

“A quiet meal at home alone?”

“I’ll be dining with my cat.”

Birdie had other thoughts. Upon hearing me enter the kitchen, he retreated to a dining room chair.

I knew what was up. The feline coolness was a comment on the lateness of the hour. Normally Birdie eats at six.

I checked my phone, hoping for a message from Ryan or Charlie.

Neither had called.

Disappointed, I flipped on the TV. Two overly keen sports analysts were discussing potential lineups for the upcoming Coca-Cola 600. One predicted Sandy Stupak’s #59 Chevy would start near the front.

Hearing an unhappy meow, I went to the dining room, reached under the table, and stroked Birdie’s head.

“Sorry, Bird. I’ve been wicked busy.”

The cat didn’t budge.

“Cut me some slack. I’ve been to Concord and Locust all in one day. Slidell berated me. Hawkins lectured me. Ryan and Charlie have apparently dumped me. Katy and Summer both whined in my ear. Oh yeah. And an old coot held me at gunpoint with a Winchester.”

The cat remained obstinate.

After filling Birdie’s bowl, I went upstairs to shower. Then I threw on shortie-PJ bottoms and an old tee. No bra or panties. The freedom was exhilarating.

Back to the kitchen.

The tomato was flaccid, the cucumber slimy, the lettuce limp and black on the edges. So much for a salad.

Plan B. Something in a can.

I was rooting in the pantry when the back doorbell chimed. Wary, I peeked out.

Galimore was standing on the porch, face bathed in a yellow wash from the overhead bulb.

I closed my eyes. Tried to wish myself gone.

I heard the cadence of the evening news. The cat crunching Iams.

But gone where? What did I really wish for? To let Galimore in? To send him away?

Both Hawkins and Slidell disliked the man. Were they bitter that Galimore had made mistakes?

Had Galimore betrayed the badge? Were their concerns justified?

Had Galimore really taken a bribe? Or had there actually been a frame-up back in 1998? A frame-up in which police officers participated?

Had Galimore impeded the Gamble-Lovette investigation? Was he trying to do so now? Or was he genuinely interested in righting a wrong to the Gambles, which he saw as partly of his making?

Ryan wasn’t exactly burning up the phone line. Nor was Charlie Hunt.

Did I just need a booster? What was this peculiar attraction I felt for Galimore?

I sneaked another look.

Galimore was holding a flat square box. DONATOS was visible in big red letters.

My eyes drifted to the tomato and cuke. Which were now oozing liquid across the sideboard.

What the hell.

I crossed and unlocked the door.

Galimore smiled. Then his gaze dropped.

Too late, I remembered my lack of undies. One hand rose, pointlessly, to my chest.

Galimore’s eyes snapped up. “Totally loaded.” He raised the pizza. “Hope you like anchovies.”

I gestured toward the table. “Let me throw on some clothes.”

“Not on my account.” Galimore winked.

A flush rose up my neck.

Oh, yes, cowboy. On your account.

When I returned in jeans, a sweatshirt chastely concealing my bosom, the table was set. A small bottle of San Pellegrino sat beside each wineglass.

Out of courtesy to me? Or was Galimore also a nondrinker. Given his past, it seemed likely.

Before taking my place, I muted the TV.

“What did you learn?” I started off, wanting to set the tone.

“Not yet.” Galimore slid an overloaded slice of pizza onto my plate. “First, we eat. And enjoy the lost art of conversation.”

In the course of three helpings, I learned that Galimore lived alone uptown, had four brothers, hated processed food, and besides auto racing, enjoyed football and opera.

He learned that I had one daughter and a cat. And that the latter was inordinately fond of pizza.

Finally Galimore bunched his napkin and leaned back in his chair.

“I know where you’re going,” he said. “And I think you’re dead-on.”

“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”

“Timothy.”

“And his daughters?”

“Mary Ellen and Sarah Caroline.”

“Yes!” I performed the “raise the roof” pantomime with both hands.

“What I can’t figure is how you got that.”

“First, I spoke to my daughter earlier this evening. She talked about a man who opened tax-advantaged savings plans for his kids’ educations.

“Second, I have a friend who is getting married. Right after my conversation with Katy, she phoned to complain about her bridesmaids.”

“Condolences.”