Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“Probably six feet under, like Gamble and Lovette and the poor slob from the landfill.”

Williams ignored Larabee’s outburst.

“With the consent of Mr. Raines’s wife, experts are searching the hard drive from his home computer. Unfortunately, his laptop goes with him when he travels. Mr. Raines’s cell phone records are also under scrutiny.”

“Unfortunately, his cell phone goes with him when he travels.” Larabee’s sarcasm had the atomic weight of lead.

“We have established that Raines’s mobile was not used after Monday last week. A call was made from Charlotte to the Raines’s home landline. We are also looking at the GPS on Raines’s second vehicle.”

“Which, unfortunately, was in his driveway when the poor schmo fell off the planet.” Larabee stood, anger barely in check. “This is bullshit. Get back to me when you’re ready to share what you learned by stealing my stiff.”

Williams and Randall rose, smiled tightly, and took their leave.

Back in my office I had not one but two phone messages. Both were unexpected.

I returned the calls in the order in which they came in. And slammed into yet more anger.

“Galimore.” Curt.

“It’s Dr. Brennan.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t check the caller ID.”

“I was surprised to hear from you. Figured you’d be completely jammed up with the situation at the Speedway.”

“They’ve turned me into a goddamn traffic cop!” Galimore sounded furious. “The bastards won’t let me anywhere near the garage area. Did you know there’s some question Gamble died by accident?”

“Yes.”

“Hallelujah! Everyone’s in the loop but the head of security!”

“Williams and Randall were here.”

“The freaking FBI. This happened on my patch. And what do I get to do? Freaking crowd control!”

“You going to break down now?”

“What?”

“It’s manly and all. But I’m not good with tears.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Getting in touch with your feminine side.”

For a moment I heard nothing but background noise. Then Gali-more chuckled. “You’re a real wiseass, you know that.”

“Yes. Why did you call?”

“While my people play mall cop, I’m going to do some real police work. You want to meet Craig Bogan?”

I did.

Gamble’s cranial fragments wouldn’t be ready for analysis for twenty-four hours. I had no other cases.

Hawkins would disapprove. Ditto Slidell.

Screw Hawkins and Slidell.

“I’m at the MCME,” I said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“Right outside. I’ll be there in thirty.”

I disconnected and dialed again.

This time the anger was pointed at me.

“What the hell are you thinking?”

“Good morning, Detective. Going to be another hot one out there.”

“Cotton Galimore is a slime-spewing, amoral, bastard of a scumbag.”

I had to give Slidell credit. His prose was creative.

“Don’t hold back,” I said.

“You’ve got no business breathing air with that freak show. He’ll use you, then ditch you like a snotty tissue.”

“Perhaps I’m using him.”

“Galimore’s a booger that you can’t flick off.”

“That was good. The way you expanded the metaphor.”

“What?”

“Why did you call?”

“The impending gang war turned out to be a cheating ex taking revenge on the love of his life. Killed her and the boyfriend, put the lady’s brother in the ICU.”

It is one of the most common causes of violence against women. The man threatens. The woman asks for protection, maybe gets a restraining order. Big help. The cops finally step in when Mr. Tough Guy actually batters or kills her. Every time I hear of a case like that, I feel the same outrage and frustration.

“If I can’t have you, no one can,” I said, voice coated with disgust.

“Yeah. Noble. Anyways, I’ve got a little downtime now, so I plan to check out the car Gamble and Lovette drove off in the night they disappeared.”

“The ’sixty-five Mustang described by Grady Winge.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking there couldn’t have been many of those. Wish I had the original damn file. I’m probably reinventing the wheel.”

“Are DMV registration records kept that long?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Any mention of the car in Eddie’s notes?”

“That’s where I plan to start.”

I told Slidell about Larabee’s autopsy results. And about the abrin found in Wayne Gamble’s coffee.

“What the hell’s abrin?”

I provided a quick overview. Slidell saw the connection right away. “Like the shit what killed the landfill John Doe.”

“We don’t know if the man died of ricin poisoning. He’d also suffered head trauma.”

“Guess you could say that about Gamble.”

“But it’s not just the abrin,” I said.

I told Slidell about Gamble’s calls to me, about his anxiety, and about his decision to confront the person tailing him.

“So the FBI’s thinking Wayne Gamble got iced. Why?”

“I don’t know. But there’s more.”

I relayed what Williams had shared concerning Ted Raines.

“The feebs are fingering Raines?”

“No one’s suggesting that Raines killed Gamble.”

“Then what’s the link?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re saying that a lot.”

I hesitated, decided it was better to have everyone on the same page. Leaving out the part about the shotgun, I described the encounter with Eugene Fries.

“I’m telling you. Galimore is a snake.”

“Let it go.”

Angry air whistled in and out of Slidell’s nose for several seconds. “Who would have threatened this guy Fries?”

“I’ve no clue. But they made an impression.”

“Who’s wrong? Fries or Winge?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You think one of them lied?”

“I don’t know. But I think Owen Poteat may have.”

I walked Slidell through my interpretation of Rinaldi’s coded note.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” he said.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” I agreed.

GALIMORE ARRIVED BEARING CHICK-FIL-A. HIS SHIRT WAS wrinkled and sweat-stained under the arms. His eyes were puffy, his cheeks unshaven. Not the sexy unkept look Bruce Willis sometimes features. The up-all-night-and-grungy version.

Though the food was good, Galimore’s mood was not.

We ate in tense silence.

When I asked our destination, I got one word. Weddington.

As I bunched and rebagged my sandwich wrapper and waffle-fries carton, I considered briefing Galimore on the autopsy, the abrin, and the other info obtained from Williams and Randall.

Not yet.

“What does Bogan do?” I asked.

“I already told you.”

“Indulge me.”

“He grows vegetables.”

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“I spoke with Slidell this morning.”

“Always reason for rejoicing.”

“He questions your motive for looking at the Gamble-Lovette case after all these years.”

Galimore snorted.

“It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”

“I’d rather take a punch to the balls.”

Okay, then.

Galimore turned from Providence onto Weddington Road, which soon veered southeast. Through my window I watched malls and subdivision entrances slide past. I pictured the pretentious homes beyond the flawlessly quaint signs, each trying to be Tudor, or Tuscan, or Provençal. A few years back the area had been farmland. Where had all the countryside gone?