Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“You’ll never guess what I caught.”

“Scabies,” I said.

“What the hell’s scabies?”

“I’m good, Detective Slidell. How are you?” Why couldn’t the guy ever open with a greeting?

“I was up, so I caught your NASCAR pal.”

It took me a moment to translate. “You’re working the Wayne Gamble investigation?”

“Concord asked for help in sorting the thing. You been watching the news? It’s a shitstorm.”

“Galimore said a lot of media were camped out at the Speedway.”

Slidell did the throat thing. At mention of the media? Of Gali-more?

Disregarding Slidell’s censure, I recounted my visit with Craig Bogan.

“And?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy keeps a spare bedsheet in his closet.”

“Meaning?”

“I think he’s a bigot.”

“Who don’t he like?”

“Anyone who’s not white and straight.”

“Uh-huh.”

I described the phone threat. If it was a threat.

“Where was Galimore?” Stony.

“Right there with me.”

As the words left my lips, I realized that was wrong.

“So what are you doing?”

I knew Slidell was referring to the call. Chose not to acknowledge.

“Researching abrin,” I said.

“You know what you are, Doc?”

“Crafty on the Internet.”

Slidell clucked disapproval but let it go.

“Looks like Gamble was doing some research of his own.”

I waited for him to explain.

“Grady Winge talked about a ’sixty-five Mustang, right?”

“Right.”

“I found a folder in Gamble’s trailer. He’d traced every ’sixty-five Mustang registered in the Carolinas back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Through NCIC?”

“Hell, no. That’s just for people on the job. You gotta take a class, get a user name and password. It’s mandated by the FBI. If the system was open to every Tom, Dick, and Harry—”

“What about DMV records?”

“No.”

“So how did Gamble do it?”

“Maybe he had inside help. Maybe he requested the original file and was given access. Before some FBI spook snatched the bloody thing, of course.”

“Did Eddie put anything in his notes?”

“Yeah. He tracked down eighteen ’sixty-five Mustangs tagged in North and South Carolina. Ran them all. Fifteen came up legit. The other three owners he could never locate.”

“But Gamble found them.”

“One car belonged to a dead woman. Her daughter-in-law ponied up for a tag every year without even asking questions. The dead lady no longer lived at the Raleigh address listed on the paperwork. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Where was the Mustang?”

“Rusting in a storage shed.”

“The second car belonged to a collector with a Myrtle Beach address. Same deal. The guy’s assistant relicensed annually, not knowing the thing was sitting in a warehouse somewhere with no wheels and no engine. The owner was living in Singapore.”

“So his contact information was also useless.”

“The third car belonged to a retired army sergeant. He’d moved the vehicle to Texas but kept the South Carolina plate. When Eddie tried to call, the line had probably been disconnected.”

“So those three owners were effectively lost to the system back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Yeah. But Gamble found them. And all three are dead ends.”

“Like the other fifteen.”

“You’ve got it.”

“How could such a unique vehicle remain untraceable?”

“Good question.”

“Could Winge have been wrong?”

“He was very specific.” I heard paper rustle. “At the Speedway, he told us it was a ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

I felt a tickle deep in my brainpan. What?

Slidell shifted gears. “Your gut about Owen Poteat was right on target. In ’ninety-eight the guy was up to his eyeballs in debt. He hadn’t worked in three years, and he’d dropped a ton fighting the little missus over custody. The poor bastard took out loans, eventually sold his house. Still lost his kids. Never again found gainful employment.”

“But somehow he had twenty-six thousand to invest in their college educations.”

“Winning lottery ticket?”

“What are the odds?”

After we disconnected, I spent a little more time on my laptop. And learned a few more disturbing facts.

Abrin is a yellow-white powder that can be released into the air as fine particles. If released outdoors, it has the potential to contaminate agricultural products.

Abrin can be used to poison food and water.

The fatal dose of abrin is approximately seventy-five times smaller than the fatal dose of ricin.

I checked another site. Got a figure. Did some math in my head.

Holy crap.

Abrin can kill with a circulating amount of less than 3 micrograms.

At seven p.m., I broiled a flounder filet and shared it with Birdie. Preferring a mayo-based sauce, he passed on the slaw. Or maybe he just dislikes storebought salads.

I then worked through my in-box.

Several e-mails concerned casework. A pathologist at the LSJML needed clarification on a report. A prosecutor in Charlotte wanted to schedule a meeting. LaManche wondered when I’d return to Montreal.

Others offered the deal of a lifetime. A Rolex watch for fifty bucks. Access to unclaimed funds in an African bank. A cleanser that would make my skin glow like that of a Hollywood star.

Katy was thinking of quitting her job to spend a year in Ireland. She had an offer to tend bar at a pub in Cork. Great.

Ryan had sent an uncharacteristically long message describing his latest therapy session with Lily. He was dismayed at the amount of anger his daughter seemed to harbor. Against him for being absent during her childhood. Against Lutetia for hiding from him the fact of her existence—and for recently abandoning her to return to Nova Scotia.

He wrote that he was discouraged, homesick, and missed my company. The tenor was so heartbreaking, it drilled a hole through my sternum.

But Ryan’s message wasn’t as sad as the one penned by Harry. Recently, my sister and I had received shocking news not dissimilar from that which had altered Ryan’s world.

Harry’s son, Kit, had fathered a child the summer he was sixteen and in Cape Cod at sailing camp. For reasons that would forever remain a mystery, the child’s mother, Coleen Brennan, of an unrelated branch of the clan, had not disclosed to her summer love that he had a daughter.

Victoria “Tory” Brennan was now fourteen. Upon the sudden death of Coleen, Tory had relocated from Massachusetts and was now living with Kit in Charleston.

Harry had a granddaughter. I had a grandniece.

Harry was furious about all the lost years. And despondent over the fact that Kit, wanting to give Tory time to adjust, wouldn’t yet allow his mother to visit.

I was dialing Harry’s number when the front bell chimed. Thinking it was Galimore, I put down the handset and went to the door.

It wasn’t my worst nightmare.

But it was close.

PETE AND SUMMER WERE STANDING CLOSE BUT NOT TOUCHING. Both looked tense, like people waiting in line. Summer held a Nieman Marcus bag by its string handle.

Pasting on a faux smile, I opened the door. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Summer looked like the question stumped her.

“You sure you want to do this?” Pete sounded uncomfortable.

“Sure.” Oh, no. “Come on in.”

Pete was wearing flip-flops, khaki shorts, and a Carmel Country Club golf shirt. Summer had on wedge sandals, a silk tank, and designer camouflage pants that would have unnerved Patton.