Kathy Reichs: Flash and Bones

“Like a baseball cap. Red with a big number above the brim. Oh. And it had a button pinned to the side. The button had a picture of a cowboy hat.” Nolan smiled, pleased with the brilliance of her recall.

I’d seen a hat like that. Where? Online? At the Speedway?

“What was the tenor of their conversation?” Slidell asked.

“Huh?”

“Friendly? Heated?”

“Like, they didn’t look happy.”

“What were they saying?”

“I already told you this.”

“Do it again.”

Nolan crossed her legs, raised her toes, and pumped one foot as she searched her memory.

“OK. The old guy said that thing about poisoning the system. Then Cale said something about it being too late. It was going to happen. Then the old guy said something about knowing your place.”

We waited out an interval of rapid foot pumping.

“When I passed them again, Cale was telling the old guy to, like, quit carping. Then the old guy told Cale not to act so holy. Then something about a bloody hatchet. But there was a lot of noise. I couldn’t really hear that part.”

“Go on.”

“Then I went back to the booth and sat with Cindi.”

“And?”

“She was all in a wad because Cale was taking too long, so she walked over there. Cale put his arm around her waist. That was nice. But it was creepy the way the old guy looked at her.”

“Creepy how?”

“Cold.” Nolan’s eyes did the saucer thing. “No. More than that. Like he hated her guts.”

“Then what?”

“The old guy said something. Then Cale said something, all in the guy’s face, like he was really mad. Then the old guy stormed out.”

“When Cale came back to the booth, did you ask him who he was talking to?”

“He said a jackass he wished he’d never laid eyes on.”

“You didn’t pursue it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ask again.”

“Cindi told me to let it go. I mean, she didn’t, like, say it. She gave me this look, and I knew what she meant. I’m not stupid.”

Yes, I thought. You are irrevocably stupid.

“Honest to God, that’s all I remember,” Lynn whined. “I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”

“How come you never mentioned this man’s hostility toward Cindi before tonight?”

“Because no one ever asked me about, you know, what happened after. Just what they were saying at the bar.”

I looked at Slidell. Your call.

“OK, honeymooners. Here’s what’s gonna happen.”

When Slidell laid down the usual “don’t leave town” spiel, Nolan shot to her feet and pointed at Raines.

“Fine. But I want this jerk out of my apartment. Mr. Get a Little on the Side is not staying here.”

So much for true love.

En route to the Annex, Slidell and I shared impressions.

“They’re both moral invalids.”

“Yeah,” Slidell agreed. “But Raines doesn’t feel right for Gamble or Hand.”

“Where was he living when Hand went into the landfill?”

“Atlanta.”

“And what motive would he have for wanting Wayne Gamble dead?”

“Exactly. But I’m still going to give the dirtbag a real close look.”

“Nolan’s description of the old guy doesn’t fit Grady Winge,” I said. “Or J. D. Danner. Perhaps Eugene Fries, but he claims to be a victim.”

“I plan to squeeze Winge first thing in the morning.”

As we pulled in at Sharon Hall, a CMPD cruiser was pulling out. Slidell flicked a wave. The cop behind the wheel returned it.

“Guess we don’t need stepped-up patrols no more.”

“You’re convinced Grady Winge killed Cindi and Cale?”

“You kidding? You saw him at that grave site.”

“All that proves is that he knew where the bodies were buried.”

“Then why’s he so goddamn sorry?”

“What about Wayne Gamble?”

“Trust me. In a few short hours, Winge will be singing like a marching band.”

Slidell’s linguistic misadventures never ceased to amaze.

“The term is alienation of affection,” I said. “It’s a charge against the third party, not the spouse.”

“Yeah. Well, I hope the wife cleans Nolan’s shorts.”

The clock read two-ten when I dropped into bed.

In the brief period before my brain shut down, I replayed what Nolan had said.

Who was the man arguing with Cale Lovette? What system did they intend to poison? A water system? Where? Obviously they hadn’t done it. Or hadn’t done it effectively. Such an attack would have been big news.

Something bugged me.

The hat? Where had I seen a cap like that?

Had Nolan read the man correctly? Had he truly regarded Cindi Gamble with malice? If so, why? Or had the look meant something else?

And what was the bit about a bloody hatchet?

Then I was out.

WHILE I SLEPT, MY BRAIN PLAYED WITH SOUNDS.

Two phrases.

Bloody hatchet.

Maddy Padgett.

Suddenly I was wide awake.

Was that what Nolan had overheard? Were Cale Lovette and the old guy talking about Maddy Padgett?

The clock said six-twenty.

Too early to call.

Too jazzed to sleep.

I threw on a robe and went downstairs. Birdie opened one eye but didn’t follow.

While Mr. Coffee cranked up to perk, I turned on the TV.

The local news was all about NASCAR. Qualifying for the Coca-Cola 600 had taken place the previous night. Jimmie Johnson had won the pole and would go off from the inside starting position. Kasey Kahne would share the front row.

Though farther back than predicted, Sandy Stupak had also won good position. And big surprise, the tragic death of Stupak’s jackman, Wayne Gamble, was no longer the lead B-story.

The secondary headliner was the weather. Periodic strong winds, thunder and lightning, and all-day rain were predicted for Saturday, so the Nationwide Series race had been moved up to Friday night. Unprecedented, but a necessary precaution to avoid cancellation and complicated rescheduling.

The new tertiary headliner was a big-ass crater.

As Speedway management was scrambling to make the accelerated timetable work, they learned that, overnight, a sinkhole had opened on the edge of the dirt track. Measuring forty feet long and thirty-five feet deep, the thing was a monster. Fortunately, no one had been injured.

The sinkhole’s location made it unlikely that the evening’s Nationwide Series event would be affected. Safety inspectors were on site. Officials had yet to announce if the race would begin at the newly designated time.

As I filled my mug, an officious expert presented this postmortem. The Charlotte Motor Speedway was built over an abandoned landfill, and thirty-five feet below the surface, an old drainpipe had deteriorated. In his opinion, the cave-in was the result of recent heavy rains, the burst pipe, and instability of the landfill substrate.

In awed tones, an anchorwoman explained that such incidents are not without precedent. Backed by footage of packed grandstands, she described a pothole that had delayed a Daytona 500 for hours.

Birdie strolled into the kitchen as I was pouring my second cup of coffee.

At seven, I finished my third.

Wired on caffeine, I dialed.

“Slidell.” Gruff.

“Did I wake you?”

“Nah. I’m waiting for room service.”

Easy, Brennan .

“Where are you?”

“Grabbing some java. I’ve been working Winge for over an hour.”

“Is he talking?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Call my pastor. You’re gonna love this. The Reverend Honor Grace.”