by Kathy Reichs
“Which is why Gamble thinks it was a sham. But his sister and Lovette vanished so completely from the outset, it was thought they’d probably gone underground. When the trail went cold, the FBI decided to disband the task force and rely on intel.”
I remembered Slidell’s comment. “You hoped Lovette might lead you to a bigger catch. Like Eric Rudolph.”
“We considered that.”
I hiked my purse back onto my shoulder. Which was soaked.
“Please go in out of the rain, Dr. Brennan.” Williams flicked the maybe-smile. “And thank you for talking with us. Believe it or not, the bureau is as anxious to find out what happened as you are.”
With that, Williams and Randall hurried to their car and drove off.
The conversation replayed in my mind as I changed clothes and towel-dried my hair. Had the visit been an attempt to dissuade me from helping Wayne Gamble?
I’d just slipped on sandals when the phone rang.
As usual, Slidell skipped the pleasantries.
What he said stunned me.
And tripped an anger switch in my brain.
“GONE?”
“Like a long dog.”
“Gone where?”
“Snatched by the fart barf and itch.” Slidell’s voice was tight with fury.
“The FBI seized the entire Gamble-Lovette file?”
“Right down to the paper clips.”
“At the conclusion of the inquiry?”
“No. Right now. Yesterday. Twelve years after the investigation, they came and grabbed the file.”
“Who authorized that?”
“All I could pry loose was that word came from high up.”
“What about Eddie’s notes?”
“No friggin’ way. They weren’t part of the jacket.” I heard a palm smack something solid. “Got ’em right here.”
A body surfaced at the landfill on Thursday. Wayne Gamble came to see me on Friday. Shortly thereafter, a twelve-year-old file was suddenly confiscated. What the hell?
Silence hummed across the line as Slidell and I considered the implications. He broke it.
“Something stinks.”
“Yes.”
“No one fucks with Erskine Slidell.” I’d seen Skinny angry. Often. But rarely with so much emotion.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Call you right back.”
Dead air.
Fifteen minutes later the phone rang again.
“You free?” Slidell asked.
“I could be.”
“Pick you up in ten.”
“Where are we going?”
“Kannapolis.”
Ethel Bradford taught junior and senior chemistry at A. L. Brown High School from 1987 until her retirement in 2004. She still lived in the house she’d purchased upon landing that job.
Save for the blasting AC and angry air whistling in and out of Slidell’s nose, the drive from Charlotte to Kannapolis passed in silence. Skinny alternated between drumming agitated fingers and gripping the wheel so tightly I thought he might crush it.
Though the temperature inside the Taurus was subarctic, the space was ripe with odors. Old Whoppers and fries. Cold coffee. The bamboo mat on which Skinny parked his ample backside.
Slidell himself. The man reeked of cigarette smoke, drugstore cologne, and garments long overdue for hamper or dry cleaner.
I was bordering on queasiness and hypothermia when Slidell pulled to the curb in front of a small brick bungalow with green shutters and trim. Hydrangeas bordered the foundation. Potted geraniums lined brick steps leading to the front porch.
“Is she expecting us?” I asked.
“Eeyuh.”
Pushing off the seat back with an elbow, Slidell hauled himself from behind the wheel. I followed him up the walk.
The inner door swung open before Slidell’s thumb hit the bell.
I’d formed a mental image, perhaps based on my own high school chemistry teacher. Ethel Bradford was younger than I expected, probably just a hair north of sixty-five, slim, with boy-cut auburn hair. Her pale blue eyes looked enormous behind thick round glasses.
Slidell made introductions and held his badge to the screen. Without studying it, Bradford stepped back and opened the outer door. I noted that she hadn’t dressed up for our visit. She wore khaki shorts, a checked cotton blouse, and was barefoot.
Bradford led us down a hall lined with framed travel photos, then through an arched opening to the right. The living room had linen drapes and a tan Oushak rug overlying a gleaming oak floor. The brick fireplace was painted white to match the woodwork and flanking bookcases.
“Please.” Bradford gestured at a leather sofa.
Slidell took one end. I took the other. Bradford sat in an armchair on the far side of a steamer trunk doing duty as a coffee table.
Before Slidell could begin, Bradford started asking questions.
“Have you found Cindi?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Is she dead?”
“We don’t know that.”
“Has new information emerged?”
“No, ma’am. We’d just like to ask a few questions.”
“Just seems odd, that’s all. After so much time.” Bradford twisted sideways and tucked her bare feet up under her bum.
“Yes, ma’am. So you do remember Cindi Gamble?”
“Of course I do. She was an excellent student. There were far too few of those. I also knew her through STEM.”
“STEM?” Slidell pulled a spiral pad from his pocket, flipped pages with a spitted thumb, and clicked a pen to readiness.
“The Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math Club. Cindi was a member. I was faculty adviser.”
“You remember when she went missing?”
Slidell got a withering look from behind the Harry Potter lenses.
“I assume you were questioned at the time,” he said.
“Briefly. The police lost interest because I couldn’t really tell them much.” Using one finger, Bradford shot her glasses up the bridge of her nose. They immediately dropped back into the groove in which they’d been resting.
“What did you tell them?”
“Cindi stopped coming to school.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I knew.”
“They talk to other teachers?”
“I suppose so. I’m really not sure.”
While Slidell asked questions, I observed Bradford. I noted that her right hand grasped one ankle very tightly. Though trying to hide it, the woman was nervous.
“What about Lovette?” Slidell asked.
“What about him?”
“Did you know him?”
“I had no personal contact with Cale Lovette. He was not a student at A. L. Brown. Isn’t this all on record somewhere? I’ve already answered these very same questions.”
“Did you know that Cindi was dating Lovette?”
“Yes.”
“She ever talk about him?”
“Not to me.”
“Were you aware of Lovette’s involvement with a group called the Patriot Posse?”
“I’d heard rumors.” Bradford’s gaze flicked toward the doorway, as though a noise or movement had startled her.
“Were the kids into that sort of thing?”
“What sort of thing?”
Slidell stared at Bradford, unmoving. I could sense his irritation.
“Cindi ever say anything about hating Negroes or Jews? Homosexuals?” Slidell pronounced it “homo-sectials.”
“That would have been out of character.”
“Abortionists? The federal government?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you don’t know.” Slidell was losing patience.
“The sad truth is, teachers know very little about their students. About their private lives, I mean. Unless a student chooses to confide.”
“Which Cindi did not.”
Bradford
stiffened at Slidell’s accusatory tone. I met her eyes. Rolled mine, implying that I also found his attitude boorish.
Slidell tapped his pen on his pad, eyes locked on Bradford. She didn’t blink.
The standoff was interrupted by Slidell’s cell phone. Yanking it from his belt, he checked the number.
“Gotta take this.” Slidell shoved to his feet and lumbered from the room.
I decided to continue with the good-cop ploy.
“It must have been dreadful losing a student like that.”
Bradford nodded.
“Was there talk on campus?” I asked gently. “Among faculty and students? Speculation about what happened to them?”
“Frankly, there was surprisingly little. Lovette was an outsider. Other than STEM, Cindi wasn’t a joiner. She wasn’t”—Bradford hooked a half quotation mark with the fingers of her free hand—“popular.”
“Kids can be cruel.”
“Viciously cruel.” Bradford was falling for my female-bonding shtick. “Cindi Gamble loved engines and wanted to be a race car driver. For a female, in those days, such an avocation did not make you prom queen, even in Kannapolis.”
“I know it’s hard to remember so far back. But was there any student with whom she was close?”
The free hand rose, palm up, in a gesture of frustration. “As I understood it, she spent all of her time at some track.”
“Do you remember seeing Cindi with anyone in particular at school, maybe in the halls or the cafeteria?”
“There was one girl. Lynn Hobbs. Cindi and Lynn often ate lunch together.”
“Did Lynn give a statement?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you know where she lives today?”
Bradford shook her head.
“Would you mind telling me who interviewed you back in ’ninety-eight?” I asked.
“Two police officers.”
“From the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember their names?”
“No.”
“Can you describe them?”
“One was tall and thin. Very polite. His accent suggested he wasn’t local. The other was coarser. He looked like a bodybuilder.”
“Detectives Rinaldi and Galimore?”
“That sounds right.”
Leaning forward, I lowered my voice to confide, girlfriend to girlfriend. “Anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you questioned by the FBI?”
As before, Bradford’s gaze jumped toward the archway behind me, then dropped. Clearly our presence was making her anxious. She nodded.
“Did you make a formal statement?”
“No.”
“Did the special agent mention the Patriot Posse?”
“I don’t recall details of the conversation.”
“Did the FBI ask you to keep your discussions confidential?” Before Bradford could answer, Slidell reappeared and tipped his head toward the door.
“One last question,” I asked softly.
Bradford raised reluctant eyes to me.
“Do you think Cindi Gamble left on her own?”
“Not for a second,” she said firmly. “I said so then, and I’ll say it now.”
Leaving our cards, Slidell and I headed out.
Back in the Taurus, I told him what I’d learned in his absence.
“Dame wanted us there about as much as a boil on her ass.”
“She seemed uncomfortable.”
“She knows more than she’s saying.”
“What reason could she have for withholding information?”
“The feebs probably fed her some bullshit about domestic terrorism and confidentiality and national security.”
“Now what?” I asked.
“Who was the lunch buddy?”
“Lynn Hobbs.”
“That name was in Eddie’s notes.”
“Think you can find her?”
“Oh, yeah.” Slidell slid knockoff Ray-Bans onto his nose. “I’ll find her.”
SUNDAY, A MIRACLE OCCURRED. NO RAIN.
Sadly, I had no one with whom to share the fine weather. Katy was in the mountains. Ryan was in Ontario. Harry, my sister, was at home in Texas. My best friend, Anne Turnip, was absorbed in a home renovation project. Charlie Hunt was hunkered in at the Mecklenburg County Public Defender’s Office, preparing his closing argument for the trial of a woman accused of shooting her pimp.
How to label Charlie Hunt? My friend? Suitor? Wannabe squeeze? So far, that was as hot as things had gotten. My call, not his.
I celebrated the sunshine by running my long loop through Freedom Park and around all the Queens Roads. And Charlotte has a boatload. There’s even an intersection of queens and queens.
In the afternoon I weeded the garden, then took Birdie onto the lawn for a session with the FURminator, removing several pounds of fur. After the grooming, he made himself scarce.
In the evening I caught up on paperwork, then grilled a steak and ate it listening to Foghat and Devo full blast. Dove Bar for dessert.
I am an island. A rock. Whatever.
Ryan phoned around nine. I sensed from his tone that he preferred to keep the conversation light and away from the subject of Lily. His goal seemed to be educating me on NASCAR in Canada. Realizing his need for diversion, I mostly listened.
“Jacques Villeneuve is an officer of the National Order of Quebec and was inducted into Canada’s Walk of Fame.”
“Quite an honor for an athlete.”
“To date, no other Canadian has won the Indianapolis 500 or the F One Drivers’ title.”
“Impressive—”
“Jacques Villeneuve has had over a dozen career NASCAR starts. Five in the Nationwide Series and three in the Sprint Cup Series.”
“And the others?”
“Probably the Camping World Truck Series. I know he drove in the 2009 Canadian Tire Series. I was in the stands for that one.”
“What team is he with?”
“He was driving the thirty-two Toyota for Braun Racing. Not sure now. I think he’s trying to get back into Formula One, but the FIA World Motor Sport Council decided there won’t be any new teams this year.”
“Is Villeneuve the only Canadian NASCAR driver?”
“Tabarnac, no. Mario Gosselin drives in the Camping World Truck Series. Pierre Bourque, D. J. Kennington, though those guys are mostly part-timers. Jean-François Dumoulin and Ron Fellows are road-course ringers.”
“Which means?”
“They drive road courses, not ovals.” Pause. “Anything new on your landfill case?”
I briefed him on developments.
“You planning a return trip to the Speedway?”
“If necessary.”
Ryan hesitated. “If you go, will you be anywhere near the Nationwide garage area?”
When I realized where he was going, I burst out laughing.
“You want Jacques Villeneuve’s autograph, don’t you?”
“The man’s a legend.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“It’s not like I’m suggesting you steal the guy’s jockeys.”
“Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, Villeneuve groupie.”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan, all-around smart-ass.” I could hear Ryan’s blush flame across the line.
“You wear a cap with the number thirty-two and Jacques’s picture stitched on the brim?”
“Forget it. I don’t even know if Villeneuve’s racing in Charlotte.”
Ryan wished me bonne chance, then we disconnected.
I was settling on the sofa to watch Boston Legal reruns with my very dapper cat when the front doorbell bonged.
Birdie and I looked at each other in surprise. No one ever uses that entrance.
Curious, I crossed the living room and put an eye to the peephole.
And actually cringed.
Summer stood on the porch, digging in a purse the size of
a mail pouch. Backlit by the carriage light, her hair looked like a nimbus of white cotton candy.
I considered a quick drop and a belly crawl to the stairs.
Instead, I turned the lock.
Summer’s head popped up at the sound of the tumblers. Even in the dimness, I could see she’d been crying.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“I know it’s kinda late.”
Kinda.
“Would you like to come in?” I stood back and opened the door wide.
Summer slipped past me, leaving a tsunami of Timeless in her wake. When I turned, she was extending a box of Tic Tacs in my direction.
“Breath mint?”
“No, thanks.”
“I find the taste calmative.”
“Yes,” I agreed. Using a word like “calmative” was quite an undertaking for Summer.
Summer dropped the little dispenser into her purse and fingered the strap nervously. In her pink-sequined bra tank, pink pencil skirt, and murderous high heels, she looked like an ad for Frederick’s of Hollywood.
“The study is more comfortable,” I said.
“OK.”
Summer clicked along behind me, head swiveling from side to side.
“Would you like something to drink?” I gestured at the sofa.
“Merlot, please.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t keep wine in the house.”
“Oh.” Summer’s perfectly plucked brows V’ed down in confusion. “OK. I didn’t really want it.”
“So. What’s up?” Suspecting this conversation was going to be unpleasant, I dropped into the desk chair and assumed a listening attitude.
“I followed your advice.”
“My advice?”
“I did exactly what you told me to do.”
“Summer, I didn’t—”
“I told Pete he had to show more interest in the wedding.” Summer crossed one long tan leg over the other. “Or else.”
“Wait. What? I—”
“I said, ‘Petey, if this snideybutt attitude continues, I don’t think things will work out between us.’ ”
Summer’s double-D cups rose tremulously. Fell.
I waited.
The tearful account poured forth.
As I listened, short phrases winged in my brain.
Run, Pete.
Run fast.
Run far.
Mean. I know. But that’s the response my gray cells offered.