Flash and Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Without invitation, Slidell entered and dropped into a chair.

  “Please come in,” I said.

  “What’s eating you?” Two scuffed loafers shot my way. The carroty socks matched the carroty shirt. Nice.

  “Mrs. Flowers prefers to announce visitors,” I said.

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “She sees it as part of her job.”

  “I’ve got places to be.”

  First the missing body. Now Slidell.

  I drew a calming breath.

  “Williams and Randall confiscated the John Doe.”

  Slidell drew in his feet and leaned forward at the waist. “No shit.”

  “No shit.”

  “Where’d they take him?”

  “That’s unclear. Larabee is phoning the FBI now.”

  “Any idea why?”

  I told Slidell about the ricin.

  “They thinking terrorism?”

  I raised both palms. Who knows?

  “How ’bout you?”

  I debated. Share my conjecture? Why not.

  “Ted Raines is employed by the CDC,” I said. “Raines came to Charlotte for Race Week and vanished. Shortly thereafter a body turned up in a landfill smack next to the Speedway. That body is contaminated with a biotoxin.”

  Slidell’s eyes narrowed in thought. Then, “How about this? Cale Lovette hung with right-wing loonies. Lovette disappeared in ’ninety-eight, the year anthrax threats started dropping into mailboxes at women’s clinics. The same year Barnett Slepian was murdered.”

  “The abortion doctor.”

  “Yeah.”

  Not bad, Skinny.

  “I think the landfill John Doe is too old to be Lovette,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “No. Age indicators vary from person to person. Lovette could fall at the extreme upper end of his chronological range.”

  For a few moments no one spoke. Finally Slidell placed his forearms on his thighs, leaned on them, and looked up at me from below puffy lids. The black tie dangled between his knees.

  “Tracked down Grady Winge.”

  It took me a moment to make the connection. “The man who saw Cindi and Cale leave the Speedway the night they vanished.”

  “Yeah. Winge hasn’t blazed what you’d call a fiery career path.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The mope’s still at the same job he had back then. I’m heading to Concord now.”

  I opened the drawer and grabbed my purse.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  The Charlotte Motor Speedway accommodates a whole lot more than racing. In addition to the 1.5-mile quad oval track, the two-thousand-plus-acre complex contains grandstand seats, food concessions, restroom facilities, and campgrounds for the masses. The affluent enjoy luxury suites, a fifty-two-unit condo complex, and the Speedway Club, an exclusive dining and entertainment facility.

  For drivers, there is a twenty-thousand-square-foot Sprint Cup garage area, a 2.25-mile road course, and a .6-mile karting layout in the infield. A quarter-mile oval utilizes part of the front stretch and pit road, and a one-fifth-mile oval sits outside turn three.

  The seven-story Smith Tower is home to ticket and corporate offices, and a small industrial park houses motor-sports-related businesses.

  The Speedway grounds also contain a natural wildlife habitat. And, of course, the landfill.

  Grady Winge tended flowers throughout all but the latter two areas.

  Given that it was Race Week, traffic was reasonable, and Slidell and I made it to Concord in forty minutes. A young man met us outside the Smith Tower and offered to take us by golf cart to the infield. His name badge said Harley.

  Slidell stated his preference to drive.

  Harley explained the impossibility of maneuvering the Taurus through the throngs of people jamming the grounds. Slidell argued. Smiling but firm, Harley restated his willingness to transport us.

  I resolved the issue by hopping onto the cart’s backseat, the rearward-orienting position, so Slidell could at least face forward. Snorting in disgust, Skinny deposited his substantial bulk in front. Harley popped the brake, wove through the crowd, then plunged downward into the underground tunnel leading into the infield.

  At midpoint, I glanced over my shoulder toward the front seat. Slidell was haloed by sunlight pouring through the opening at the tunnel’s far end. One beefy hand gripped the upright as though bracing for passage through a 20-G centrifuge.

  The infield campgrounds were crammed with the tents and motor homes of the devoted. Fans sweated on lawn chairs and atop trailers, many wearing far too little clothing and needing far more sunblock. Others crowded picnic tables outside concession stands, chowing on corn dogs, burgers, fries, and ’cue.

  Harley glided to a stop beside a gray and blue building bearing the words MEDIA CENTER. Enormous haulers sat side by side in a fenced area opposite the building’s main entrance.

  Alighting, I heard Harley tell Slidell that the haulers belonged to Nationwide drivers. Not interested or not comprehending, Slidell offered no response.

  Entering the Media Center was like stepping from a blast oven into a cooler. Harley indicated a man seated at the farthest in a cluster of round plastic tables off to the right. “That’s Grady Winge.”

  Winge was enormous, perhaps six two, three hundred pounds, with thin brown hair tied into a pony at the nape of his neck. His khaki shirt was mottled with soil, its underarms darkened by large half-moons.

  “Here’s my cell phone number.” Harley handed me a card. “Call when you’re finished.” Flashing a smile, he headed off into the building.

  Slidell and I took a moment to observe our target. Winge’s face was tanned and creased from hours in the sun, making it hard to pinpoint age. His cap lay on the table, sweat-stained to the belly of the number 3 centered over its brim. A cross hung from a chain around his neck.

  In addition to size, the man’s other striking feature was his stillness. Winge sat with fingers laced, eyes down, perfectly motionless.

  Slidell and I approached. “Grady Winge?”

  When Winge glanced up, Slidell badged him.

  Winge looked at the shield but said nothing.

  Slidell and I sat in the plastic chairs facing Winge.

  “You know why we’re here.” Slidell laid it out as statement, not question.

  Winge said nothing.

  “I see you’re a Dale Earnhardt fan.” I gestured at the cap.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “He was the best.” I wasn’t really sure.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette disappeared from this Speedway on October 14, 1998.” Slidell was in no mood for small talk.

  “According to the file, you were the last person to see them that day.”

  Again Winge offered nothing.

  “You stated that Gamble and Lovette argued with a man around six that evening. The three then drove off.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you recognize the man?”

  “I’d seen him around.”

  “Are you sure the couple was Gamble and Lovette?”

  A moment passed. Then, “I’m sure it was Lovette.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Lovette worked here.”

  “You ever see Lovette outside of the track?”

  Winge shrugged. “I mighta.”

  “And where was that?”

  “A place called the Double Shot.”

  “The Double Shot Tap in Mooresville?”

  I figured Slidell knew the name from Rinaldi’s notes.

  “I had my trailer up by the lake, so I’d catch a beer there now and again.”

  “Lovette was a regular?”

  “He’d drink with his buddies.”

  “Militia types.”

  Winge said nothing.

  “Well?” Gruff.

  “Well what?”

  “Give me an answer.”


  “Give me a question.”

  “Don’t screw with me, asshole.”

  “They mighta been.”

  “Let me ask you, Grady. You saddle up with the posse?”

  Winge’s Adam’s apple bobbed. A moment passed. “I’m a different man now.”

  “You’re a prince,” Slidell said. “How about some names?”

  “There was a guy named J.D. Another called Buster. Maybe an E-Man. That’s all I remember.”

  “Good start. Real names? Last names?”

  “J. D. Danner. That’s the only one I ever caught.”

  Slidell wiggled his fingers in a “give me more” gesture.

  “J.D. was the boss,” Winge offered.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He said what to do.”

  “What did J.D. say to do?”

  Winge dropped his chin and clasped the cross suspended from his neck. I could see dandruff coating the swath of shiny scalp bisecting his hair.

  Noting the man’s discomfort, I raised a silencing hand. Slidell sighed but yielded.

  “Mr. Winge, we think something bad might have happened to Cale and Cindi.”

  Winge raised his eyes to mine.

  “Did the Patriot Posse have a political agenda?” I asked.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “When you met, what did you talk about?”

  “Hating black people, Jews, people in Washington. Blaming our problems on everybody but our own selves.”

  “Did you ever consider violence?”

  Winge’s eyes took on a guarded look. He didn’t answer.

  “Did you ever discuss blowing things up? Setting fires? Planting poison?”

  “No way.”

  “Do you know where we can find J. D. Danner?”

  “No.”

  “Do you still see him at the Double Shot?”

  Winge shook his head. “I took Jesus into my heart.” His head dipped as his lips spoke the name. “The Lord don’t approve of liquor. When I cast out Satan, I quit going to bars.”

  “Mr. Winge, do you think Cindi and Cale left on their own?”

  The massive shoulders rose, then fell.

  “Do you think J.D. and his posse had anything to do with their disappearance?”

  Winge overshook his head. “No, ma’am. I don’t.”

  Again I switched course.

  “In your statement, you said Cale and Cindi got into a car.”

  “A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

  “Had you seen the car before?”

  “No. But that was one sweet ride. And that color. I met Richard Petty a couple of times. Primo racer. Cool dude.”

  “Can you describe the driver?”

  “Nothing special. Medium height, dark hair. Not real tall, not real short. I suppose he could have been black.”

  Out of ideas, I posed the same question I’d posed to Williams and Randall. “What do you think happened to Cale and Cindi?”

  “I pray to the sweet Lord Jesus their souls found peace.”

  “PRICK JUST WASTED AN HOUR OF MY LIFE.”

  “The time wasn’t wasted.”

  Slidell and I were back in the Taurus. He was whacking the AC so hard I was sure he’d break one of the levers.

  “Maybe Danner still drinks at the Double Shot.”

  “Life should be that easy.”

  A rivulet of sweat broke from Slidell’s hairline as he yanked his mobile from his belt and punched in digits.

  In minutes we had an answer. The Double Shot was still pouring from noon until two a.m. daily.

  Mooresville edges up to a meandering man-made body of water called Lake Norman. Situated roughly twenty-five miles from Charlotte, in Iredell County, the little hamlet is home to twenty-five thousand citizens and a buffalo ranch.

  Along with the surrounding towns of Huntersville, Cornelius, Kannapolis, and Concord, Mooresville is also home to a truckload of NASCAR team shops. Bobby Labonte. Martin Truex, Jr. Brian Vickers. Thus the burg’s self-selected moniker: Race City, U.S.A.

  We found the Double Shot on a narrow strip of two-lane a mile and a half east of I-77. Located on neither the lakeshore nor the interstate, the place in all likelihood depended on the business of locals who were regulars.

  Curb appeal was definitely not the draw. The building was a 1950s-style ranch with red siding turned salmon by years of sun. DOUBLE SHOT had been hand-lettered on the highway-facing wall sometime this century, then never touched up.

  Four motorcycles formed a line outside the front entrance. Two pickups sat at careless angles in the gravel lot.

  I must watch too much TV. When Slidell and I entered, I expected every eye to swing our way. Didn’t happen.

  To the left, two men played pool while a third watched, legs straddling, arms draping a back-turned chrome and vinyl chair. At the bar, a pair of beer drinkers continued their conversation. At the opposite end, another customer focused on his burger.

  Painted windows kept the Double Shot’s interior dim. Overhead fans created a jumpy, surreal effect by dancing the neon oranges, reds, and blues glowing from wall-mounted beer signs.

  As my eyes adjusted, my mind logged detail.

  Three wooden booths ran the wall to the right of the entrance. A pointing-finger sign indicated that toilets lay somewhere beyond the booths.

  Straight ahead, tables filled floor space fronting the bar. Behind it, a gray-bearded man washed mugs by moving them on a brush fixed upright beside the sink.

  Every patron was male. Three were heavily tattooed. Four badly needed a trip to the barber. Two had shaved heads. Despite the ninety-degree heat, all wore jeans and heavy leather boots.

  Slidell’s eyes probed every shadow as we crossed to the bar. The tension in his shoulders told me he was locked and loaded.

  Though Gray Beard never raised his head, I knew he was tracking us. Slidell and I stopped in front of him and waited.

  Gray Beard continued his piston-cycle moves with the glassware.

  “You want I should flash the shield, impress your upscale clientele?” Slidell said, not all that quietly.

  “They know who you are.” Gray Beard set down a mug. Picked up and started cleaning another.

  “That so?”

  “They can smell cop.”

  “Look at me, dipshit.”

  Gray Beard’s eyes rolled up. In the gloom, their whites looked urine-yellow.

  “We can chat here,” Slidell said. “Or we can chat someplace nice and official. And while we’re gone, I can have every inspector north of Aiken checking this dump out.”

  “How can I help you, Officer?” Faux-polite.

  “How about we start with your name.”

  “Posey. Kermit Posey.”

  “That a joke?”

  “I don’t joke.”

  “This your joint?”

  Posey nodded.

  “I’m interested in a guy name of J. D. Danner.”

  Posey set the mug beside others sitting on a blue-and-white-checkered towel.

  “I’m waiting, asshole.” Slidell’s tone was dangerous. “But not very long.”

  “This look like a place folks trade business cards?”

  “J. D. Danner.”

  “I might have heard the name.”

  “I have a witness says Danner was a regular here back in ’ninety-eight.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Says Danner rolled with a group called themselves the Patriot Posse.”

  Posey hiked one shoulder. So what? Could be? Who knows?

  Reaching across the bar, Slidell grabbed Posey’s beard and pulled the man’s face to within inches of his own. “Having trouble hearing me, Kermit? That better?”

  Posey gagged and braced both hands on the bar. To either side, conversation and burger consumption halted. Behind us, pool balls stopped clicking, and the banter went still.

  “Danner still enjoying a brew now and
then?”

  Posey nodded as best he could, then a wet sound rose from his throat, half gag, half cough.

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I only heard rumors.”

  “Indulge me,” Slidell said.

  “Word is he lives in Cornelius.” Posey cough-gagged again. “Honest to God, that’s all I know.”

  Slidell released his grip.

  Posey tumbled backward, fingers clawing the counter for purchase. The towel flew. Mugs hit the floor in an explosion of glass.

  Slidell chin-cocked the shards.

  “Saved you some washing.”

  Back in the Taurus, Slidell again attacked the AC. While he phoned headquarters, I dialed the MCME.

  Larabee told me that the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Medical Examiner/Coroner’s Guide for Contaminated Deceased Body Management.

  “Because of the ricin,” I said.

  “Which is bullshit. The ricin toxin can’t spread from person to person. You’ve got to breathe or eat the stuff.”

  Or get jabbed with an umbrella.

  Slidell barked something, then tossed his phone onto the dash.

  “Where was the body taken?” I asked Larabee.

  “The FBI is stonewalling on that. But I’ll find out. I’ll goddamn well find out.”

  Slidell positioned the mock Ray-Bans, clicked his seat belt, and shifted into gear.

  “Keep me in the loop,” I said, then disconnected.

  Gravel flew from our tires as Slidell gunned from the lot.

  “Get an address for Danner?” I asked.

  “They’re working on it.”

  Knowing Slidell would share when ready, I held my tongue. It was pointless to press.

  A minute later he was ready.

  “Lynn Marie Hobbs attended NC State from ’ninety-eight until 2001. Didn’t graduate. Married a guy named Dean Nolan in 2002, now goes by Lynn Nolan.”

  Static spit from the radio. Slidell reached out and twisted the knob.

  “After leaving school, Nolan returned to the old homestead. Works for an outfit called the Cryerton Respiratory Research Institute. CRRI. Headquarters is in some sort of industrial park near China Grove.”

  I thought a moment. “The Southeast Regional Research Park?”

  “That’s it.”

  China Grove is a stone’s throw from Kannapolis.

  “I assume we’re heading there now?”

  “Eeyuh.”

  “Is Nolan expecting us?”