Bare Bones (27 page)

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“I think her eye might have picked that up.”

“The doctors are stumped about Cagle’s col apse?”

“Apparently.”

I told Ryan about my conversation with Terry Woolsey, and about the meeting scheduled for the fol owing morning.

“She’s a detective, so I’m sure she’s legit.”

“We’re al sages and saints.”

“I have no idea what she wants.”

“An idea can be a dangerous thing.”

“It’s odd, Ryan.”

“It’s odd.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I know what I’d rather do to you.”

A stomach cartwheel.

“Have you received any more threatening e-mails?”

“No.”

“They stil got stepped-up patrols past your place?”

“Yes. And past Lija’s town house.”

“Good.”

“I’m starting to think Dorton was behind the whole thing.”

“Why?”

“Ricky Don turns up dead, the e-mails stop.”

“Maybe. Maybe someone took Dorton out.”

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

“I want you to be careful.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You can be a real pain in the ass, Brennan.”

“I work at it.”

“Hooch getting enough attention?”

“We had a nice, long run this afternoon.”

“It was fifty-two degrees in Halifax today.”

“It was ninety-four degrees in Charlotte today.”

“Miss me, Miz Temperance?”

Here we go.

“Some.”

“Admit it, darlin’. This hombre is your dream come true.”

“You’ve stumbled upon my fantasy, Ryan. Men in chaps.”

“Happy trails.”

After disconnecting, I cal ed Katy.

No answer.

I left a message.

Boyd, Birdie, and I watched the last few innings of a Braves-Cubs game. I finished the carrots, Boyd gnawed a rawhide bone, and Birdie lapped at the yogurt. At some point the two of them switched. Atlanta kicked ass.

Dog, cat, and Miz Temperance were down and out by eleven.

CHARLOTTE HAS MANY INSTITUTIONS DEVOTED TO THE PRESERVATIONand veneration of beauty. The Mint Museum of Art. Spirit Square. The McGil Rose Garden. Hooters.

The intersection of Morehead and Clarkson does not make that list. Though just a few blocks from the trendy, yuppie ghetto, this sliver of Third Ward has yet to experience a similar rebirth, and highway over-passes, aging warehouses, cracked pavements, and peeling bil boards remain the overriding architectural theme.

No matter. Business booms at the Coffee Cup.

Every morning and noon black and white professionals, government workers, blue-col ar laborers, lawyers, judges, bankers, and realtors are packed shoulder to elbow. It ain’t the ambience. It’s the cookin’—down-home food that wil warm, then eventual y stop your heart.

The Coffee Cup has been owned by a loosely affiliated group of black cooks for decades. Breakfast never changes: eggs, grits, fatback, deep-fried salmon patties, liver mush, and the usual bacon, ham, hot-cakes, and biscuits. At lunch the cooks are a bit more flexible. The day’s menu is posted on two or three blackboards: stew meat, pig’s feet, country steak, ribs, chicken that’s fried, baked, or served with dumplings. Vegetables include col ard greens, pinto beans, cabbage, broccoli casserole, squash and onions, creamed potatoes, and black-eyed peas. At lunch there’s corn bread in addition to biscuits.

You’d never catch Jenny Craig or Fergie dining at the Cup.

I arrived at seven-fifty. The lot was overflowing, so I parked on the street.

Worming through those patrons waiting inside the door, I noticed that every table was ful . I scanned the counter. Seven men. One woman. Tiny. Short brown hair. Heavy bangs. Fortyish.

I walked over and introduced myself. When Woolsey looked up, two turquoise and silver earrings swayed with the movement.

As we exchanged introductions, a place opened up two stools down. The intervening men shifted over. Patches over their pockets identified them as Gary and Calvin.

Thanking Gary and Calvin, I sat. A black woman moved toward me, pencil poised over pad. Screw the diet. I ordered fried eggs, biscuits, and a salmon patty.

Woolsey’s plate was empty save for a mound of grits topped by a lake of butter the size of Erie.

“Not fond of grits?” I asked.

“I keep trying,” she said.

The waitress returned, poured coffee into a thick white mug, and placed it in front of me. Then she held the pot over Woolsey’s cup, put a hand on one hip, and raised her brows. Woolsey nodded. The coffee flowed.

While I ate, Woolsey provided what background she deemed appropriate. She’d been a detective in Lancaster for seven years, before that, a uniform with the Pensacola, Florida, PD. Moved north for personal reasons. The personal reasons married someone else.

When I’d finished breakfast, we took coffee refil s.

“Tel me the whole story,” Woolsey said, without preamble.

Sensing this was a woman who did not fancy equivocation, I did. Woodstove. Bears. Cessna. Privy. Cocaine. Macaw. Missing fish and wildlife service agents. Headless skeleton. Cagle report.

Woolsey alternated between sipping and stirring her coffee. She didn’t speak until I’d finished.

“So you think the skul and hands you found in the Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, privy go with the bones we found at the state park in Lancaster County, South Carolina.”

“Yes. But the Lancaster County remains were destroyed, and I haven’t been able to read the anthropology report or view the photos.”

“But if you’re right, the John Doe isnotthis FWS agent.”

“Brian Aiker. Yes. His dentals exclude the skul .”

“But if the skul and hands arenota match to the skeleton, our Lancaster unknown could stil be Brian Aiker.”

“Yes.”

“In which case you guys would stil have an unknown.”

“Yes.”

“Who could possibly turn out to be the mother of the dead baby or her boyfriend.”

“Tamela Banks or Darryl Tyree. Very unlikely, but yes.”

“Who might have been involved in trafficking drugs, bear gal s, and endangered bird species.”

“Yes.”

“Out of this abandoned farm where the bears and the skul turned up.”

“Yes.”

“And these dealers might have been business associates of two guys who crashed a Cessna while dumping coke.”

“Harvey Pearce and Jason Jack Wyatt.”

“Who might have been working for some cracker who owns strip joints and wilderness camps.”

“Ricky Don Dorton.”

“Who turned up dead in a Charlotte flophouse.”

“Yes. Look, I’m just trying to put the pieces together.”

“Don’t get defensive. Tel me about Cagle.”

I did.

Woolsey lay down her spoon.

“What I have to say is for your ears only. Understood?”

I nodded.

“Murray Snow was a good man. Married, three kids, great father. Never thought about leaving his wife.” She took a breath. “He and I were involved at the time of his death.”

“How old was he?”

“Forty-eight. Found unconscious in his office. Flatlined almost immediately at the ER.”

“Was there an autopsy?”

Woolsey shook her head.

“Murray’s family has a history of cardiac problems. Brother died at fifty-four, father at fifty-two, grandfather at forty-seven. Everyone assumed Murray had had the big one. Body was released and embalmed within twenty-four hours. James Park handled everything.”

“The funeral operator who replaced Snow as coroner?”

Woolsey nodded.

“It’s not real y that unusual for Lancaster County. Murray had a bum ticker, his wife was pretty hysterical, and the family wanted things wrapped up as quickly as possible.”

“And there was no coroner.”

She snorted a laugh. “Right.”

“Seems pretty fast.”

“Pretty damn fast.”

Woolsey’s eyes shifted up the counter, then returned to me.

“Something didn’t ring true to me. Or maybe I was just feeling guilty. Or lonely. I’m not sure why, but I dropped by the ER, asked if there was anything I could send for tox screening. Sure enough, they’d drawn blood and stil had the sample.” Woolsey paused while the waitress refil ed Calvin’s mug.

“Tests indicated Snow had large quantities of ephedrine in his system.”

I waited.

“Murray suffered from al ergies. I meansuffered.But he was a doctor with a sketchy heart. The man wouldn’t touch anything with ephedrine. I tried to talk him into an over-the-counter sinus medication once. He was adamant.”

“Ephedrine is bad for people with weak hearts?”

Woolsey nodded. “Hypertension, angina, thyroid problems, heart disease. Murray knew that.” Leaning toward me, she lowered her voice.

“Murray was looking into something shortly before his death.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. He started to tel me once, stopped, and never talked about it again. Two months later he died.” Something I couldn’t define eclipsed her face.

“I think it involved that headless set of bones.”

“Why didn’t you open an investigation?”

“I tried. No one took me seriously. Everyone expected Murray to die young of a heart attack. He did. No mystery. End of story.”

“The ephedrine?”

“Everyone also knew about his al ergies. Sheriff didn’t want to hear a conspiracy theory.”

“That’s what he cal ed it?”

“Said next I’d be talking about grassy knol s and second shooters.”

Before I could speak, my cel phone warbled. I checked the number.

“It’s Detective Slidel .”

Woolsey snatched the tickets tucked under our plates.

“I’l get this and meet you outside.”

“Thanks.”

Winding through the tables behind Woolsey, I clicked on.

“That you, Doc?” I could barely hear Slidel .

“Hold on.”

Woolsey queued up at the register. I stepped out to the parking lot. The morning was hot and breathless, the clouds gauzy wisps against a dazzling blue sky.

“That you, Doc?” Slidel repeated.

“Yes.” He was expecting Oprah Winfrey on my cel phone?

“Rinaldi had a pretty good day yesterday.”

“I’m listening.”

“He may be putting some flesh on those bare bones of yours. Get it? Bare bones? Bear bones?”

“I get it.”

“Turns out Jason Jack Wyatt, our mysterious passenger, spent a lot of time stalking and trapping. Gramma over in Sneedvil e puts him one notch above the Crocodile Hunter. Only, get this. J.J.’s specialty was bear. A city slicker booked into Wilderness Quest, laid down a thousand clams, J.J. scored him a bear for his trophy wal .”

A car pul ed up and a black couple got out. The woman wore a tight red miniskirt, pink blouse, black hose, and stiletto heels. Flesh bulged from every place her clothing al owed a gap. The man had wel -muscled arms and legs, but a bel y that was yielding to a love of fatback and grits.

As Slidel talked, I watched the couple enter the Cup.

“Nothin’ il egal, of course,” I said.

“Of course not. And the other Sneedvil e young’un could have been president of the chamber of commerce, were it not for the Lord cal ing him home so soon.”

“Ricky Don.”

“The Donald Trump of Sneedvil e.”

“The grandmother admitted the two knew each other?”

“Ricky Don gave his gifted but less fortunate cousin seasonal work at the Wilderness Quest hunting camp. Also sent him on errands from time to time.”

“Errands?”

“Seems J.J.’s job involved terrific travel benefits.”

“Ricky Don’s plane.”

“Also made long car trips.”

“Think Wyatt was boosting drugs for Ricky Don?”

“Could explain the blow we found in his cabin.”

“No kidding.”

“Would I kid you?”

“Rinaldi got a warrant?”

“He would have, of course. But Gramma insisted on a look-see to make sure no one was messing with J.J.’s posessions since his passing. She asked Rinaldi to carry her on over there in his automobile.”

“I’l be damned.”

“So J.J. the bear slayer might have been muling for Ricky Don Dorton and dealing a little gal on the side.”

“Granny know anything about little J.J.’s phone cal s to Darryl Tyree?”

“Nope.”

“Sonny Pounder talking yet?”

“Remains mute as a dead cat.”

“What’s the word on the pilot?”

“We’re stil digging on Harvey Pearce.”

A tal man in cornrows, gold chains, and overpriced designer sunglasses approached the door just as Woolsey started through it. Something about him looked familiar.

The man stepped back, al owed Woolsey to pass, slid the shades down his nose, and fol owed the progress of her buttocks.

Slidel was saying something, but I wasn’t listening.

Where had I seen that face?

My brain struggled toward pattern recognition.

In person? In a photo? Recently? In the distant past?

Slidel was stil talking, his voice tinny through the cel phone.

Seeing my expression, Woolsey turned back toward the Cup. The man had disappeared inside.

“What?”

I held up a finger.

“Hel-lo?” Realizing he’d lost it, Slidel was trying to regain my attention.

I was about to disconnect and return to the restaurant when the man reappeared, white paper bag in one hand, keys in the other. Crossing to a black Lexus, he opened the rear door, placed the food on the seat, and slammed the door.

Before sliding behind the wheel, the man turned in our direction.

No shades. Ful frontal view.

I studied the features.

Remove the cornrows and curly little pigtails.

Synapse!

The temperature seemed to drop. The day compressed around me.

“Holy shit!”

“What?” Slidel .

“What?” Woolsey.

“Can you fol ow that guy?” I asked Woolsey, pointing the phone at the Lexus.

“The guy with the cornrows?”

I nodded.

She nodded back.

We bolted for her car.

“BRENNAN!”

I clicked my seat belt and braced against the dash as Woolsey made a U-ey and gunned it up Clarkson.

“What the hel ’s happening?”