Nolan's eyes dropped to the cuticle. Which was now bleeding. "I could have got it wrong. I wasn't, like, trying to eavesdrop. But they were pretty-" Nolan circled both hands in the air. "What's that word for when people, you know, gesture a lot?"

"Animated?" I suggested.

"Yeah. Animated. I passed them when I went to the ladies'."

"What were they saying?" Slidell.

"Something about poisoning a system. And an ax or something."

"Where did this conversation take place?"

"A really lame bar up by Lake Norman."

"Name?"

"I don't remember."

"Why were you there?"

"Cindi wanted to hook up with Cale, but she knew her parents would flip out, you know, about her being in a bar. She told them there was a school party and talked me into going along to back up the lie. The place was, like, scuzz city."

"This was a couple of months before Lovette and Gamble went missing."

"It was summer. That's all I remember."

"You think Lovette and his buddies were plotting something illegal?"

"Like robbing a bank?" The caramel eyes were now perfectly round.

"Let's think here, Lynn. Poison?" Nolan's dim-wittedness was wearing on Slidell.

"I don't know. Maybe. Cale was mean as a snake."

"Tell me about that."

"Cindi showed up at school one time with bruises on her arms. Like fingerprints, you know?" Nolan was becoming more expressive, using her hands for emphasis. "She never said so, but I think Cale was smacking her around."

Slidell rotated one hand. Go on.

"Sometimes he talked to her like she was stupid. Cindi wasn't stupid. She was in STEM. Those people were all, like, scary smart." A lavender nail jabbed the air. "There's someone might know more than me. Maddy Padgett. She was in STEM, too. Maddy was totally into cars and engines. I think she and Cindi were tight."

Slidell scribbled a note. Then, "Why'd Gamble put up with Lovette treating her like crap?"

"She loved him." As though the question confused her.

"You think she went off with him?"

"Huh-uh."

"What's your take?"

Nolan looked from Slidell to me, then back. Her response was delivered with breathy affect. "I think Cale killed her, then ran away."

Humid air pressed our skin as Slidell and I walked back to the Taurus. The sun was a silver-white disc in the sky. An anemic breeze carried the smell of hot brick and mowed grass.

"Brain power of a newt."

I suspected Slidell was underestimating the amphibian. Didn't say so.

"What was that shit above her head?"

I wasn't sure if he meant Nolan's updo or the logo. I went with the latter. "Genomics is the study of the genomes of organisms."

"Like figuring out their DNA?"

"Yes. Proteomics is the study of proteins. Metabolomics is the study of cellular processes." Oversimplified but close enough.

"How's all that fit in with air pollution?"

"I'll Google CRRI."

Slidell and I got into the car. The heat was worthy of Death Valley.

"What do you think of Nolan's theory?" I asked after securing my belt.

"That Lovette killed Gamble? The thought crossed my mind."

"Really?"

Slidell didn't elaborate until he'd turned the key, maxed the air-conditioning, and unwrapped and popped a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.

"In his notes, Eddie mentions a guy name of Owen Poteat." Slidell made a U-ey toward the main drag. "Back in 'ninety-eight, Poteat claimed he saw Lovette at the Charlotte airport on the twenty-fourth of October."

The implication was clear.

"That was ten days after Lovette and Gamble disappeared from the Speedway. How did Poteat know it was Lovette?"

"He'd seen a photo on a flyer. Said the tats and bald head caught his attention."

"Was Poteat considered credible?"

"The task force thought so. According to Eddie, Poteat's statement played heavy into the conclusion that Lovette and Gamble took off."

"What about Cindi?" I asked.

"What about her?"

"Did Poteat see her at the airport with Lovette?"

"Apparently he wasn't so sure. But here's the thing."

Slidell flipped a wave at the guard as we exited the gates. The young man watched us roll through but didn't wave back.

"At the back of the notebook, Eddie had a page marked with big question marks."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he had questions." Slidell reached out and smacked the AC control with the heel of one hand.

Easy, Brennan.

"Questions about Poteat?" I asked oh-so-precisely.

"Who the hell knows? For that entry, he used one of his codes. Means nothing to me." Slidell yanked his spiral from a shirt pocket and tossed it to me. "I copied the stuff into there."

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU.

Wi-Fr 68 When hurried or feeling the need for discretion, Rinaldi used a form of shorthand known only to him. The cryptic notations were typical.

"Maine and South Carolina?" I guessed, looking at the longer entry.

Slidell shrugged.

I played with the alphanumeric combo. "Could it be a license plate?"

"I'll run it."

"FU probably means follow up."

I played some more. Came up blank.

"Can I have this?"

"Yeah, sure."

I tore the page free and slipped it into my purse. Then, "Who is Owen Poteat?"

"I'll know soon."

I settled back and closed my eyes. The heat and the car's motion acted like drugs. I was dropping off when my mobile sounded.

Joe Hawkins.

I clicked on.

"Hey, Joe." Sluggish.

"Forensics called with a prelim on the goop from the barrel. Good old asphalt, just like we thought."

"Not very useful."

"Maybe no, maybe yes. The sample contained an additive called Rosphalt, a synthetic dry-mix material made by Royston. Provides waterproofing, skid resistance, protects against rutting and shoving, thermal fatigue cracking, that kind of thing. "

"Uh-huh." Stifling a yawn.

"Rosphalt comes in three types. One's used mainly for roadways and tunnels, another's used on airport runways. You still there?"

"I'm here." Though struggling to stay awake.

"Your sample contained the third type, R50/Rx. That one's used mostly by motor speedways."

My brain reengaged. "At the Charlotte Motor Speedway?"

"Knew you'd ask, so I gave a call out there. The track has some pretty steep banking. What with the sun and cars screaming around the curves, the asphalt can heat up, go liquid, and sink right down. They use Rosphalt to provide better holding power."

"I'll be damned. So the asphalt in the barrel probably came from the Speedway."

"Seems logical to me. The track's right there."

"Thanks, Joe."

I disconnected and told Slidell. "The Rosphalt connects the landfill John Doe to the track." I was totally pumped.

"Whaddya saying? The victim was killed at the Speedway, stuffed in a barrel, sealed in, and dumped at the landfill?"

"Why not? Thirty-five-gallon oil cans are common at speed-ways."

While Slidell was gnawing on that theory, my phone sounded again. This time it was Larabee.

"These assholes have gone too far!"

"Which assholes?"

"They won't get away with this."

"Get away with what?"

"The goddamn FBI torched our John Doe!"

THE BUZZING IN MY PHONE WAS SO AGITATED THAT SLIDELL kept glancing my way. Again and again I gestured his eyes back to the road.

Peppered with expletives, the story came out.

Through multiple calls, many threats, and the intervention of the chief ME in Chapel Hill, Larabee had finally pried loose information on the whereabouts of MCME 227-11. Since the presence of ricin suggested the possibility of bioterrorism, the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Patriot Act and taken to a lab in Atlanta. There the body had been re-autopsied and new samples collected.

Far from standard protocol but understandable.

Then the bombshell.