"How about a guy named Grady Winge?"

"He works here at the track. Not too bright but OK. Why? Was Winge involved?"

"Cool down. We're just working the names." Slidell stifled a pork-sausage belch. "How about Ethel Bradford?"

"She taught chem at A. L. Brown. You found Mrs. B.? What'd she say?"

"She doubts Cindi left on her own."

"Look. I'm not crazy. Everyone thought the same thing. Didn't matter. The FBI was telling the cops what to do. And for them, the flag had already dropped."

Slidell asked a few questions about Maddy Padgett and Lynn Nolan.

Gamble had no memory of Padgett, only a vague one of Nolan. While not flattering, his recall seemed spot-on. Body by Playboy, brains by Mattel.

Rather than hopping onto I-85, Slidell wound through town on Sharon Amity Road en route to the MCME.

Note about Charlotte. At least a zillion streets are named for a person or place called Sharon. Sharon Road. Sharon Lane. Sharon Lakes. Sharon Oaks. Sharon Hills. Sharon View. Sharon Chase. Sharon Parkway. Don't know the gal's story, but it must be a doozy.

For several miles the only sound in the car was radio static. Slidell and I were both turned inward, considering what Gamble had said.

Had Cindi been murdered? According to Nolan, Cale had treated her badly. Because he resented the support she was getting from her parents? Had she finally rebelled? Had Cale killed her because she'd broken off their relationship? Had Cale then disappeared, perhaps assumed a new identity? Had the Patriot Posse helped him slip underground?

Had Cindi and Cale both been murdered? If so, by whom? The Patriot Posse? Why?

Had the task force conclusion been correct? Had Cindi and Cale disappeared voluntarily? If so, why? Where had they gone? Was the Patriot Posse involved?

Were Gamble's suspicions legitimate? Had the FBI controlled the investigation? Concealed the truth about Cindi and Cale? If so, for what reason?

I thought about the question marks in Rinaldi's notes. Had Eddie known that something was off? Had Galimore?

My mind bounced like an untethered balloon on the wind, bobbing from one conjecture to another.

I finally broke the silence.

"Cindi was a kid. Cale was far from worldly. If the two left willingly, how did they cover their tracks so effectively? I mean, think about it. Not one single slipup or sighting in all these years?"

"Except for Owen Poteat."

"The guy at the airport."

Slidell nodded.

"You learn anything about him?"

"I will."

"Suppose Gamble's right. Why would the FBI initiate a cover-up?"

"I've been poking at that."

Slidell made a right onto Providence Road before continuing.

"Say the FBI turned Lovette."

"Got him to work as a confidential informant?"

Slidell nodded. "Maybe the posse discovered he'd been flipped and capped him and his girlfriend."

I rolled that around in my head.

"Or maybe the CI was Cindi," I said. "Maybe she'd had it with Lovette's abuse and agreed to spy on the posse for the FBI. That would explain her nervousness."

"Eeyuh."

"Or what about this? Cindi or Lovette is working from the inside. Their cover is blown. The FBI pulls them both and pipes them into witness protection."

Slidell didn't answer.

"We should talk to Cotton Galimore," I said.

Slidell made that throat sound he makes when disgusted. He disliked Galimore. So did Joe Hawkins. Why?

"What's Galimore's story?" I asked.

"He dishonored the badge."

"By drinking? Other cops have had issues with the bottle."

"That was part of it."

"Galimore was bounced from the force. Isn't that punishment enough?"

The faux Ray-Bans swiveled my way. "That asshole betrayed all of us. And what did he get? A deuce and out."

"Galimore spent two years in jail?" I hadn't heard that. "On what charges?"

"Accepting a bribe. Obstruction of justice. The guy's scum."

"He must have straightened himself up."

"Once scum, always scum."

"Galimore is now head of security at a major speedway."

Slidell's jaw hardened, but he said nothing.

I remembered seeing Galimore in Larabee's office. Recalled his interest in the body from the landfill. The body later confiscated by the FBI.

Coincidence?

I don't believe in coincidence.

I reminded Slidell. As I was speaking, his cell rang again. This time he answered.

Slidell's end of the conversation consisted mostly of interrogatives. How many? When? Where? Then he clicked off.

"Sonofabitch."

"Bad news?"

"Double homicide. You want I should take you home?"

"Yeah. Then I'll head over to the MCME, tell Larabee about the Rosphalt, and see what else he's learned about the missing John Doe."

Though I went, that didn't happen.

But another issue resolved itself.

A CAREFULLY PENNED POST-IT EXPLAINED THAT MRS. FLOWERS had left the MCME at 11:50, that she was lunching at Alexander Michael's pub, and that she would return at one p.m.

Hearing a cough, I moved toward the cubicles assigned to death investigators. Inside the second sat a new hire named Susan Volpe. We'd met only once.

Volpe's head popped up when I appeared at her entrance. She had mocha skin and curly black hair cut in an asymmetric bob. Maybe twenty-five, she was all snowy white teeth and lousy with enthusiasm about her new job.

According to Volpe, Larabee and Hawkins were at a homicide scene. I'd just missed them. The other two pathologists were also away. She didn't know where.

The erasable board logged three new arrivals. My initials were in a little box beside the number assigned to the third, indicating the case was coming to me.

Walking to my office, I wondered if Hawkins and Larabee had gone to the same address to which Slidell had been called.

A consult request lay on my desk. MCME 239-11. After depositing my purse and laptop, I glanced at the form.

A skull had been found in a creek bed near I-485. Larabee wanted a bio-profile, and especially PMI.

First, lunch.

I went to the kitchen for a Diet Coke to accompany the cheddar-and-tomato sandwich I'd brought from home. I'd barely loosened the wrapping when my landline rang.

Volpe. A cop wanted to see me. I told her to send him through.

Seconds later footsteps echoed in the hall. I turned, expecting Skinny.

Whoa!

Standing in my doorway was a man designed by the gods on Olympus. Then broken.

The man stood six-three and weighed around 240, every ounce rock-solid. His hair was dark, his eyes startlingly green, what Gran would have called black Irish. Only two things kept Mr. God a notch below perfect: a scar cut his right brow, and a subtle kink belied a healed nasal fracture.

My expression must have telegraphed my surprise.

"The lady said to come on back." Cotton Galimore punched a thumb in the direction of Volpe's cubicle.

"I was expecting Detective Slidell."

"Sorry to disappoint." Grin lines creased the perfect face.

Without awaiting invitation, Galimore entered and foot-hooked a chair toward my desk. My nose registered expensive cologne and just the right hint of male perspiration.

"Sure," I said. "Come on in."

"Thanks." He sat.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Galimore?"

"You know who I am?"

"I know who you are."

"That a plus?"

"You tell me."

"You working with Skinny?"

I nodded.

"Condolences." Again the boyish grin.

I didn't smile back.

"I'm guessing Slidell's not one of my fans," Galimore said.

"He's not."

I looked at my sandwich. So did Galimore.

"These tight bastards not paying you enough?"

"I like cheese."

"Cheese is good."

"I can't discuss the body from the landfill, if that's why you're here."

"That's partly why I'm here."