"I don't know."

"Is it possible you're being paranoid?"

"We're talking the friggin' FBI. You don't think, with all their resources, they couldn't have cracked this case if they wanted to?"

That same thought had occurred to me.

"But it wasn't just the FBI and the cops." Galimore pointed his fork at his chest. "I was also part of the problem."

I let him continue.

"The Gambles were good people caught between bad alternatives. Either their daughter had turned her back on them, or she'd come to harm. Early in the investigation, they phoned me every day. Eventually I stopped picking up. I'm not proud of that."

"So your interest is twofold and self-serving. You want to clear your conscience and at the same time stick it to the cops."

"There's something else. I got a call at my office earlier this week. The voice sounded male, but I can't be sure. It was muffled by some sort of filter."

"Uh-huh."

"I'll spare you the colorful verbiage. Bottom line, the caller threatened to take me down by exposing my past to the media unless I backed off on the Gamble-Lovette thing."

"And you said?" I kept my voice neutral to hide my skepticism.

"Nothing. I hung up."

"Did you trace the number?"

"The call was placed on a throwaway phone."

"Your explanation?"

"The body in the landfill. The story in the paper."

Galimore's eyes again swept the restaurant.

"Someone out there is getting very, very nervous."

"WHAT DO YOU PROPOSE?"

"I did some checking. Fries was in the wind for a while, reappeared about five years back, and now lives outside of Locust. He's in his eighties, probably senile."

Offended by Galimore's broad-brush dismissal of the elderly, I snatched up the bill. He didn't fight me.

"You intend to question him?" I asked curtly.

"Can't hurt."

While digging for my wallet, I spotted the page of code I'd torn from Slidell's spiral. I withdrew both.

When Ellen left with my credit card, I unfolded and read Rinaldi's notations.

"This mean anything to you?" I rotated the paper.

"What is it?"

"It's from Rinaldi's notes on the Gamble-Lovette investigation."

Galimore looked at me. "Rinaldi was a stand-up guy," he said.

"Yes."

The emerald eyes held mine a very long moment. When they finally dropped to the paper, my cheeks were burning.

Jesus, Brennan.

"Wi-Fr. That's probably Winge-Fries. Rinaldi was curious about the contradiction between their statements."

I felt like an idiot. I should have seen that, but then I'd just learned of Fries.

"OTP. On-time performance?"

"Seriously?"

"Onetime programmable? You know, like with some electronic devices."

"Onetime password? Maybe the rest is a password for something."

"Could be." Galimore slid the paper to my side of the table. "The rest, I've no idea. Unless FU stands for the obvious."

My eyes were still rolling when Ellen returned. I signed the check, collected my card, and stood.

Galimore followed me out to the parking lot.

"You'll let me know what Fries says?" I asked in parting.

"Shouldn't this go two ways?" Slipping on aviator shades, though the day was cloudy. "You must have something on that John Doe by now."

Oh yeah. The ricin. The confiscation and destruction of the body. The Rosphalt. No way I could share that information.

"I'll talk to Dr. Larabee," I said.

"I'm good at this, you know." The aviators were fixed on my face. "I was a detective for ten years."

I was weighing responses when my iPhone overrode the traffic sounds coming from East Boulevard.

Turning my back to Galimore, I moved a few paces off and clicked on.

"Yo." Slidell was, as usual, chewing something. "This will be quick. Got two vics capped, another bleeding bad, probably not gonna make it. Looks like the gang boys are unhappy with each other."

"I'm listening." Sensing Galimore's interest, I kept my response vague.

"Owen Poteat." I waited while Slidell repositioned the foodstuff from his left to his right molars. "Born 1948, Faribault, Minnesota. Married, two daughters. Sold irrigation systems. Canned in 'ninety-five. Two years later the wife divorced him and moved the kids to St. Paul. Dead in 2007."

"Why was Poteat at the airport?"

"Going to see his madre, who was checking out with cancer."

"How'd he die?"

"Same as Mama."

Failed job. Lost family. Dead mother. Though far from unique, Poteat's story depressed the hell out of me.

"Looks like I'm out on Lovette-Gamble for now. With the bangers on the warpath, the chief's reined us all in."

"I understand."

"I'll jump back aboard when things cool down."

"Focus on your investigation. I have another lead."

"Oh yeah?"

Moving farther from Galimore, I told Slidell about Fries.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Cotton Galimore."

"What the fuck?" Slidell exploded.

"Galimore participated in the original investigation. I thought he might have useful information. Which he did."

"What did I tell you about that asswipe?"

"He claims he was framed."

"And Charlie Manson claimed he was just running a day camp." It was exactly the reaction I'd expected. "I don't plan to date him," I snapped.

"Yeah, well. Word is Galimore wasn't exactly humping back in 'ninety-eight."

"What does that mean?"

"That investigation went bust. Why's that, I ask myself. I come up with no explanation makes sense. So I float a few questions."

"To whom?"

"Cops been around the block."

"They suggested that Galimore obstructed the work of the task force?"

"They inferred as much."

I ignored Slidell's misuse of the verb. "Why would he do that?"

"I ain't his confessor."

"Did they cite examples?"

"All I'm saying. Galimore's a reptile. You chum with him, I'm out."

Dead air.

"I'm guessing that was Skinny."

Furious with Slidell, I hadn't heard Galimore approach.

Shifting my face into neutral, I turned.

"He's pissed that you're talking to me."

I said nothing.

"And ordering you to be a good girl and send me on my way."

"He was reporting that he'd be tied up for a while."

"So we're on our own."

"What?"

"Just you and me, kid." Galimore winked. Ineffective, given the unnecessary lenses.

I dropped my phone into my purse and glanced up at him. As before, my stomach performed a wee flip.

I looked away. Quickly.

Two cats were tearing at something in a patch of grass by one corner of the restaurant. One was brown, the other white. Both had sinewy shadows overlying their ribs.

"I know you're curious about Fries," Galimore said.

I was.

"And Bogan." Cale's father.

"You're heading to talk to them now?" I asked, still looking at the cats.

"I am."