"She's really very bright."

"You've got to have a penis to hold that view."

Pete raised his brows.

I responded in kind.

"How's Boyd?" I asked.

"Talks about you constantly."

"I miss him."

"And the Chow feels likewise. He's crazy about you."

"That dog is an excellent judge of character."

"Recognizes rare qualities that others fail to appreciate."

I'd no idea what to respond. So I said nothing.

Pete studied my face for so long, the moment grew awkward.

"Guess you should be moving along," I said.

"Guess so."

"I doubt you'll be enjoying a chatty evening." I smiled.

"Perhaps not a bad thing." Pete didn't.

Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise? I knew Pete. And he sounded unhappy.

Back in the dining room, Summer had been joined by Birdie. The cat was on a chair, batting at a napkin she was dangling above him.

I narrowed my eyes at the little turncoat.

He gave me the cat equivalent of an innocent look.

"Good luck," I said as they made their way down the front steps.

I meant it.

As soon as they'd gone, I phoned Larabee. He'd just returned home from a ten-mile run.

"Do we have someone at the morgue named Eli Hand?"

"Not to my knowledge. Who is he?"

I told him about the call.

For a full thirty seconds no one spoke.

"You don't suppose-"

Larabee finished my sentence. "-it could be a tip about the landfill John Doe."

"That was my first thought."

"How do we find out about Hand?"

"Do you have contact information for Special Agent Williams?"

"Hold on."

I heard a thunk. After a brief pause, Larabee returned and read off a number.

"You think Williams will know something?" he asked.

"I think he'll know a lot." "Keep me looped in."

Williams answered on the second ring.

I identified myself.

If my call surprised him, he didn't let on.

"Eli Hand," I said.

The silence went on for so long, I thought we'd been disconnected.

"What are you asking me?" Williams's tone was flinty.

"Was Eli Hand John-Doeing it at our morgue?"

"I can't comment on that."

"Why not?"

"Why are you asking about Eli Hand?"

"I got an anonymous tip."

"From what source?"

"See, that's the anonymous part."

"How did you receive this tip?" Terse.

"On my mobile."

"Was the phone able to capture the number?"

I gave it to him.

"Who is Eli Hand?"

"I'm not at liberty-"

"With or without any of that famous FBI cooperation, Dr. Larabee and I will find out who Eli Hand is. Or was. And we will find out if Hand turned up dead in a barrel of asphalt in the Morehead Road landfill. Should that prove to be the case, Detective Slidell will find out why."

"Back the attitude down a notch."

"Then give me some answers."

"I'll speak to you tomorrow."

Next I phoned Galimore.

Got no answer.

Between the anonymous threat, Summer's idiocy and Pete's gloominess, the call about Eli Hand, Williams's arrogance, and Galimore's disappearing act, sleep was elusive when I went to bed.

My mind kept juggling pieces, repositioning and twisting to make them interlock. Instead of answers, I ended up with the same questions.

I knew from Williams's reaction that the landfill John Doe would turn out to be Eli Hand. Who was he? When had he died? Why did his body show signs of ricin poisoning?

Abrin was found in Wayne Gamble's coffee. How had it gotten there? Surely Gamble had been murdered. By whom? Why?

Cale Lovette had associated with right-wing extremists. Had they helped him vanish? If so, how had he managed to skim under the radar all these years? Had they killed him?

Descriptions of Cindi Gamble did not jibe. Was she smart, with NASCAR potential, as Ethel Bradford, Lynn Nolan, and J. D. Danner suggested? Or dull, a poor driver, as Craig Bogan said? Was she in love with Cale Lovette? Or terrified of him?

Accounts given by Grady Winge and Eugene Fries disagreed. Was one of them simply in error? Was one of them lying? Why?

Had Owen Poteat actually seen Cale Lovette at the Charlotte airport ten days after he disappeared from the Speedway, or was this deliberate misinformation? If so, why? Had someone paid him? Who?

Ted Raines was still missing. Raines had access to ricin and abrin. Was Raines involved at all?

I kept trying to find a connection. Just one. That connection would lead to another, which would lead to another. Which would lead to answers long overdue.

When I finally drifted off, my rest was fitful. I woke repeatedly, then dozed, dreaming in unrelated vignettes.

Birdie, walking on a table set with glassware and swirly pink fabric. Galimore, driving a blue Mustang with a green sticker on the windshield. Ryan, waving at me from very far off. Slidell, talking to a man curled up in a barrel. Summer, teetering down a sidewalk in skyscraper heels.

When I last checked the clock, it was 4:23.

EXACTLY THREE HOURS LATER THE LANDLINE JOLTED ME AWAKE.

"You good?"

"I'm fine."

"Last night turned ugly." Galimore sounded like he'd logged less sleep than I had.

"I'm a big girl. I'm fine."

"You hear back from that tool?"

"No. But I heard from someone else."

I told him about the Eli Hand call and about my conversation with Williams.

"You're going to stay put, like I said, right?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm waiting for a call from Oprah."

"You should put together an act. Maybe take it on Comedy Central."

"I'll think about that."

"But not today."

"Not today."

Galimore sighed in annoyance. "Do what you gotta do."

"I will."

I was making toast when the phone rang again.

"Williams here."

"Brennan here." Sleep deprivation also makes me flippant.

"The number you gave me traced to a pay phone at a Circle K on Old Charlotte Road in Concord."

"So the caller could have been anyone."

"We're checking deeds for properties located within a half-mile radius."

"That's a long shot."

"Yes."

"Who's Eli Hand?"

"Due to your recent involvement in the situation, I've been authorized to share certain information with you and Dr. Larabee. May we meet this morning?"