“She and lover boy were the unfortunate victims of bad luck and bad timing.”
Neither of us laughed at my joke.
Slidell toed the pansies bordering the brick walk. Suspecting he had more to say, I waited.
On the boom box, Dr. Hook segued into “Freaker’s Ball.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Birdie’s favorite group.”
Slidell shook his head at the puzzle of feline taste, then, “Just FYI. Padgett didn’t tell Galimore about Lovette quitting the Patriot Posse.”
“She didn’t?”
“The guy she talked to was FBI. Retired now. It’s in the file.”
“They finally let you see it?”
“Ain’t the specials special?”
“I’m still not clear on how Galimore ended up in that shed.”
“Bogan saw him poking around Gamble’s trailer before the race Friday night. He told him he’d remembered something that could shed light on what happened back in ’ninety-eight, said Galimore had to go with him to see it. Galimore had no reason to be suspicious, so he went along. In the shed, Bogan nailed him with a dart. The dose was enough to knock Galimore out but not enough to kill him, as Bogan intended.”
“Thanks for letting me know that Padgett’s dark-haired cop wasn’t Galimore.”
“Don’t mean the guy ain’t a douchebag.”
“Galimore is aware he failed a lot of people. Says he was focused on his own problems back then.”
“A cop don’t get that luxury.”
“No. And he’s beating himself up with guilt.”
Slidell didn’t respond.
“I understand how you feel.” I spoke gently. “But it is possible that Galimore has changed.”
A moment passed as Slidell studied the pansies. Then, “I did a little checking. When Galimore got tagged, there was a guy living in his building name of Gordie Lashner. Two months after Gali-more went down, Lashner got popped for dealing smack, ended up doing a fifteen-year swing.”
“You think it was Lashner’s money in Galimore’s storage bin?”
“All I know is Lashner’s a lowlife.”
“You’ll look into it?”
“I ain’t saying I think Galimore was framed.”
“Just the unfortunate victim of bad luck and bad timing.”
Same joke. Same reaction. Not so much as a smile.
Slidell watched a cyclist pedal past Myers Park Baptist across the way. He made no move to leave.
Dr. Hook started singing about Sylvia’s mother.
When Slidell spoke, his words surprised me.
“I took a fern by the hospital.”
“For Galimore?”
“No. For Dr Friggin’ Pepper.”
“That was a very nice gesture,”
I said. “I didn’t visit his bedside or nothing like that.”
“Still, it was a considerate thing to do.”
A beefy finger shot the air. “The fern business stays between you and me.”
I pantomimed a key on my lips.
“Don’t want people thinking I’m going all gooey.”
“Bad for the image.”
Slidell pulled an object from his pocket and tossed it to me.
“Galimore had that sent over to my office. Note said it was something you asked him for. Said he never had a chance to give it to you.”
The object in my lap was a NASCAR cap. On its bill was a signature scrawled in black Magic Marker.
A grin tugged the corners of my mouth. Lieutenant-detective Andrew Ryan, quebec cop and Villeneuve groupie, would be thrilled.
“So.” Slidell straightened his phony cool-guy shades. “Erskine Slidell still your favorite badass?”
