“Did you know Mr. Snow?”
“Dr. Snow. He was an obstetrician. The position of coroner isn’t full-time down here.”
“Who is the current coroner?”
“James Park.”
“Another doctor?”
“Park owns a funeral home. Bit of local irony. Snow brought folks into the world. Park sends ’em out.”
It sounded like a joke that had been told a few times.
“Is Park an easy guy to work with?”
“He does his job.”
“Any reason he’d be holding back on that anthropology report?”
“None he shared with me.”
What the hell. Try the sisters-in-arms approach.
“Right.” Moment of poignant hesitation. “Listen, I’m working with Detectives Slidell and Rinaldi up here in Charlotte,” I said, frustration tinging my voice ever so slightly. “I’ll be honest, Detective Woolsey. I don’t think these guys are really keeping me in the loop.”
“What’s your point?”
So much for sisterhood.
“It doesn’t seem likely that Dr. Cagle’s report would just vanish from the system.”
“Shit happens.”
“You ever encountered that problem on a case?”
She ignored my question.
“Surely this anthropologist kept records. Why not ask him for his copy?”
“I did. Cagle’s had some sort of medical crisis and his file and photos have gone missing.”
“What sort of medical crisis?”
I explained about Cagle’s collapse and subsequent coma.
There was a long pause, squad room noises in the background.
“And this dossier had been removed from his files?”
“Looks that way.”
I heard her take several breaths, then rattling sounds, as though she was switching the receiver from one hand to the other.
“Can you meet me tomorrow?” Scratchy, as though her lips were now closer to the mouthpiece.
“Sure.” I tried to keep the surprise from my voice. “Headquarters is on Pageland Road, right?”
“Don’t come here.”
Another, shorter pause while we both thought that over.
“You know the Coffee Cup, near where Morehead passes under I-77?”
“Of course.” Everyone in Charlotte knew the Coffee Cup.
“I’ve got some business up your way tomorrow. Meet me at eight.”
“I’ll be at the counter.”
When we’d disconnected, I sat for a full five minutes.
First Zamzow and now Woolsey. What could the detective have to say that couldn’t be said in Lancaster?
When I got home, Boyd and Birdie were asleep in the den, dog on the couch, cat burrowed into a hidey-hole on a bookshelf behind my desk.
Hearing footsteps, Boyd oozed to the floor, lowered his head, and looked up at me, tongue dangling from between his lower front teeth.
“Hey, big guy.” I clapped my hands and squatted.
Boyd bounded over, placed both paws on my shoulders, and lunged forward to lick my face. The force of his enthusiasm knocked me to my bum. Rolling to my stomach, I threw both arms over my head. Boyd sprinted three circles around me, then attempted to resume the saliva facial.
When I sat up, Birdie was looking at us with as much disapproval as a cat face can register. Then he stood, arched, dropped to the floor, and disappeared into the hall.
“Listen, Boyd.”
Boyd froze a nanosecond, hopped back, and made another loop.
“Look at me. I’m out of shape. You saw Ryan. What did you think?”
Boyd ran another lap.
