clouds gauzy wisps against a dazzling blue sky.
“That you, Doc?” Slidell repeated.
“Yes.” He was expecting Oprah Winfrey on my cell phone?
“Rinaldi had a pretty good day yesterday.”
“I’m listening.”
“He may be putting some flesh on those bare bones of yours. Get it? Bare bones? Bear bones?”
“I get it.”
“Turns out Jason Jack Wyatt, our mysterious passenger, spent a lot of time stalking and trapping. Gramma over in Sneedville puts him one notch above the Crocodile Hunter. Only, get this. J.J.’s specialty was bear. A city slicker booked into Wilderness Quest, laid down a thousand clams, J.J. scored him a bear for his trophy wall.”
A car pulled up and a black couple got out. The woman wore a tight red miniskirt, pink blouse, black hose, and stiletto heels. Flesh bulged from every place her clothing allowed a gap. The man had well-muscled arms and legs, but a belly that was yielding to a love of fatback and grits.
As Slidell talked, I watched the couple enter the Cup.
“Nothin’ illegal, of course,” I said.
“Of course not. And the other Sneedville young’un could have been president of the chamber of commerce, were it not for the Lord calling him home so soon.”
“Ricky Don.”
“The Donald Trump of Sneedville.”
“The grandmother admitted the two knew each other?”
“Ricky Don gave his gifted but less fortunate cousin seasonal work at the Wilderness Quest hunting camp. Also sent him on errands from time to time.”
“Errands?”
“Seems J.J.’s job involved terrific travel benefits.”
“Ricky Don’s plane.”
“Also made long car trips.”
“Think Wyatt was boosting drugs for Ricky Don?”
“Could explain the blow we found in his cabin.”
“No kidding.”
“Would I kid you?”
“Rinaldi got a warrant?”
“He would have, of course. But Gramma insisted on a look-see to make sure no one was messing with J.J.’s posessions since his passing. She asked Rinaldi to carry her on over there in his automobile.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“So J.J. the bear slayer might have been muling for Ricky Don Dorton and dealing a little gall on the side.”
“Granny know anything about little J.J.’s phone calls to Darryl Tyree?”
“Nope.”
“Sonny Pounder talking yet?”
“Remains mute as a dead cat.”
“What’s the word on the pilot?”
“We’re still digging on Harvey Pearce.”
A tall man in cornrows, gold chains, and overpriced designer sunglasses approached the door just as Woolsey started through it. Something about him looked familiar.
The man stepped back, allowed Woolsey to pass, slid the shades down his nose, and followed the progress of her buttocks.
Slidell was saying something, but I wasn’t listening.
Where had I seen that face?
My brain struggled toward pattern recognition.
In person? In a photo? Recently? In the distant past?
Slidell was still talking, his voice tinny through the cell phone.
Seeing my expression, Woolsey turned back toward the Cup. The man had disappeared inside.
“What?”
I held up a finger.
“Hel-lo?” Realizing he’d lost it, Slidell was trying to regain my attention.
