“But not Danner. He’s Peter frickin’ Pan.”
“Wayne Gamble wasn’t paranoid.” I ignored Slidell’s sarcasm. “The FBI did have his family under surveillance back in 1998.”
Williams nodded.
I turned to Slidell. “What about Bogan? Is he talking?”
“Like Danner, he’s looking to cut a deal. Bogan’s got shit to offer, so the DA’s offering zilch.” The chair creaked ominously as Skinny leaned back and stretched his legs. “I’m floating some legal jargon his way. Stuff like ‘lethal injection.’ ‘Shank.’ The ever popular ‘bend over, punk.’ ”
“Is Bogan impressed?”
Slidell laced his fingers behind his head.
“He will be.”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON BIRDIE AND I WERE RELAXING ON THE terrace. I was reading a book on the history of NASCAR. He was batting a mangled cloth mouse around on the brick.
We were both enjoying a Dr. Hook CD. The cat’s favorite. He actually stops to listen when “You Make My Pants Want to Get Up and Dance” plays.
Hearing a car, I glanced to my left.
A blue Taurus was cruising past the manor house on the circle drive.
“Heads up, Bird. Our day is about to be filled with sunshine.”
The cat stayed focused on his burlap rodent.
The Taurus disappeared behind a stand of magnolias, reappeared, and pulled in beside the Annex. Seconds later, Slidell hauled himself out.
I closed my book and watched Skinny trudge up the walk. He really is a very good trudger.
“Glad to see you’re following doctor’s orders.” Sun shot from the lenses of Slidell’s mock Ray-Bans.
“One more day,” I said. “Then back to work.”
“Yep. The lady’s stubborn as belly fat.”
“Is Bogan talking?” I shifted the subject away from my health.
“Like a cockatiel with a crack pipe.”
Slidell’s metaphors truly are something. Or was that a simile?
“Why?”
“He’s gambling the DA will go south a bump on the charges.”
I raised spread fingers. And?
“The night they died, Cale told his old man he and Cindi were getting out of Dodge. She had some kind of offer down in Daytona. Bogan flew into a rage. Get this. He’s justifying the shooting, saying he was provoked because a broad was taking his son away from him. The son he hadn’t said ten words to in years.”
“And I suppose Wayne Gamble called him mean names?”
“Eeyuh. Hard to sell temporary insanity on that one. Want to hear a sick sidebar?”
I wiggled my fingers, indicating I did.
“Bogan kept their shoes.”
“What?”
“Before the shooting, he made Cindi and Cale take off their shoes and walk down to the pond.”
“The one by his greenhouse.”
“Yeah. All these years, he kept their shoes in a box in his closet.”
I could think of nothing to say to that.
“Has Bogan said how he murdered Gamble?” I asked.
“He was watching, saw the other mechanic leave the garage. When Gamble bent under the hood, Bogan released some thingamajig that dropped the jack. The engine was cranking full throttle, so when the wheels hit the floor, it was sayonara.”
“Bogan had been poisoning Gamble. Why kill him in the garage?”
“Several triggers. First, Bogan was frustrated because the abrin wasn’t working the way he’d expected. Probably because the dumb shit screwed the stuff up.”
“Or the toxin was old and degraded.”
“Or that. Second, Bogan was getting nervous because Gamble seemed to be making progress. You and Galimore showing up at his greenhouse scared the crap out of him.”
“He didn’t let on.”
“No. But he recognized Galimore, both because of the task force back in ’ninety-eight and from seeing him at the Speedway. He knew who Galimore was, felt things closing in.”
