In 1998, when Gamble and Lovette disappeared, the FBI was focused full-bore on domestic terrorism. If Lovette was known to associate with anti-government extremists, I wasn’t surprised the bureau was keeping an eye out.
“Regretfully, I see no link between your sister and the victim found in the landfill. As I stated, my preliminary findings suggest that the individual is male and that he was older than twenty-four.”
“Then why is some jackass tailing me?” Very angry.
“Calm down, Mr. Gamble.”
“I’m sorry. I feel like crap, probably some kind of flu. Really bad timing.”
“If you’d like to reopen the investigation into your sister’s disappearance, you could try contacting the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Cold Case Unit.”
“Will they admit to the cover-up back in ’ninety-eight?”
“What do you mean?”
“The cops formed a task force, made a public show of looking, then shoved the whole thing under the rug.”
“Mr. Gamble, I’m a forensic anthropologist. I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“Yeah. That’s what I expected.” Coating his anger with disdain. “Cindi wasn’t a congressional intern or some bigwig’s kid. No one gave a rat’s ass then, no one cares now.”
My first reaction was resentment. I started to respond.
Then I thought of Katy, just a few years older than Cindi. I knew the agony I’d feel if my daughter went missing.
How much time could a little poking around take?
“I can’t promise anything, Mr. Gamble. But I’ll ask a few questions.” I reached for pen and paper. “Who was lead on the investigation into your sister’s disappearance?”
The name shocked me.
COTTON GALIMORE. THE MAN WHO’D VISITED LARABEE. THE head of security for Charlotte Motor Speedway.
“Anyone else?”
“A detective named Rinaldo, or something like that.”
“Rinaldi?”
“That’s it. You know him?”
“I do.” After so much time, cold fingers still grabbed and twisted my gut.
Eddie Rinaldi spent most of his career with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit. The murder table. We’d worked many cases together. Two years back, I’d watched Rinaldi gunned down by a manic-depressive who’d skipped his meds.
Gamble’s words brought me back. “Rinaldi seemed like a stand-up guy. You’ll talk to him?”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” I promised.
Gamble thanked me, and we disconnected.
I sat staring at the page on which I’d written nothing.
For decades Rinaldi had partnered with a detective named Erskine Slidell. Skinny. I wondered why he was working with Galimore in the fall of ’ninety-eight.
Call Slidell? Galimore?
Though a good cop, Skinny Slidell tends to grate on my nerves. But something in my brain was cautioning against Galimore.
I checked my address book, then dialed.
“Slidell.”
“It’s Temperance Brennan.”
“How’s it hangin’, Doc?” Slidell views himself as Charlotte’s answer to Dirty Harry. Hollywood cop lingo is part of the shtick. “Found us a rotter?”
“Not this time. I wonder if I could pick your brain for a minute.” Generous. A second was plenty to search Skinny’s entire neocortex.
“Your dime, your time.” Spitty. Slidell was chewing on something.
“I’m interested in a couple of MPs dating back to ’ninety-eight. Eddie worked the case.”
There was a long moment with neither reply nor sounds of mastication. I knew Slidell’s insides were clenching, as mine had.
“You there?” I asked.
“Fall of ’ninety-eight I was TDY on a training course up in Quantico.”
“Did Eddie partner with someone while you were away?”
