“A horse’s ass name of Cotton Galimore. What the hell kinda name is Cotton?”
Typical Skinny. He thinks it, he says it.
“Galimore is now in charge of security for Charlotte Motor Speedway,” I said.
Slidell made a noise I couldn’t interpret.
“Why did he leave the force?” I asked.
“Got too close to a buddy name of Jimmy Beam.”
“Galimore drinks?”
“Booze is what finally got him booted.”
“I gather you don’t like him.”
“Ask me? You can cut off his head and shit in his—”
“Did Eddie ever mention Cindi Gamble or Cale Lovette?”
“Give me a hint, Doc.”
“Gamble was a high school kid, Lovette was her boyfriend. Both went missing in October of ’ninety-eight. Eddie worked the case. The FBI was also involved.”
“Why the feds?”
“Lovette had ties to right-wingers. Possible domestic terrorism issues.”
I waited out another pause. This one with a lot of slurping and popping.
“Kinda rings a bell. If you want, I can pull the file. Or check Eddie’s notes.”
Cops hang nicknames on each other, most based on physical or personality traits. Skinny, for example, hadn’t seen a forty-inch waistline in at least twenty years. Other than excessive height, a taste for classical music, and a penchant for pricey clothes, Rinaldi had exhibited no quirks at which to poke fun. Eddie had remained Eddie throughout his career.
Rinaldi’s one singular peculiarity was his habit of recording the minutiae of every investigation in which he took part. His notebooks were legendary.
“That would be great,” I said.
Slidell disconnected without a good-bye or any query concerning the nature of my interest in a case now over a dozen years cold. I appreciated the latter.
I played with Birdie. Made the bed. Took out the trash. Loaded laundry. Read the e-mails that I’d ignored. Checked a freckle on my shoulder for signs of melanoma.
Then, with a level of enthusiasm I reserve for flossing and waxing, I again phoned Summer.
To my dismay, she answered.
“Hi. This is Tempe.” I could hear voices in the background. Regis and Kelly? “Pete’s ex. Well, any day now.”
“I know who y’all are.” Summer had a drawl you could pour on pancakes.
“How’s it going?”
“Good.”
“Are you still working at Happy Paws?” Desperate for subject matter.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Defensive. “I’m a fully trained veterinary assistant.”
“It must be exhausting having a full-time job while trying to plan a big wedding.”
“Not everyone can be superwoman.”
“How right you are.” Cheerful as hell. “It’s going well?”
“Mostly.”
“Have you hired a planner?” I’d heard that she and Pete were inviting only a few thousand people.
I heard a quavery intake of breath.
“Is something wrong?”
“Petey’s being a grumpy-pants about every little thing.”
“I wouldn’t worry. Pete’s never been big on ceremony.”
“Until that changes, Mr. Grumpy-Pants won’t be foxtrotting at my prom. If you take my meaning.”
So the groom-to-be had lost playground privileges.
“Pete thought it might be good if we got to know each other,” I said.
Nothing but Regis and Kelly.
“If there’s any way I can help…” I let the offer hang, expecting a frosty rebuff.
“Could you talk to him?”
