“Two police officers.”
“From the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember their names?”
“No.”
“Can you describe them?”
“One was tall and thin. Very polite. His accent suggested he wasn’t local. The other was coarser. He looked like a bodybuilder.”
“Detectives Rinaldi and Galimore?”
“That sounds right.”
Leaning forward, I lowered my voice to confide, girlfriend to girlfriend. “Anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you questioned by the FBI?”
As before, Bradford’s gaze jumped toward the archway behind me, then dropped. Clearly our presence was making her anxious. She nodded.
“Did you make a formal statement?”
“No.”
“Did the special agent mention the Patriot Posse?”
“I don’t recall details of the conversation.”
“Did the FBI ask you to keep your discussions confidential?” Before Bradford could answer, Slidell reappeared and tipped his head toward the door.
“One last question,” I asked softly.
Bradford raised reluctant eyes to me.
“Do you think Cindi Gamble left on her own?”
“Not for a second,” she said firmly. “I said so then, and I’ll say it now.”
Leaving our cards, Slidell and I headed out.
Back in the Taurus, I told him what I’d learned in his absence.
“Dame wanted us there about as much as a boil on her ass.”
“She seemed uncomfortable.”
“She knows more than she’s saying.”
“What reason could she have for withholding information?”
“The feebs probably fed her some bullshit about domestic terrorism and confidentiality and national security.”
“Now what?” I asked.
“Who was the lunch buddy?”
“Lynn Hobbs.”
“That name was in Eddie’s notes.”
“Think you can find her?”
“Oh, yeah.” Slidell slid knockoff Ray-Bans onto his nose. “I’ll find her.”
SUNDAY, A MIRACLE OCCURRED. NO RAIN.
Sadly, I had no one with whom to share the fine weather. Katy was in the mountains. Ryan was in Ontario. Harry, my sister, was at home in Texas. My best friend, Anne Turnip, was absorbed in a home renovation project. Charlie Hunt was hunkered in at the Mecklenburg County Public Defender’s Office, preparing his closing argument for the trial of a woman accused of shooting her pimp.
How to label Charlie Hunt? My friend? Suitor? Wannabe squeeze? So far, that was as hot as things had gotten. My call, not his.
I celebrated the sunshine by running my long loop through Freedom Park and around all the Queens Roads. And Charlotte has a boatload. There’s even an intersection of queens and queens.
In the afternoon I weeded the garden, then took Birdie onto the lawn for a session with the FURminator, removing several pounds of fur. After the grooming, he made himself scarce.
In the evening I caught up on paperwork, then grilled a steak and ate it listening to Foghat and Devo full blast. Dove Bar for dessert.
I am an island. A rock. Whatever.
Ryan phoned around nine. I sensed from his tone that he preferred to keep the conversation light and away from the subject of Lily. His goal seemed to be educating me on NASCAR in Canada. Realizing his need for
