“What about Cindi?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“Did Poteat see her at the airport with Lovette?”
“Apparently he wasn’t so sure. But here’s the thing.”
Slidell flipped a wave at the guard as we exited the gates. The young man watched us roll through but didn’t wave back.
“At the back of the notebook, Eddie had a page marked with big question marks.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he had questions.” Slidell reached out and smacked the AC control with the heel of one hand.
“Questions about Poteat?” I asked oh-so-precisely.
“Who the hell knows? For that entry, he used one of his codes. Means nothing to me.” Slidell yanked his spiral from a shirt pocket and tossed it to me. “I copied the stuff into there.”
When hurried or feeling the need for discretion, Rinaldi used a form of shorthand known only to him. The cryptic notations were typical.
“Maine and South Carolina?” I guessed, looking at the longer entry.
Slidell shrugged.
I played with the alphanumeric combo. “Could it be a license plate?”
“I’ll run it.”
“FU probably means follow up.”
I played some more. Came up blank.
“Can I have this?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I tore the page free and slipped it into my purse. Then, “Who is Owen Poteat?”
“I’ll know soon.”
I settled back and closed my eyes. The heat and the car’s motion acted like drugs. I was dropping off when my mobile sounded.
Joe Hawkins.
I clicked on.
“Hey, Joe.” Sluggish.
“Forensics called with a prelim on the goop from the barrel. Good old asphalt, just like we thought.”
“Not very useful.”
“Maybe no, maybe yes. The sample contained an additive called Rosphalt, a synthetic dry-mix material made by Royston. Provides waterproofing, skid resistance, protects against rutting and shoving, thermal fatigue cracking, that kind of thing. ”
“Uh-huh.” Stifling a yawn.
“Rosphalt comes in three types. One’s used mainly for roadways and tunnels, another’s used on airport runways. You still there?”
“I’m here.” Though struggling to stay awake.
“Your sample contained the third type, R50/Rx. That one’s used mostly by motor speedways.”
My brain reengaged. “At the Charlotte Motor Speedway?”
“Knew you’d ask, so I gave a call out there. The track has some pretty steep banking. What with the sun and cars screaming around the curves, the asphalt can heat up, go liquid, and sink right down. They use Rosphalt to provide better holding power.”
“I’ll be damned. So the asphalt in the barrel probably came from the Speedway.”
“Seems logical to me. The track’s right there.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
I disconnected and told Slidell. “The Rosphalt connects the landfill John Doe to the track.” I was totally pumped.
“Whaddya saying? The victim was killed at the Speedway, stuffed in a barrel, sealed in, and dumped at the landfill?”
“Why not? Thirty-five-gallon oil cans are common at speed-ways.”
While Slidell was gnawing on that theory, my phone sounded again. This time it was Larabee.
