“We should talk to Cotton Galimore,” I said.
Slidell made that throat sound he makes when disgusted. He disliked Galimore. So did Joe Hawkins. Why?
“What’s Galimore’s story?” I asked.
“He dishonored the badge.”
“By drinking? Other cops have had issues with the bottle.”
“That was part of it.”
“Galimore was bounced from the force. Isn’t that punishment enough?”
The faux Ray-Bans swiveled my way. “That asshole betrayed all of us. And what did he get? A deuce and out.”
“Galimore spent two years in jail?” I hadn’t heard that. “On what charges?”
“Accepting a bribe. Obstruction of justice. The guy’s scum.”
“He must have straightened himself up.”
“Once scum, always scum.”
“Galimore is now head of security at a major speedway.”
Slidell’s jaw hardened, but he said nothing.
I remembered seeing Galimore in Larabee’s office. Recalled his interest in the body from the landfill. The body later confiscated by the FBI.
Coincidence?
I don’t believe in coincidence.
I reminded Slidell. As I was speaking, his cell rang again. This time he answered.
Slidell’s end of the conversation consisted mostly of interrogatives. How many? When? Where? Then he clicked off.
“Sonofabitch.”
“Bad news?”
“Double homicide. You want I should take you home?”
“Yeah. Then I’ll head over to the MCME, tell Larabee about the Rosphalt, and see what else he’s learned about the missing John Doe.”
Though I went, that didn’t happen.
But another issue resolved itself.
A CAREFULLY PENNED POST-IT EXPLAINED THAT MRS. FLOWERS had left the MCME at 11:50, that she was lunching at Alexander Michael’s pub, and that she would return at one p.m.
Hearing a cough, I moved toward the cubicles assigned to death investigators. Inside the second sat a new hire named Susan Volpe. We’d met only once.
Volpe’s head popped up when I appeared at her entrance. She had mocha skin and curly black hair cut in an asymmetric bob. Maybe twenty-five, she was all snowy white teeth and lousy with enthusiasm about her new job.
According to Volpe, Larabee and Hawkins were at a homicide scene. I’d just missed them. The other two pathologists were also away. She didn’t know where.
The erasable board logged three new arrivals. My initials were in a little box beside the number assigned to the third, indicating the case was coming to me.
Walking to my office, I wondered if Hawkins and Larabee had gone to the same address to which Slidell had been called.
A consult request lay on my desk. MCME 239-11. After depositing my purse and laptop, I glanced at the form.
A skull had been found in a creek bed near I-485. Larabee wanted a bio-profile, and especially PMI.
First, lunch.
I went to the kitchen for a Diet Coke to accompany the cheddar-and-tomato sandwich I’d brought from home. I’d barely loosened the wrapping when my landline rang.
Volpe. A cop wanted to see me. I told her to send him through.
Seconds later footsteps echoed in the hall. I turned, expecting Skinny.
Standing in my doorway was a man designed by the gods on Olympus. Then broken.
The man stood six-three and weighed around 240, every ounce rock-solid. His hair was dark, his eyes startlingly green, what Gran would have called black Irish. Only two things kept Mr. God a notch below perfect: a scar cut his right brow, and a subtle kink belied a healed nasal fracture.
