I tried Galimore. Voice mail. Same message.
Frustrated, I tossed my Diet Coke can into the recycling bin, grabbed my purse and laptop, and headed out.
Something was happening at the NASCAR Hall of Fame that night. I averaged about four miles a decade crossing uptown.
The bumper-to-bumper crunch changed my supper plan. No way I’d divert to Price’s for fried chicken. A salad made from produce in my refrigerator would have to do.
I was finally heading south on Providence Road when my iPhone sounded.
Galimore.
“I think I know what concerned Rinaldi,” I said.
“You’re breaking my heart.” Galimore sounded, what? Coy? “I thought you’d changed your mind about dinner.”
“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”
“I can check.”
“Poteat had two daughters, didn’t he?”
“That sounds right.”
“Get their names, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ahead, the light turned red. I stopped at the intersection. To my left, Providence Road cut south. To my right, it became Morehead Street.
“What about bank records? Tax records?” I asked.
“Whose?”
“Any account bearing Poteat’s name.”
“It would help to know the bank.”
The light went green. I proceeded straight on what was now called Queens Road. See. I wasn’t kidding.
“Start with Wells Fargo,” I said. “Work backward to 1998.”
“I’ve got sources who can do that. What are you thinking?”
“How long will it take?”
“The names, a matter of minutes. Tax and financial records, that’s tougher. Why aren’t you getting this through Slidell?”
“He’s either tied up or ignoring my calls.”
“Don’t expect Skinny to come around easily. The guy’s a champion grudge-holder.”
I turned in at Sharon Hall.
“I’m at my town house. I’ve got to go.”
“A quiet meal at home alone?”
“I’ll be dining with my cat.”
Birdie had other thoughts. Upon hearing me enter the kitchen, he retreated to a dining room chair.
I knew what was up. The feline coolness was a comment on the lateness of the hour. Normally Birdie eats at six.
I checked my phone, hoping for a message from Ryan or Charlie.
Neither had called.
Disappointed, I flipped on the TV. Two overly keen sports analysts were discussing potential lineups for the upcoming Coca-Cola 600. One predicted Sandy Stupak’s #59 Chevy would start near the front.
Hearing an unhappy meow, I went to the dining room, reached under the table, and stroked Birdie’s head.
“Sorry, Bird. I’ve been wicked busy.”
The cat didn’t budge.
“Cut me some slack. I’ve been to Concord and Locust all in one day. Slidell berated me. Hawkins lectured me. Ryan and Charlie have apparently dumped me. Katy and Summer both whined in my ear. Oh yeah. And an old coot held me at gunpoint with a Winchester.”
The cat remained obstinate.
After filling Birdie’s bowl, I went upstairs to shower. Then I threw on shortie-PJ bottoms and an old tee. No bra or panties. The freedom was exhilarating.
Back to the kitchen.
The tomato was flaccid, the cucumber slimy, the lettuce limp and black on the edges. So much for a salad.
