Plan B. Something in a can.
I was rooting in the pantry when the back doorbell chimed. Wary, I peeked out.
Galimore was standing on the porch, face bathed in a yellow wash from the overhead bulb.
I closed my eyes. Tried to wish myself gone.
I heard the cadence of the evening news. The cat crunching Iams.
But gone where? What did I really wish for? To let Galimore in? To send him away?
Both Hawkins and Slidell disliked the man. Were they bitter that Galimore had made mistakes?
Had Galimore betrayed the badge? Were their concerns justified?
Had Galimore really taken a bribe? Or had there actually been a frame-up back in 1998? A frame-up in which police officers participated?
Had Galimore impeded the Gamble-Lovette investigation? Was he trying to do so now? Or was he genuinely interested in righting a wrong to the Gambles, which he saw as partly of his making?
Ryan wasn’t exactly burning up the phone line. Nor was Charlie Hunt.
Did I just need a booster? What was this peculiar attraction I felt for Galimore?
I sneaked another look.
Galimore was holding a flat square box. DONATOS was visible in big red letters.
My eyes drifted to the tomato and cuke. Which were now oozing liquid across the sideboard.
What the hell.
I crossed and unlocked the door.
Galimore smiled. Then his gaze dropped.
Too late, I remembered my lack of undies. One hand rose, pointlessly, to my chest.
Galimore’s eyes snapped up. “Totally loaded.” He raised the pizza. “Hope you like anchovies.”
I gestured toward the table. “Let me throw on some clothes.”
“Not on my account.” Galimore winked.
A flush rose up my neck.
Oh, yes, cowboy. On your account.
When I returned in jeans, a sweatshirt chastely concealing my bosom, the table was set. A small bottle of San Pellegrino sat beside each wineglass.
Out of courtesy to me? Or was Galimore also a nondrinker. Given his past, it seemed likely.
Before taking my place, I muted the TV.
“What did you learn?” I started off, wanting to set the tone.
“Not yet.” Galimore slid an overloaded slice of pizza onto my plate. “First, we eat. And enjoy the lost art of conversation.”
In the course of three helpings, I learned that Galimore lived alone uptown, had four brothers, hated processed food, and besides auto racing, enjoyed football and opera.
He learned that I had one daughter and a cat. And that the latter was inordinately fond of pizza.
Finally Galimore bunched his napkin and leaned back in his chair.
“I know where you’re going,” he said. “And I think you’re dead-on.”
“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”
“Timothy.”
“And his daughters?”
“Mary Ellen and Sarah Caroline.”
“Yes!” I performed the “raise the roof” pantomime with both hands.
“What I can’t figure is how you got that.”
“First, I spoke to my daughter earlier this evening. She talked about a man who opened tax-advantaged savings plans for his kids’ educations.
“Second, I have a friend who is getting married. Right after my conversation with Katy, she phoned to complain about her bridesmaids.”
“Condolences.”
“Thanks. Both bridesmaids go by double first names.”
“True maidens of Dixie.”
“As I listened to Summer, I was studying Rinaldi’s code.”
“Summer is the lovely bride-to-be?”
