“OK, honeymooners. Here’s what’s gonna happen.”
When Slidell laid down the usual “don’t leave town” spiel, Nolan shot to her feet and pointed at Raines.
“Fine. But I want this jerk out of my apartment. Mr. Get a Little on the Side is not staying here.”
So much for true love.
En route to the Annex, Slidell and I shared impressions.
“They’re both moral invalids.”
“Yeah,” Slidell agreed. “But Raines doesn’t feel right for Gamble or Hand.”
“Where was he living when Hand went into the landfill?”
“Atlanta.”
“And what motive would he have for wanting Wayne Gamble dead?”
“Exactly. But I’m still going to give the dirtbag a real close look.”
“Nolan’s description of the old guy doesn’t fit Grady Winge,” I said. “Or J. D. Danner. Perhaps Eugene Fries, but he claims to be a victim.”
“I plan to squeeze Winge first thing in the morning.”
As we pulled in at Sharon Hall, a CMPD cruiser was pulling out. Slidell flicked a wave. The cop behind the wheel returned it.
“Guess we don’t need stepped-up patrols no more.”
“You’re convinced Grady Winge killed Cindi and Cale?”
“You kidding? You saw him at that grave site.”
“All that proves is that he knew where the bodies were buried.”
“Then why’s he so goddamn sorry?”
“What about Wayne Gamble?”
“Trust me. In a few short hours, Winge will be singing like a marching band.”
Slidell’s linguistic misadventures never ceased to amaze.
“The term is alienation of affection,” I said. “It’s a charge against the third party, not the spouse.”
“Yeah. Well, I hope the wife cleans Nolan’s shorts.”
The clock read two-ten when I dropped into bed.
In the brief period before my brain shut down, I replayed what Nolan had said.
Who was the man arguing with Cale Lovette? What system did they intend to poison? A water system? Where? Obviously they hadn’t done it. Or hadn’t done it effectively. Such an attack would have been big news.
Something bugged me.
The hat? Where had I seen a cap like that?
Had Nolan read the man correctly? Had he truly regarded Cindi Gamble with malice? If so, why? Or had the look meant something else?
And what was the bit about a bloody hatchet?
Then I was out.
WHILE I SLEPT, MY BRAIN PLAYED WITH SOUNDS.
Two phrases.
Bloody hatchet.
Maddy Padgett.
Suddenly I was wide awake.
Was that what Nolan had overheard? Were Cale Lovette and the old guy talking about Maddy Padgett?
The clock said six-twenty.
Too early to call.
Too jazzed to sleep.
I threw on a robe and went downstairs. Birdie opened one eye but didn’t follow.
While Mr. Coffee cranked up to perk, I turned on the TV.
The local news was all about NASCAR. Qualifying for the Coca-Cola 600 had taken place the previous night. Jimmie Johnson had won the pole and would go off from the inside starting position. Kasey Kahne would share the front row.
Though farther back than predicted, Sandy Stupak had also won good position. And big surprise, the tragic death of Stupak’s jackman, Wayne Gamble, was no longer the lead B-story.
