“And that Pat Veckhoff and Parker Davenport are tied together in some way?”
Another nod.
“Davenport and Veckhoff. The lieutenant governor and a state senator. That's heavy.”
“Henry Preston was a judge.”
“What's the link?”
Before I could answer, a man appeared in the doorway, the name “Krueger” embroidered above the pocket of his lab coat. Gillman introduced Krueger as the technical leader of the DNA section. He, along with another analyst, examined all DNA evidence at the lab. I rose and we shook hands.
Gillman handed Krueger the vial and explained what I wanted.
“If there's something there, we'll get it,” he said, giving a thumbsup-gesture.
“How long?”
“We'll have to purify, amplify, document all along the way. I might be able to give you a verbal in four or five days.”
“That would be great.” Forty-eight hours would be great, I thought.
Krueger and I signed evidence transfer forms, and he disappeared with the specimen. I waited as Gillman took a call. When he hung up, I asked a question.
“Did you know Pat Veckhoff?”
“No.”
“Parker Davenport?”
“I've met him.”
“And?”
“He's popular. People vote for him.”
“And?”
“He's a royal pain in the ass.”
I produced the Tramper funeral photo.
“That's him. But it was a long time ago.”
“Yes.”
He handed back the picture.
“So what's your explanation for all this?”
“I don't have one.”
“But you will.”
“But I will.”
“Can I help?”
“There is something you can do for me.”
I found Boyd curled in granola crumbs, sound asleep. At the sound of the key, he shot to his feet and barked. Realizing this was not a sneak attack, he placed one forepaw on each front seat and wagged his hips. I slid behind the wheel, and he began removing makeup from the side of my face.
Forty minutes later I pulled up at the address Gillman had found for me. Though the residence was only ten minutes from downtown, and five minutes from my condo at Sharon Hall, it had taken that long to work through my usual Queens Road confusion.
Charlotte's street names reflect its schizoid personality. On the one hand the street-naming approach was simple: They found a winner and stuck with it. The city has Queens Road, Queens Road West, and Queens Road East. Sharon Road, Sharon Lane, Sharon Amity, Sharon View, and Sharon Avenue. I've sat at the intersection of Rea Road and Rea Road, Park Road and Park Road. There was also a biblical influence: Providence Road, Carmel Road, Sardis Road.
On the other hand, no appellation seemed adequate for more than a few miles. Streets change names with whimsy. Tyvola becomes Fairview, then Sardis. At one point Providence Road reaches an intersection at which a hard right keeps one on Providence; going straight places one on Queens Road, which immediately becomes Morehead; and going left puts one on Queens Road, which immediately becomes Selwyn. The Billy Graham Parkway begets Woodlawn, then Runnymede. Wendover gives rise to Eastway.
The Queens sisters are the most evil by far. I give visitors and newcomers one driving rule of thumb: If you get onto anything named Queens, get off. The policy has always worked for me.
Marion Veckhoff lived in a large stone Tudor on Queens Road East. The stucco was cream, the woodwork dark, and each downstairs window was a latticework of lead and glass. A neatly trimmed hedge bordered the property, and brightly colored flowers crowded beds along the front and sides of the house. A pair of enormous magnolias all but filled the front yard.
A lady in pearls, pumps, and a turquoise pantsuit was watering pansies along a walk bisecting the front lawn. Her skin was pale, her hair the color of ginger ale.
With a warning to Boyd, I got out and locked the door. I shouted, but the woman seemed oblivious to my presence.
“Mrs. Veckhoff?” I repeated as I drew close.
