THE WOMAN WATCHED US CROSS TO THE DESK, HER BODY RIGID with apprehension.
“Lynn Nolan?” Not a bark, but close.
Nolan nodded, lavender-tipped fingers still pressed to her lips.
Slidell flipped his badge. “Got some questions about Cindi Gamble.”
Nolan’s eyes now went impossibly wide.
“You remember Cindi Gamble?”
Nolan nodded again.
“You want we should do this standing?”
The hand left Nolan’s mouth and fluttered toward two desk-facing chairs.
As we sat, Nolan’s gaze flicked to me, but she said nothing.
While Slidell started the interview, I looked around.
The furnishings were standard reception-room walnut and tweed, including Nolan’s desk, our chairs, and a love seat centered on the back wall. Fronting the love seat was a coffee table heaped with magazines. Every title contained the terms “air,” “atmosphere,” or “energy.” As in the corridor, beige ruled.
Above Nolan’s head, a mural displayed the CRRI logo, a stylized windmill with greenery twining the central post. Three words circled the blades: GENOMICS. PROTEOMICS. METABOLOMICS.
“You the receptionist?” Slidell produced his spiral, more for effect than note-taking, I suspected.
Another nod.
“What goes on here?”
“Research.”
Slidell stared at Nolan. She stared back.
“Why am I getting the impression you’re not enjoying our visit?”
“Into air pollution.”
By my count, that brought Nolan’s total word count to four.
“Research for who?” Slidell positioned his pen.
“Industrial consortia, clinical trials companies, R and D firms, consulting groups.” The answer sounded rote. Nolan had obviously given the spiel before.
Slidell jotted something, then got to the point.
“You attended A. L. Brown High with Cindi Gamble?”
Nolan nodded again. She was very good at it.
“Tell me about her.”
“Like what?”
“Dig deep, Miss Nolan.”
“It’s Mrs.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I hardly knew her. Like, Cindi wanted to drive race cars. That wasn’t my thing.”
“But you were friends.”
“Just at school. Sometimes we, like, ate lunch together.”
Nolan was gouging a cuticle on one thumb with the acrylic nail on the other. I wondered why a visit from the cops was unnerving her so badly.
“And?” Slidell prodded.
“And then she disappeared.”
“That’s it?”
“We didn’t hang out senior year.”
“Why was that?”
“Like, her boyfriend was a jerk.”
“Cale Lovette.”
Major-league eye roll. “The guy gave me the creeps.”
“Why was that?”
“The whole shaved-head-and-tattoo thing. Gross.”
“That what turned you off? Lovette’s sense of style?”
Vertical lines dented the bridge of Nolan’s nose. Then, “He and his psycho-loser friends were always talking about guns. They thought it was cool to crawl around in the woods and play soldier. I thought it was dumb.”
“That it?”
“They had all these weird ideas.”
“Like what?”
“Like the Japanese blew up that building in Oklahoma. I mean, how dumb is that? Oh, and the United Nations was going to take over the government. There were people, like, setting up concentration camps in national parks.”
“In your statement back in ’ninety-eight, you said you overheard Lovette discussing poison with someone.”
“Another gross-o.”
“Bald and inked?”
“No. Old and hairy.”
“Did you know the guy?”
“No.”
“You stated that Lovette and his buddy were talking about poisoning something.”
Nolan’s eyes dropped to the cuticle. Which was now bleeding. “I could have got it wrong. I wasn’t, like, trying to eavesdrop. But they were pretty—” Nolan circled both hands in the air. “What’s that word for when people, you know, gesture a lot?”
“Animated?” I suggested.
“Yeah. Animated. I passed them when I went to the ladies’.”
“What were they saying?” Slidell.
“Something about poisoning a system. And an ax or something.”
“Where did this conversation take place?”
“A really lame bar up by Lake Norman.”
“Name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Why were you there?”
“Cindi wanted to hook up with Cale, but she knew her parents would flip out, you know, about her being in a bar. She told them there was a school party and talked me into going along to back up the lie. The place was, like, scuzz city.”
“This was a couple of months before Lovette and Gamble went missing.”
“It was summer. That’s all I remember.”
“You think Lovette and his buddies were plotting something illegal?”
“Like robbing a bank?” The caramel eyes were now perfectly round.
“Let’s think here, Lynn. Poison?” Nolan’s dim-wittedness was wearing on Slidell.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Cale was mean as a snake.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Cindi showed up at school one time with bruises on her arms. Like fingerprints, you know?” Nolan was becoming more expressive, using her hands for emphasis. “She never said so, but I think Cale was smacking her around.”
Slidell rotated one hand. Go on.
“Sometimes he talked to her like she was stupid. Cindi wasn’t stupid. She was in STEM. Those people were all, like, scary smart.” A lavender nail jabbed the air. “There’s someone might know more than me. Maddy Padgett. She was in STEM, too. Maddy was totally into cars and engines. I think she and Cindi were tight.”
Slidell scribbled a note. Then, “Why’d Gamble put up with Lovette treating her like crap?”
“She loved him.” As though the question confused her.
“You think she went off with him?”
“Huh-uh.”
“What’s your take?”
Nolan looked from Slidell to me, then back. Her response was delivered with breathy affect. “I think Cale killed her, then ran away.”
* * *
Humid air pressed our skin as Slidell and I walked back to the Taurus. The sun was a silver-white disc in the sky. An anemic breeze carried the smell of hot brick and mowed grass.
“Brain power of a newt.”
I suspected Slidell was underestimating the amphibian. Didn’t say so.
“What was that shit above her head?”
I wasn’t sure if he meant Nolan’s updo or the logo. I went with the latter. “Genomics is the study of the genomes of organisms.”
“Like figuring out their DNA?”
“Yes. Proteomics is the study of proteins. Metabolomics is the study of cellular processes.” Oversimplified but close enough.
“How’s all that fit in with air pollution?”
“I’ll Google CRRI.”
Slidell and I got into the car. The heat was worthy of Death Valley.
“What do you think of Nolan’s theory?” I asked after securing my belt.
“That Lovette killed Gamble? The thought crossed my mind.”
“Really?”
Slidell didn’t elaborate until he’d turned the key, maxed the airconditioning, and unwrapped and popped a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
“In his notes, Eddie mentions a guy name of Owen Poteat.” Slidell made a U-ey toward the main drag. “Back in ’ninety-eight, Poteat claimed he saw Lovette at the Charlotte airport on the twenty-fourth of October.”
The implication was clear.
“That was ten days after Lovette and Gamble disappeared from the Speedway. How did Poteat know it was Lovette?”
“He’d seen a photo on a flyer. Said the tats and bald head caught his attention.”
“Was Poteat considered credible?”
“The task force thought so. According to Eddie, Poteat’s statement played heavy into the conclusion that Lovette and Gamble took off.”
“What about Cindi?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“Did Poteat see her at the airport with Lovette?”
“Apparently he wasn’t so sure. But here’s the thing.”
Slidell flipped a wave at the guard as we exited the gates. The young man watched us roll through but didn’t wave back.
“At the back of the notebook, Eddie had a page marked with big question marks.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he had questions.” Slidell reached out and smacked the AC control with the heel of one hand.
Easy, Brennan.
“Questions about Poteat?” I asked oh-so-precisely.
“Who the hell knows? For that entry, he used one of his codes. Means nothing to me.” Slidell yanked his spiral from a shirt pocket and tossed it to me. “I copied the stuff into there.”
ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU
Wi-Fr 6–8
When hurried or feeling the need for discretion, Rinaldi used a form of shorthand known only to him. The cryptic notations were typical.
“Maine and South Carolina?” I guessed, looking at the longer entry.
Slidell shrugged.
I played with the alphanumeric combo. “Could it be a license plate?”
“I’ll run it.”
“FU probably means follow up.”
I played some more. Came up blank.
“Can I have this?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I tore the page free and slipped it into my purse. Then, “Who is Owen Poteat?”
“I’ll know soon.”
I settled back and closed my eyes. The heat and the car’s motion acted like drugs. I was dropping off when my mobile sounded.
Joe Hawkins.
I clicked on.
“Hey, Joe.” Sluggish.
“Forensics called with a prelim on the goop from the barrel. Good old asphalt, just like we thought.”
“Not very useful.”
“Maybe no, maybe yes. The sample contained an additive called Rosphalt, a synthetic dry-mix material made by Royston. Provides waterproofing, skid resistance, protects against rutting and shoving, thermal fatigue cracking, that kind of thing. “
“Uh-huh.” Stifling a yawn.
“Rosphalt comes in three types. One’s used mainly for roadways and tunnels, another’s used on airport runways. You still there?”
“I’m here.” Though struggling to stay awake.
“Your sample contained the third type, R50/Rx. That one’s used mostly by motor speedways.”
My brain reengaged. “At the Charlotte Motor Speedway?”
“Knew you’d ask, so I gave a call out there. The track has some pretty steep banking. What with the sun and cars screaming around the curves, the asphalt can heat up, go liquid, and sink right down. They use Rosphalt to provide better holding power.”
“I’ll be damned. So the asphalt in the barrel probably came from the Speedway.”
“Seems logical to me. The track’s right there.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
I disconnected and told Slidell. “The Rosphalt connects the landfill John Doe to the track.” I was totally pumped.
“Whaddya saying? The victim was killed at the Speedway, stuffed in a barrel, sealed in, and dumped at the landfill?”
“Why not? Thirty-five-gallon oil cans are common at speedways.”
While Slidell was gnawing on that theory, my phone sounded again. This time it was Larabee.
“These assholes have gone too far!”
“Which assholes?”
“They won’t get away with this.”
“Get away with what?”