Flash and Bones - Kathy Reichs [30]
“There was a guy named J.D. Another called Buster. Maybe an E-Man. That’s all I remember.”
“Good start. Real names? Last names?”
“J. D. Danner. That’s the only one I ever caught.”
Slidell wiggled his fingers in a “give me more” gesture.
“J.D. was the boss,” Winge offered.
“What’s that mean?”
“He said what to do.”
“What did J.D. say to do?”
Winge dropped his chin and clasped the cross suspended from his neck. I could see dandruff coating the swath of shiny scalp bisecting his hair.
Noting the man’s discomfort, I raised a silencing hand. Slidell sighed but yielded.
“Mr. Winge, we think something bad might have happened to Cale and Cindi.”
Winge raised his eyes to mine.
“Did the Patriot Posse have a political agenda?” I asked.
“What’s that mean?”
“When you met, what did you talk about?”
“Hating black people, Jews, people in Washington. Blaming our problems on everybody but our own selves.”
“Did you ever consider violence?”
Winge’s eyes took on a guarded look. He didn’t answer.
“Did you ever discuss blowing things up? Setting fires? Planting poison?”
“No way.”
“Do you know where we can find J. D. Danner?”
“No.”
“Do you still see him at the Double Shot?”
Winge shook his head. “I took Jesus into my heart.” His head dipped as his lips spoke the name. “The Lord don’t approve of liquor. When I cast out Satan, I quit going to bars.”
“Mr. Winge, do you think Cindi and Cale left on their own?”
The massive shoulders rose, then fell.
“Do you think J.D. and his posse had anything to do with their disappearance?”
Winge overshook his head. “No, ma’am. I don’t.”
Again I switched course.
“In your statement, you said Cale and Cindi got into a car.”
“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”
“Had you seen the car before?”
“No. But that was one sweet ride. And that color. I met Richard Petty a couple of times. Primo racer. Cool dude.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“Nothing special. Medium height, dark hair. Not real tall, not real short. I suppose he could have been black.”
Out of ideas, I posed the same question I’d posed to Williams and Randall. “What do you think happened to Cale and Cindi?”
“I pray to the sweet Lord Jesus their souls found peace.”
“PRICK JUST WASTED AN HOUR OF MY LIFE.”
“The time wasn’t wasted.”
Slidell and I were back in the Taurus. He was whacking the AC so hard I was sure he’d break one of the levers.
“Maybe Danner still drinks at the Double Shot.”
“Life should be that easy.”
A rivulet of sweat broke from Slidell’s hairline as he yanked his mobile from his belt and punched in digits.
In minutes we had an answer. The Double Shot was still pouring from noon until two a.m. daily.
Mooresville edges up to a meandering man-made body of water called Lake Norman. Situated roughly twenty-five miles from Charlotte, in Iredell County, the little hamlet is home to twenty-five thousand citizens and a buffalo ranch.
Along with the surrounding towns of Huntersville, Cornelius, Kannapolis, and Concord, Mooresville is also home to a truckload of NASCAR team shops. Bobby Labonte. Martin Truex, Jr. Brian Vickers. Thus the burg’s self-selected moniker: Race City, U.S.A.
We found the Double Shot on a narrow strip of two-lane a mile and a half east of I-77. Located on neither the lakeshore nor the interstate, the place in all likelihood depended on the business of locals who were regulars.
Curb appeal was definitely not the draw. The building was a 1950s-style ranch with red siding turned salmon by years of sun. DOUBLE SHOT had been hand-lettered on the highway-facing wall sometime this century, then never touched up.
Four motorcycles formed a line outside the front entrance. Two pickups sat at careless angles in the gravel lot.
I must watch too much TV. When Slidell and I entered, I expected every eye to swing our way. Didn’t happen.
To the left, two men played pool while a third watched, legs straddling, arms draping a back-turned chrome and vinyl chair. At the bar, a pair of beer drinkers continued their