Flash and Bones - Kathy Reichs [36]
“You’re thinking the landfill John Doe is connected to the Gamble-Lovette disappearance?”
I nodded.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was the stiff?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lovette?”
“The age indicators are off, but I can’t rule him out.”
“What about this guy Raines from Atlanta?”
“The barrel looked way too old. And the sector it came from doesn’t fit with a recent body dump.”
“But your voice is telling me you can’t rule him out, either.”
“No. I can’t.”
Again Slidell went quiet. Then, “Maybe Cindi Gamble’s baby brother isn’t crackers after all.”
“About a cover-up back in ’ninety-eight?”
Slidell ran a hand over his jaw. Did it again. Then, “Those fucking suits picked the wrong cop to screw with.”
“What do you propose?”
“First off, another heart-to-heart with your NASCAR buddy.”
I was approaching my kitchen door, lugging a Harris Teeter bag, when a silver Rx-8 turned in to the circle drive at Sharon Hall. Thinking it was probably my ex, and not thrilled with the prospect of another go-round concerning Summer, I paused.
The Mazda looped the front of the manor house and headed toward me. As it neared, I could see the driver’s head in silhouette. Oddly pear-shaped, its crown barely cleared the wheel.
Definitely not Pete.
Curious and a little wary, I watched the car pull to the same piece of curb occupied by Williams and Randall on Saturday.
The man who got out had a pompadour that brought his height to maybe five-four. Grecian Formula had turned the do a dead-lemur brown.
The man’s clothes looked expensive. Ice-green silk shirt. Tommy Bahama linen pants. Softer-than-a-newborn’s-bum leather loafers. Armani sunglasses perched on a hawklike nose.
“Good evening, Dr. Brennan.” The man proffered a hand sporting a sapphire the size of Birdie’s paw. “J. D. Danner.”
“Do I know you, sir?”
“Word is you know of me.” Despite the smile, Danner had a hostile, intimidating air.
Ping.
“You were an associate of Cale Lovette. A member of the Patriot Posse.”
“I was commander of the posse, ma’am.”
I adjusted my grip on the groceries.
Danner took a step toward me. “May I help with that?”
“No. Thank you.”
Two palms came up. “Just offering assistance.”
“Do you have information about Cale Lovette or Cindi Gamble?”
“No, ma’am. Nice kids. I hope they found what they were looking for.”
“And what was that?”
“Life. Liberty. Happiness. Isn’t that what we’re all seeking?”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Danner?”
“Get off our backs.”
“Meaning?”
“The Patriot Posse took Cale Lovette under its wing. Provided support. Guidance. A family. When he vanished, we were the first ones in the crosshairs.” Again the insincere smile. “The posse had nothing to do with whatever happened to Lovette and his girlfriend.”
“Why would Lovette need the posse’s support?”
“The kid was floundering. High school dropout. Dead-end job. Estranged father. Loony-tune mother.”
That was the first I’d heard of Lovette’s home life.
“Making him easy prey for your conspiratorial anti-American ideology,” I said.
Danner crossed his arms and spread his feet. Which were small, like the rest of him. An image of Napoleon popped in my brain.
“Back then we were undisciplined, perhaps naive in many ways. But we were far from anti-American.”
“Were?”
“The Patriot Posse disbanded in 2002.”
“What was the group’s purpose?”
“The posse functioned as an unorganized militia.”
Typical right-wing fascist-speak. In federal and state law, the term “unorganized militia” refers to the nominal manpower pool created a century ago when federal law formally abandoned compulsory militia service.
“I prefer the army, navy, air force, and marines,” I said.
“The Patriot Posse was, like other organizations of its kind, equivalent to the statutory militia. It was a legal, constitutional arm of the government. But the posse was not controlled by the government.” A diminutive finger wagged back and forth in the air. “That’s the difference. The posse existed to oppose the government should it become tyrannical.”
“You believe the government might become tyrannical?”
“Dr. Brennan, please. You