Flash and Bones - Kathy Reichs [53]
Galimore cocked a brow.
“Right. You knew that. When can you get your hands on Poteat’s financial records?”
“Now that I know what I’m looking for, the job will be easier.”
“Tomorrow?”
A waggled hand. Maybe yes, maybe no.
“So.” Galimore gave me a high-beam smile.
“So.” I smiled back.
“Why did Rinaldi think it was worth writing down?”
“Poteat is the single witness who claimed to have seen Cale Lovette after the night of October fourteenth. The man has no job and no assets. Suddenly he parks twenty-six thousand in accounts for his kids?”
“Someone paid him to lie.” Galimore was right with me.
“Or at least Rinaldi thought so.”
“Who?”
I’d given the question a lot of thought. “The FBI? The Patriot Posse? A party wanting to make it look like Lovette and Gamble were still alive?”
Galimore leaned back and took a swig of his San Pellegrino.
Moments passed. In the dining room, Gran’s clock bonged nine times.
“Big weekend coming up.” Galimore’s eyes had drifted to the TV behind my back.
“Want audio?” I asked.
He shrugged.
As I crossed to turn up the sound, the station cut to a commercial.
We are the champions, my friends?….
“That’s what we are.” Galimore laughed. “The DOD’s going to be recruiting our asses to join some secret cryptography unit.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “We dazzle.”
Shooting to his feet, Galimore sang another line of Queen. “‘No time for losers!’”
“‘Cause we are the champions,’ ” I joined in.
Galimore caught me in a waltz hold and swirled me around.
We finished the lyrics together.
“‘Of the world!’”
More swirling.
I laughed like a kid at a carnival.
Finally we stopped. The emerald eyes caught mine. Our gazes locked.
I smelled Galimore’s sweat and cologne. Traces of tomato and garlic on his breath. I felt his body heat. The hardness of muscle below his cotton shirt.
I experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming yearning.
A memory flashed in my brain. Andrew Ryan and I dancing in this same room. A little black dress dropping to the floor.
Yearning for whom? I wondered. Galimore, who was here? Ryan, who was so far away?
Heat rushed up my face.
Palm-pushing from Galimore’s chest, I turned toward the TV.
A kid from Yonkers was singing about heartbreak, hoping to be America’s next idol. He hadn’t a chance.
As the kid crooned, a crawler appeared at the bottom of the screen. For distraction, I read the words.
My hands flew to my mouth.
“Oh my God!”
“YOU OK?” GALIMORE’S HAND WAS ON MY SHOULDER.
I gestured at the TV.
“Holy shit. Wayne Gamble’s dead? At my friggin’ speedway?”
Galimore grabbed his phone. Flicked a button. Messages started pinging in. Ignoring them, he jabbed keys with his thumbs.
I said nothing. I was already hitting speed dial myself.
Larabee answered on the first ring. Background noise suggested he was in a car. “I was just about to call you.”
“What happened to Gamble?” I asked.
“Some sort of freak accident. I’m heading to Concord now. You’d better join me.”
I didn’t ask for a reason.
“I’ll leave right away.”
“Thanks.” A beat. Then, “Everyone’s looking for Galimore. Any idea where he is?”
Great. Hawkins had told Larabee about the message he’d overheard. Undoubtedly embellished.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said.
When I disconnected, Galimore was no longer in the kitchen. Through the window, I could see him on the porch, talking on his mobile. Exaggerated gestures told me he was upset.
In seconds the door opened.
“I gotta go.” Galimore’s face was taut.
“Me, too. Larabee wants me at the scene.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No.”
“See you there.”
For the second time that day, I made the long trek out to the Speed-way.
As the finding of the landfill John Doe demonstrated, the Charlotte media monitor police frequencies. And word spreads fast.
Every local station was there, one or two nationals, each positioned to provide an appropriately cinematic backdrop for sharing news of tragedy. A major NASCAR event is in full swing. Violent death strikes the pit crew of a favored son. I could hear the lead-ins in my head.
I had