“When do you fly out?” he asked, splitting off Côte-des-Neiges onto rue St-Mathieu.
“Eleven-fifty tomorrow morning.”
“I'll pick you up at ten-thirty.”
“If you're aspiring to a position as my chauffeur, the pay is lousy.”
The joke plunged to its death before I'd finished saying it.
“I'm on the same flight.”
“Why?”
“Last night the Charlotte PD busted an Atlanta lowlife named Pecan Billie Holmes.”
He dug a pack of du Maurier's from his pocket, tapped one out on the steering wheel, and placed it between his lips. After lighting up with one hand, he inhaled, then blew smoke through both nostrils. I lowered my window.
“Seems the Pecan had a lot to say about a certain telephone tip to the FBI.”
THE NEXT FEW DAYS FELT LIKE A PLUNGE ON THE MIND ERASER AT Six Flags. After weeks of the slow climb, suddenly everything broke. But there was nothing amusing about the ride.
It was late afternoon when Ryan and I touched down in Charlotte. In our absence, fall had caught on, and a strong breeze flapped our jackets as we walked to the parking garage.
We drove directly downtown to the FBI office at Second and Tryon. McMahon had just returned from interviewing Pecan Billie Holmes at the jail.
“Holmes was coked to the eyeballs when they hauled his butt to the bag last night, yelling and screaming, offering to roll over on everything back to a Little League game his team threw in the fourth grade.”
“Who is this guy?” Ryan.
“A thirty-eight-year-old three-time loser. Hangs on the fringes of the Atlanta biker scene.”
“Hells Angels?”
McMahon nodded.
“He's not a full patcher, doesn't have the brains of a banana Popsicle. The club tolerates him as long as he's useful.”
“What was Holmes doing in Charlotte?”
“Probably here for a Rotary luncheon,” McMahon said.
“Does Holmes really know who phoned in the bomb tip?” I asked.
“At four A.M. he had an inside track. That's why the arresting officers phoned us. By the time I got there, a night's sleep had dulled the Pecan's enthusiasm for sharing.”
McMahon lifted a mug from his desk, swirled and examined the contents as one might a stool sample.
“Fortunately, at the time of his arrest the scumbag was on probation for bouncing rubber all over Atlanta. We were able to persuade him that full disclosure was in his own best interest.”
“And?”
“Holmes swears he was present when the scheme was hatched.”
“Where?”
“The Claremont Lounge in midtown Atlanta. That's about six blocks from the pay phone where the call was made.”
McMahon set down the mug.
“Holmes says he was drinking and snorting blow with a couple of Angels named Harvey Poteet and Neal Tannahill. The boys were talking about Pepper Petricelli and the crash when Poteet decided it would be cool to diddle the FBI with a false lead.”
“Why?”
“Barstool brilliance. If Petricelli was alive, it would scare him into silence. If he'd gone down with the plane, a message would go out. Talk and the brothers erase you from the planet. A freebie.”
“Why would these assholes talk business in front of an outsider?”
“Poteet and Tannahill were doing lines in Holmes's car. Our hero was out cold in the backseat. Or so they thought.”
“So the whole thing was a hoax,” I said.
“Appears so.” McMahon moved the mug beyond the edge of the blotter.
“Metraux's backing off on his Petricelli sighting,” Ryan added.
“There's a surprise.”
Down the hall a phone rang. A voice called out. Heels clicked down the corridor.
“Looks like your partner and his prisoner just got on the wrong flight.”
“So the Sri Lankans are clean, Simington is up for Humanitarian of the Year, and the Angels are nothing but merry pranksters. We're back to square one with a blown plane and no explanation.” Ryan.
“I got a call from Magnus Jackson as I was leaving Bryson City. He claims his investigators are picking up evidence of slow burning.”
“What kind of evidence?” I asked.
“Geometric burn patterns on debris.”
“Which means?”
“Fire prior to the explosion.”
“A mechanical problem?”
McMahon shrugged.
“They can separate precrash from postcrash burning?” I pushed.
“Sounds like crap to me.”
McMahon grabbed the mug and got out of his chair.
“So the Pecan may be a hero.”
Ryan and I stood.
“And Metraux's not finding a seller's market,” said Ryan.
“Ain't life grand.”
I hadn't told Ryan about Parker Davenport's insinuations concerning himself and Bertrand. I did so now, outside the Adams Mark Hotel. Ryan listened, hands tight on his knees, eyes straight ahead.
“That rat-brained little prick.” Headlights moved across his face, distorting lines and planes rigid with anger.
“This should dampen that line of reasoning.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sure Davenport's reaming me has nothing to do with you or Bertrand. That was a sidebar to his real agenda.”
“Which is?”
“I have every intention of finding out.”
Ryan's jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“Powerful people.”
His palms rubbed up then down his jeans, then he reached over and took my hand.
“Sure I can't buy you dinner?”
“I need to collect my cat.”
Ryan dropped my hand, flipped the handle, and got out of the car.
“I'll call you in the morning,” I said.
He slammed the door and was gone.
* * *
Back at the Annex, my answering machine flashed four messages.
Anne.
Ron Gillman.
Two hang-ups.
I dialed Gillman's pager. He phoned back before I'd filled Birdie's bowls.
“Krueger says you've got a match on the DNA.”
My stomach and tonsils changed places.
“He's sure?”
“One chance in seventy godzillion of error. Or whatever figures those guys throw around.”
“The tooth and foot come from the same person?” I still couldn't believe it.
“Yes. Go get your warrant.”
I dialed Lucy Crowe. The sheriff was out, but a deputy promised to find her.
There was no answer in Ryan's room.
Anne picked up on the first ring.
“Figure out who your bomber is?”
“We figured out who it isn't.”
“That's progress. How about dinner?”
“Where's Ted?”
“At a sales meeting in Orlando.”
My cupboard would have made Mother Hubbard proud. And I was so agitated I knew sitting at home would be sheer torture.
“Foster's in thirty minutes?”
“I'll be there.”
Foster's Tavern is a subterranean hideaway with somber wood paneling and tufted black leather rising to midwall. A carved bar wraps around one end, battered tables fill the other. Blood cousin to the Selwyn Avenue Pub, the tavern is small, dark, and flawlessly Irish.
Anne had the Guinness stew and Chardonnay. Were I in the game, I'd have gone for a black and tan, but Anne always had Chardonnay. I ordered corned beef and cabbage, a Perrier with lime. Normally I ask for lemon, but the green seemed more fitting.
“So who's been ruled out?” Anne asked, fingertipping a speck from her wine.
“I can't really discuss that, but there's other progress I can tell you about.”
“You've figured out the early temperature history of the solar system.”
She flicked the particle. Her hair looked blonder than I remembered.
“That was last week. Did you lighten your hair?”
“A mistake. What's this progress?”
I told her about the DNA hit.
“So your foot belongs to whoever went soupy inside the wall.”
“And it wasn't any jive deer.”
“Who was it?”