“Yeah.”

  “Odd, since Baptist is right there at Sumter and Taylor.”

  “Richland isn’t the closest hospital?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe Looper didn’t know that.”

  “Maybe.” Larabee wagged his head. “Folks is dropping like flies, ma dear.”

  “I’m going to phone Lancaster County, see if I can shake something loose on Cagle’s report.”

  “Go, girl.” Larabee pushed open the glass door and was gone.

  Seated at my desk, I looked up the number and dialed.

  “Lancaster County Sheriff’s Department.”

  After introducing myself, I asked for the person in charge.

  “Chief Deputy Roe is unavailable at the moment.”

  I gave a two-sentence synopsis of the potential Foote farm privy–Lancaster County skeletal connection, and of my problems in obtaining a copy of the anthropology report, and asked if anyone else could help me.

  “Let me see if one of the investigating officers is in.”

  Pause. Several clicks, then a female voice.

  “Terry Woolsey.”

  I repeated my spiel.

  “The guy that caught that one has moved on. You’ll have to talk with Chief Deputy Roe.”

  “Are you familiar with the case?”

  “I remember it. Headless skeleton, turned up over at the state park about three years back.”

  “I understand there was a different sheriff then.”

  “Hal Cobber. Lost the election, retired to Florida.”

  “The coroner was Murray Snow?”

  “Yes.” Guarded.

  “Did you know Mr. Snow?”

  “Dr. Snow. He was an obstetrician. The position of coroner isn’t full-time down here.”

  “Who is the current coroner?”

  “James Park.”

  “Another doctor?”

  “Park owns a funeral home. Bit of local irony. Snow brought folks into the world. Park sends ’em out.”

  It sounded like a joke that had been told a few times.

  “Is Park an easy guy to work with?”

  “He does his job.”

  “Any reason he’d be holding back on that anthropology report?”

  “None he shared with me.”

  What the hell. Try the sisters-in-arms approach.

  “Right.” Moment of poignant hesitation. “Listen, I’m working with Detectives Slidell and Rinaldi up here in Charlotte,” I said, frustration tinging my voice ever so slightly. “I’ll be honest, Detective Woolsey. I don’t think these guys are really keeping me in the loop.”

  “What’s your point?”

  So much for sisterhood.

  “It doesn’t seem likely that Dr. Cagle’s report would just vanish from the system.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “You ever encountered that problem on a case?”

  She ignored my question.

  “Surely this anthropologist kept records. Why not ask him for his copy?”

  “I did. Cagle’s had some sort of medical crisis and his file and photos have gone missing.”

  “What sort of medical crisis?”

  I explained about Cagle’s collapse and subsequent coma.

  There was a long pause, squad room noises in the background.

  “And this dossier had been removed from his files?”

  “Looks that way.”

  I heard her take several breaths, then rattling sounds, as though she was switching the receiver from one hand to the other.

  “Can you meet me tomorrow?” Scratchy, as though her lips were now closer to the mouthpiece.

  “Sure.” I tried to keep the surprise from my voice. “Headquarters is on Pageland Road, right?”

  “Don’t come here.”

  Another, shorter pause while we both thought that over.

  “You know the Coffee Cup, near where Morehead passes under I-77?”

  “Of course.” Everyone in Charlotte knew the Coffee Cup.

  “I’ve got some business up your way tomorrow. Meet me at eight.”

  “I’ll be at the counter.”

  When we’d disconnected, I sat for a full five minutes.

  First Zamzow and now Woolsey. What could the detective have to say that couldn’t be said in Lancaster?

  * * *

  When I got home, Boyd and Birdie were asleep in the den, dog on the couch, cat burrowed into a hidey-hole on a bookshelf behind my desk.

  Hearing footsteps, Boyd oozed to the floor, lowered his head, and looked up at me, tongue dangling from between his lower front teeth.

  “Hey, big guy.” I clapped my hands and squatted.

  Boyd bounded over, placed both paws on my shoulders, and lunged forward to lick my face. The force of his enthusiasm knocked me to my bum. Rolling to my stomach, I threw both arms over my head. Boyd sprinted three circles around me, then attempted to resume the saliva facial.

  When I sat up, Birdie was looking at us with as much disapproval as a cat face can register. Then he stood, arched, dropped to the floor, and disappeared into the hall.

  “Listen, Boyd.”

  Boyd froze a nanosecond, hopped back, and made another loop.

  “Look at me. I’m out of shape. You saw Ryan. What did you think?”

  Boyd ran another lap.

  “You’re right. Exercise.”

  Scrambling to my feet, I climbed to my bedroom and changed into running gear. When I returned to the kitchen and unpegged Boyd’s leash, the chow went berserk.

  “Sit.”

  Boyd attempted a sudden stop, lost his balance, and slid into a table leg.

  I did my short route up Radcliffe, over to Freedom Park, a loop around the lake, then back down Queens Road West. Boyd padded along, now and then suggesting stops at points that held particular canine allure.

  We ran through a late-August afternoon of young mothers pushing toddlers in strollers, of old men walking old dogs, of kids throwing Frisbees and footballs and riding on bikes.

  The hot, heavy day made me acutely aware of sound. I heard leaves whispering in the slight breeze. A child’s swing moving back and forth in the park. A lone frog. Geese overhead. A siren.

  Though I stayed vigilant, I saw no sign of a cameraman, heard no shutter click. I was grateful for Boyd’s company.

  By the time we got back to Sharon Hall I was soaked with sweat and my heart rate was somewhere in the seven hundreds. Boyd’s tongue hung from the side of his mouth like a thin slice of flank steak.

  To cool down I allowed Boyd to sniff the grounds at his pace. The chow trotted from bush to tree to flower bed, perfecting his sniff-squirt-and-cover routine, now and then stopping for more in-depth snuffling and peeing.

  In keeping with my new fitness campaign, dinner consisted of a large salad, fresh produce courtesy of Andrew Ryan. Boyd had brown nuggets.

  By ten I was starving. I’d just dug yogurt, carrots, and celery from the fridge when the phone rang.

  “Still think I’m the most handsome, intelligent, and exciting man on the planet?”

  “You’re dazzling, Ryan.”

  The sound of his voice perked my spirits. Grinning like a kid, I took a bite of carrot.

  “What are you eating?”

  “Carrots.”

  “Since when do you eat raw veggies?”

  “Carrots are good for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Good for the eyes.”

  “If carrots are so good for the eyes, how come I see so many dead rabbits on the road?”

  “Is your niece OK?”

  “Nothing’s OK. This kid and her mother make the Osbourne family look normal.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But it’s not hopeless. I think they’re listening. Shouldn’t be but a couple more days here. I’ve been thinking of putting in for a third week of vacation.”

  “Oh?” My grin now sent sparkles into the air.

  Boyd carried a mouthful of nuggets from his bowl and dropped them on my foot.

  “I’ve got some unfinished business in Charlotte.”

  “Really?” I shook my foot. The slimed-out nuggets slid to the floor. Boyd ate them.

  “Personal business.”

  My stomach was too grossed out by the nuggets to flip. But it took notice of the comment.

  “How’s Hooch?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Any developments on the privy bones?”

  I described my sortie to Columbia.

  “¡Caramba! A road trip with Skinny.”

  “The man is a Neanderthal.”

  “See any dead rabbits?”

  “The anthropology department secretary said Cagle had a visitor she didn’t know, short guy with dark hair. Looper also spotted Cagle with a stranger.”

  “Same description?”

  “Roughly. Though Looper emphasized the fact that the guy was gorgeous. Saw him as competition.”

  “That happens to me a lot.”

  “The secretary didn’t indicate Cagle’s visitor was particularly good-looking.”

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

  “I think her eye might have picked that up.”

  “The doctors are stumped about Cagle’s collapse?”

  “Apparently.”

  I told Ryan about my conversation with Terry Woolsey, and about the meeting scheduled for the following morning.

  “She’s a detective, so I’m sure she’s legit.”

  “We’re all sages and saints.”

  “I have no idea what she wants.”

  “An idea can be a dangerous thing.”

  “It’s odd, Ryan.”

  “It’s odd.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I know what I’d rather do to you.”

  A stomach cartwheel.

  “Have you received any more threatening e-mails?”

  “No.”

  “They still got stepped-up patrols past your place?”

  “Yes. And past Lija’s town house.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m starting to think Dorton was behind the whole thing.”

  “Why?”

  “Ricky Don turns up dead, the e-mails stop.”

  “Maybe. Maybe someone took Dorton out.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance.”

  “I want you to be careful.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You can be a real pain in the ass, Brennan.”

  “I work at it.”

  “Hooch getting enough attention?”

  “We had a nice, long run this afternoon.”

  “It was fifty-two degrees in Halifax today.”

  “It was ninety-four degrees in Charlotte today.”

  “Miss me, Miz Temperance?”

  Here we go.

  “Some.”

  “Admit it, darlin’. This hombre is your dream come true.”

  “You’ve stumbled upon my fantasy, Ryan. Men in chaps.”

  “Happy trails.”

  After disconnecting, I called Katy.

  No answer.

  I left a message.

  Boyd, Birdie, and I watched the last few innings of a Braves-Cubs game. I finished the carrots, Boyd gnawed a rawhide bone, and Birdie lapped at the yogurt. At some point the two of them switched. Atlanta kicked ass.

  Dog, cat, and Miz Temperance were down and out by eleven.

  CHARLOTTE HAS MANY INSTITUTIONS DEVOTED TO THE preservation and veneration of beauty. The Mint Museum of Art. Spirit Square. The McGill Rose Garden. Hooters.

  The intersection of Morehead and Clarkson does not make that list. Though just a few blocks from the trendy, yuppie ghetto, this sliver of Third Ward has yet to experience a similar rebirth, and highway overpasses, aging warehouses, cracked pavements, and peeling billboards remain the overriding architectural theme.

  No matter. Business booms at the Coffee Cup.

  Every morning and noon black and white professionals, government workers, blue-collar laborers, lawyers, judges, bankers, and realtors are packed shoulder to elbow. It ain’t the ambience. It’s the cookin’—down-home food that will warm, then eventually stop your heart.

  The Coffee Cup has been owned by a loosely affiliated group of black cooks for decades. Breakfast never changes: eggs, grits, fatback, deep-fried salmon patties, liver mush, and the usual bacon, ham, hotcakes, and biscuits. At lunch the cooks are a bit more flexible. The day’s menu is posted on two or three blackboards: stew meat, pig’s feet, country steak, ribs, chicken that’s fried, baked, or served with dumplings. Vegetables include collard greens, pinto beans, cabbage, broccoli casserole, squash and onions, creamed potatoes, and black-eyed peas. At lunch there’s corn bread in addition to biscuits.

  You’d never catch Jenny Craig or Fergie dining at the Cup.

  I arrived at seven-fifty. The lot was overflowing, so I parked on the street.

  Worming through those patrons waiting inside the door, I noticed that every table was full. I scanned the counter. Seven men. One woman. Tiny. Short brown hair. Heavy bangs. Fortyish.

  I walked over and introduced myself. When Woolsey looked up, two turquoise and silver earrings swayed with the movement.

  As we exchanged introductions, a place opened up two stools down. The intervening men shifted over. Patches over their pockets identified them as Gary and Calvin.

  Thanking Gary and Calvin, I sat. A black woman moved toward me, pencil poised over pad. Screw the diet. I ordered fried eggs, biscuits, and a salmon patty.

  Woolsey’s plate was empty save for a mound of grits topped by a lake of butter the size of Erie.

  “Not fond of grits?” I asked.

  “I keep trying,” she said.

  The waitress returned, poured coffee into a thick white mug, and placed it in front of me. Then she held the pot over Woolsey’s cup, put a hand on one hip, and raised her brows. Woolsey nodded. The coffee flowed.

  While I ate, Woolsey provided what background she deemed appropriate. She’d been a detective in Lancaster for seven years, before that, a uniform with the Pensacola, Florida, PD. Moved north for personal reasons. The personal reasons married someone else.

  When I’d finished breakfast, we took coffee refills.

  “Tell me the whole story,” Woolsey said, without preamble.

  Sensing this was a woman who did not fancy equivocation, I did. Woodstove. Bears. Cessna. Privy. Cocaine. Macaw. Missing fish and wildlife service agents. Headless skeleton. Cagle report.

  Woolsey alternated between sipping and stirring her coffee. She didn’t speak until I’d finished.

  “So you think the skull and hands you found in the Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, privy go with the bones we found at the state park in Lancaster County, South Carolina.”

  “Yes. But the Lancaster County remains were destroyed, and I haven’t been able to read the anthropology report or view the photos.”

  “But if you’re right, the John Doe is not this FWS agent.”

  “Brian Aiker. Yes. His dentals exclude the skull.”

  “But if the skull and hands are not a match to the skeleton, our Lancaster unknown could still be Brian Aiker.”

  “Yes.”

  “In which case you guys would still have an unknown.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who could possibly turn out to be the mother of the dead baby or her boyfriend.”

  “Tamela Banks or Darryl Tyree. Very unlikely, but yes.”

  “Who might have been involved in trafficking drugs, bear galls, and endangered bird species.”

  “Yes.”

  “Out of this abandoned farm where the bears and the skull turned up.”

  “Yes.”

  “And these dealers might have been business associates of two guys who crashed a Cessna while dumping coke.”

  “Harvey Pearce and Jason Jack Wyatt.”

  “Who might have been working for some cracker who owns strip joints and wilderness camps.”

  “Ricky Don Dorton.”

  “Who turned up dead in a Charlotte flophouse.”

  “Yes. Look, I’m just trying to put the pieces together.”

  “Don’t get defensive. Tell me about Cagle.”

  I did.

  Woolsey lay down her spoon.

  “What I have to say is for your ears only. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Murray Snow was a good man. Married, three kids, great father. Never thought about leaving his wife.” She took a breath. “He and I were involved at the time of his death.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Forty-eight. Found unconscious in his office. Flatlined almost immediately at the ER.”

  “Was there an autopsy?”

  Woolsey shook her head.

  “Murray’s family has a history of cardiac problems. Brother died at fifty-four, father at fifty-two, grandfather at forty-seven. Everyone assumed Murray had had the big one. Body was released and embalmed within twenty-four hours. James Park handled everything.”

  “The funeral operator who replaced Snow as coroner?”

  Woolsey nodded.

  “It’s not really that unusual for Lancaster County. Murray had a bum ticker, his wife was pretty hysterical, and the family wanted things wrapped up as quickly as possible.”

  “And there was no coroner.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Right.”

  “Seems pretty fast.”

  “Pretty damn fast.”

  Woolsey’s eyes shifted up the counter, then returned to me.

  “Something didn’t ring true to me. Or maybe I was just feeling guilty. Or lonely. I’m not sure why, but I dropped by the ER, asked if there was anything I could send for tox screening. Sure enough, they’d drawn blood and still had the sample.”

  Woolsey paused while the waitress refilled Calvin’s mug.

  “Tests indicated Snow had large quantities of ephedrine in his system.”

  I waited.

  “Murray suffered from allergies. I mean suffered. But he was a doctor with a sketchy heart. The man wouldn’t touch anything with ephedrine. I tried to talk him into an over-the-counter sinus medication once. He was adamant.”

  “Ephedrine is bad for people with weak hearts?”

  Woolsey nodded. “Hypertension, angina, thyroid problems, heart disease. Murray knew that.”

  Leaning toward me, she lowered her voice.

  “Murray was looking into something shortly before his death.”