“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 col apse 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’l be at the counter.”
When we’d disconnected, I sat for a ful 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. Rol ing 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 hal .
“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 al ure.
We ran through a late-August afternoon of young mothers pushing toddlers in strol ers, of old men walking old dogs, of kids throwing Frisbees and footbal s and riding on bikes.