"About five years after Savannah disappeared Dwayne must have developed a yearning for the mountains. He drove al the way up to Chimney Rock to celebrate July Fourth by camping and drinking with his buddies. On his second night there he made a beer run into town and Yankee Doodle Dandied himself right off the highway and into Hickory Nut Gorge. He was thrown out and the car rol ed over him. I understand that when they found him the diameter of Dwayne's head exceeded that of the spare tire.

Kate bunched up her wrappers, centered them on her tray, and pushed back from the table.

"The investigation pretty much died with Dwayne," she said as she slid everything into a waste container.

We emerged from the restaurant and onto a smal patio where an ancient black man in a Yankees cap greeted us with the standard "Hey." He was watering flowers with a garden hose, and the scent of wet earth and petunias mingled with the odor of cooking grease.

Afternoon sun glared off cement and warmed my head and shoulders as we crossed the parking lot to Kate's car. When we were buckled in I asked,

"Do you think he did it?"

There was a silence before she answered.

"I don't know Tempe. Some things didn't add up."

I waited as she sorted through her thoughts.

"Dwayne Osprey had a drinking problem and was mean as a snake, but the fact that he lived in Shal otte meant some vil age was deprived of its rightful idiot. I mean this guy was stupid. I never thought he could kil his child and transport her body to another city then cover his tracks completely He just didn't have the neurons. Besides, a lot was going on that week."

"Such as?"

"Every year in mid-May there's a huge motorcycle ral y in Myrtle Beach. It's a mandatory run for Hel s Angels chapters in the South, and a lot of Pagans usual y show up, as wel . The place was crawling with bikers that week, everything from outlaw to Rubbie.

"Rubbie?" She couldn't mean it in the Montreal sense, where the term was slang for wino.

"Rich Urban Bikers. Anyway, that's how I ended upon the case. My boss thought there might be a gang connection.

"Was there?"

"We never found one."

"What do you think?"

"Hel , Tempe, I don't know. Shal otte is right on Highway 17 en route to Myrtle Beach and there are dozens of motels and fast-food joints along there.

With al the traffic heading to and from South Carolina that week she could have just bumped into some psychopath pul ing off the highway for chicken and biscuits."

"But why murder her?" I knew it was stupid as soon as I asked it.

"People are shot for driving too close, for wearing red where the blue gang hangs, for getting product from the wrong supplier. Maybe someone kil ed her just for wearing glasses."