Eddie Rinaldi spent most of his career with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit. The murder table. We’d worked many cases together. Two years back, I’d watched Rinaldi gunned down by a manic-depressive who’d skipped his meds.

Gamble’s words brought me back. “Rinaldi seemed like a stand-up guy. You’ll talk to him?”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” I promised.

Gamble thanked me, and we disconnected.

I sat staring at the page on which I’d written nothing.

For decades Rinaldi had partnered with a detective named Erskine Slidell. Skinny. I wondered why he was working with Galimore in the fall of ’ninety-eight.

Call Slidell? Galimore?

Though a good cop, Skinny Slidell tends to grate on my nerves. But something in my brain was cautioning against Galimore.

I checked my address book, then dialed.

“Slidell.”

“It’s Temperance Brennan.”

“How’s it hangin’, Doc?” Slidell views himself as Charlotte’s answer to Dirty Harry. Hollywood cop lingo is part of the shtick. “Found us a rotter?”

“Not this time. I wonder if I could pick your brain for a minute.” Generous. A second was plenty to search Skinny’s entire neocortex.

“Your dime, your time.” Spitty. Slidell was chewing on something.

“I’m interested in a couple of MPs dating back to ’ninety-eight. Eddie worked the case.”

There was a long moment with neither reply nor sounds of mastication. I knew Slidell’s insides were clenching, as mine had.

“You there?” I asked.

“Fall of ’ninety-eight I was TDY on a training course up in Quantico.”

“Did Eddie partner with someone while you were away?”

“A horse’s ass name of Cotton Galimore. What the hell kinda name is Cotton?”

Typical Skinny. He thinks it, he says it.

“Galimore is now in charge of security for Charlotte Motor Speedway,” I said.

Slidell made a noise I couldn’t interpret.

“Why did he leave the force?” I asked.

“Got too close to a buddy name of Jimmy Beam.”

“Galimore drinks?”

“Booze is what finally got him booted.”

“I gather you don’t like him.”

“Ask me? You can cut off his head and shit in his—”

“Did Eddie ever mention Cindi Gamble or Cale Lovette?”

“Give me a hint, Doc.”

“Gamble was a high school kid, Lovette was her boyfriend. Both went missing in October of ’ninety-eight. Eddie worked the case. The FBI was also involved.”

“Why the feds?”

“Lovette had ties to right-wingers. Possible domestic terrorism issues.”

I waited out another pause. This one with a lot of slurping and popping.

“Kinda rings a bell. If you want, I can pull the file. Or check Eddie’s notes.”