Posey tumbled backward, fingers clawing the counter for purchase. The towel flew. Mugs hit the floor in an explosion of glass.

Slidell chin-cocked the shards.

“Saved you some washing.”

Back in the Taurus, Slidell again attacked the AC. While he phoned headquarters, I dialed the MCME.

Larabee told me that the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Medical Examiner/Coroner’s Guide for Contaminated Deceased Body Management.

“Because of the ricin,” I said.

“Which is bullshit. The ricin toxin can’t spread from person to person. You’ve got to breathe or eat the stuff.”

Or get jabbed with an umbrella.

Slidell barked something, then tossed his phone onto the dash.

“Where was the body taken?” I asked Larabee.

“The FBI is stonewalling on that. But I’ll find out. I’ll goddamn well find out.”

Slidell positioned the mock Ray-Bans, clicked his seat belt, and shifted into gear.

“Keep me in the loop,” I said, then disconnected.

Gravel flew from our tires as Slidell gunned from the lot.

“Get an address for Danner?” I asked.

“They’re working on it.”

Knowing Slidell would share when ready, I held my tongue. It was pointless to press.

A minute later he was ready.

“Lynn Marie Hobbs attended NC State from ’ninety-eight until 2001. Didn’t graduate. Married a guy named Dean Nolan in 2002, now goes by Lynn Nolan.”

Static spit from the radio. Slidell reached out and twisted the knob.

“After leaving school, Nolan returned to the old homestead. Works for an outfit called the Cryerton Respiratory Research Institute. CRRI. Headquarters is in some sort of industrial park near China Grove.”

I thought a moment. “The Southeast Regional Research Park?”

“That’s it.”

China Grove is a stone’s throw from Kannapolis.

“I assume we’re heading there now?”

“Eeyuh.”

“Is Nolan expecting us?”

“I figure a surprise might liven things up.”

“What does CRRI do?”

“Call me crazy, but I’m guessing they spend a lot of time thinking about lungs.”

Pointedly, I turned my face toward the window.

Corn rows marched to the horizon, dark and shimmery in the afternoon heat. Above them, a red-tailed hawk looped lazy circles low in the sky.

Instead of returning to I-77, Slidell cut west on NC-152. Just before China Grove, he made three right turns, then a left onto a wide paved road.

No cornfields here. Wild flowers as far as the eye could see. A veritable Monet ocean of color.

A quarter mile up the blacktop, redbrick walls stretched to each shoulder, and large iron gates blocked access to manicured grounds beyond. A stone plaque identified the Southeast Regional Research Park.

Slidell stopped at the guardhouse and lowered his window. A uniformed young man emerged with a clipboard. “May I help you?”

“We’re looking for Lynn Nolan.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll check the list.”

“We aren’t on it.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

Slidell held out his badge.