“Shouldn’t this go two ways?” Slipping on aviator shades, though the day was cloudy. “You must have something on that John Doe by now.”

Oh yeah. The ricin. The confiscation and destruction of the body. The Rosphalt. No way I could share that information.

“I’ll talk to Dr. Larabee,” I said.

“I’m good at this, you know.” The aviators were fixed on my face. “I was a detective for ten years.”

I was weighing responses when my iPhone overrode the traffic sounds coming from East Boulevard.

Turning my back to Galimore, I moved a few paces off and clicked on.

“Yo.” Slidell was, as usual, chewing something. “This will be quick. Got two vics capped, another bleeding bad, probably not gonna make it. Looks like the gang boys are unhappy with each other.”

“I’m listening.” Sensing Galimore’s interest, I kept my response vague.

“Owen Poteat.” I waited while Slidell repositioned the foodstuff from his left to his right molars. “Born 1948, Faribault, Minnesota. Married, two daughters. Sold irrigation systems. Canned in ’ninety-five. Two years later the wife divorced him and moved the kids to St. Paul. Dead in 2007.”

“Why was Poteat at the airport?”

“Going to see his madre, who was checking out with cancer.”

“How’d he die?”

“Same as Mama.”

Failed job. Lost family. Dead mother. Though far from unique, Poteat’s story depressed the hell out of me.

“Looks like I’m out on Lovette-Gamble for now. With the bangers on the warpath, the chief’s reined us all in.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll jump back aboard when things cool down.”

“Focus on your investigation. I have another lead.”

“Oh yeah?”

Moving farther from Galimore, I told Slidell about Fries.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Cotton Galimore.”

“What the fuck?” Slidell exploded.

“Galimore participated in the original investigation. I thought he might have useful information. Which he did.”

“What did I tell you about that asswipe?”

“He claims he was framed.”

“And Charlie Manson claimed he was just running a day camp.” It was exactly the reaction I’d expected. “I don’t plan to date him,” I snapped.

“Yeah, well. Word is Galimore wasn’t exactly humping back in ’ninety-eight.”

“What does that mean?”

“That investigation went bust. Why’s that, I ask myself. I come up with no explanation makes sense. So I float a few questions.”

“To whom?”

“Cops been around the block.”

“They suggested that Galimore obstructed the work of the task force?”

“They inferred as much.”

I ignored Slidell’s misuse of the verb. “Why would he do that?”

“I ain’t his confessor.”

“Did they cite examples?”

“All I’m saying. Galimore’s a reptile. You chum with him, I’m out.”

Dead air.

“I’m guessing that was Skinny.”

Furious with Slidell, I hadn’t heard Galimore approach.

Shifting my face into neutral, I turned.

“He’s pissed that you’re talking to me.”

I said nothing.