“No one’s suggesting that Raines killed Gamble.”

“Then what’s the link?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re saying that a lot.”

I hesitated, decided it was better to have everyone on the same page. Leaving out the part about the shotgun, I described the encounter with Eugene Fries.

“I’m telling you. Galimore is a snake.”

“Let it go.”

Angry air whistled in and out of Slidell’s nose for several seconds. “Who would have threatened this guy Fries?”

“I’ve no clue. But they made an impression.”

“Who’s wrong? Fries or Winge?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You think one of them lied?”

“I don’t know. But I think Owen Poteat may have.”

I walked Slidell through my interpretation of Rinaldi’s coded note.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” he said.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” I agreed.

Chapter 24

GALIMORE ARRIVED BEARING CHICK-FIL-A. HIS SHIRT WAS wrinkled and sweat-stained under the arms. His eyes were puffy, his cheeks unshaven. Not the sexy unkept look Bruce Willis sometimes features. The up-all-night-and-grungy version.

Though the food was good, Galimore’s mood was not.

We ate in tense silence.

When I asked our destination, I got one word. Weddington.

As I bunched and rebagged my sandwich wrapper and waffle-fries carton, I considered briefing Galimore on the autopsy, the abrin, and the other info obtained from Williams and Randall.

Not yet.

“What does Bogan do?” I asked.

“I already told you.”

“Indulge me.”

“He grows vegetables.”

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“I spoke with Slidell this morning.”

“Always reason for rejoicing.”

“He questions your motive for looking at the Gamble-Lovette case after all these years.”

Galimore snorted.

“It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”

“I’d rather take a punch to the balls.”

Okay, then.

Galimore turned from Providence onto Weddington Road, which soon veered southeast. Through my window I watched malls and subdivision entrances slide past. I pictured the pretentious homes beyond the flawlessly quaint signs, each trying to be Tudor, or Tuscan, or Provençal. A few years back the area had been farmland. Where had all the countryside gone?

Eventually we entered a stretch of woodland. Galimore made a right, then another, then a third into a driveway. An engraved wooden placard announced our arrival at CB Botanicals.

Through a stand of pines, I could see a bungalow, beyond it a greenhouse. Beside the greenhouse was a small pond.

The bungalow was old but well kept. The siding was blue, probably the kind that never needed painting. The door was red, the gutters and window trim white.

The gardens bordering the house were lavish with color. I recognized some flowers. Phlox, daisies, lilies, begonias. Most I didn’t.

A kid was up on a ladder, pulling leaves from a gutter along the house’s right side. He had wires coming from both ears and didn’t look up at the sound of our car.