Devil Bones (20 page)

Authors: Kathy Reichs

“When was this?”

“June. When he refused to do him anymore, Klapec took over.”

“Anything else?”

“Says he’s got info, but it won’t be free. There’s a novel approach. Rinaldi’s meeting him at ten.”

“Where?”

“Some Mexican joint on North Davidson. I’m gonna stop by, provide a little sales incentive of my own. You want I should run you back to your wheels?”

My stomach chose that moment to growl.

“No,” I said. “I want you should buy me an enchilada.”

Located at Thirty-fifth and North Davidson, Cabo Fish Taco is a bit upmarket to qualify as a joint. The place is more Baja surfer meets Albuquerque artiste.

Slidel parked outside the old Landmark Building, now home to the Center of the Earth Galery. Hanging in the window was a stil life of a glass tumbler containing an egg yolk and two halves of a plastic Easter egg balanced on the rim.

Seeing the painting as we exited the Taurus, Slidel snorted and shook his head. He was about to comment when he spotted Rinaldi walking toward us, from the point where Thirty-fifth dead-ends at the tracks.

Slidel gave a sharp whistle.

Rinaldi’s head came up. He smiled. I think. I’m not sure. At that moment, reality went sideways.

Rinaldi’s hand started to rise.

A gunshot rang out.

Rinaldi’s arm froze, half crooked. His body straightened. Too much.

A second shot exploded.

Rinaldi spun sideways, as though yanked by a chain.

“Down!” Slidel shoved me hard toward the pavement.

My knees cracked cement. My bely. My chest.

Another shot rang out.

A vehicle screamed south on Davidson.

Heart hammering, I looked up, barely raising my head.

Gun drawn, Slidel was thundering up the block.

Rinaldi lay stil, long spider limbs arrayed terribly wrong.

SCRABBLING TO MY FEET, I RAN UP THIRTY-FIFTH.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The previously deserted sidewalks were filing with the curious. Ahead, a circle was forming around Rinaldi. Between pairs of legs I could see his motionless form, a dark tendril oozing toward the curb from below his chest.

Shoving aside gawkers, I made my way up the street. Slidel was kneeling, face splotchy, both hands pressed to his partner’s chest.

My heart leaped into my throat.

Rinaldi’s eyelids were blue, his face morgue white. Rain soaked his hair and shirt. Blood crawled the pavement and oozed over the lip of the curb. Too much blood.

“Get back!” Slidel screamed, voice tremulous with rage. “Give the man some goddamn air!”

The circle expanded, immediately began to contract. Cel phones clicked, capturing images of the gore.

The distant wails grew louder. Increased in number. I knew Slidel had caled in the code for officer down. Units were responding from al over the city.

“Let me do that,” I said, dropping beside Slidel. “You deal with the crowd.”

Slidel’s eyes whipped to mine. He was breathing hard. “Yeah.”

I slid my hands onto Rinaldi’s chest below Slidel’s palms. I could feel trembling in his arm.

“Hard! You gotta press hard!” A vein pounded up the center of Slidel’s forehead. Wetness haloed his hair.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Shooting upright, Slidel lurched toward the gawkers, feet slipping in the rain and the slick of Rinaldi’s blood.

“Get the hel back!” Slidel’s upraised palms were a horrifying crimson.

I dropped my gaze, thoughts pointed at only one goal.

Stop the blood!

“Give me some fucking room! Now!” Slidel belowed.

Stop the blood!

Too much! Dear God, no one could survive such a loss.

Stop the blood!

Seconds passed. The rain fel in a slow, steady drizzle.

A siren screamed to a stop close by. A second. A third. Lights pulsated, turning the street into a flashing whirlpool of red and blue.

Stop the blood!

Doors opened. Slammed. Footsteps pounded. Voices shouted.

Stop the blood!

Sensing movement and space, I glanced up, palms stil pressed to Rinaldi’s chest.

Uniformed cops were now muscling the onlookers back.

My eyes returned to my hands, now glossy and dark.

Stop the blood!

Feet appeared at my side, one pair in boots, one in New Balance running shoes. Muddy. Wet.

Boots squatted and spoke to me. I barely heard through the mantra controling my mind.

Stop the blood!

Boots placed his hands over mine on the blood-soaked shirt. I looked into his eyes. The irises were blue, the whites latticed by a network of tiny red veins.

Boots nodded.

I rose and stepped back on rubber legs.

I knew the dril. ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. I watched numbly as the paramedics went through it, checking Rinaldi’s trachea, bagging him with oxygen, evaluating his carotid pulse.

Then they strapped Rinaldi to a gurney, lifted him, and slammed the doors. I watched the ambulance race into the Charlotte night.

Leaving the scene to others, Slidel and I drove straight to CMC. On the way we passed dozens of squad cars speeding toward NoDa. Dozens more clogged the streets. The city throbbed with sirens and pulsating lights.

The ER waiting room already held a half dozen cops. Barely acknowledging their presence, Slidel barked his name and demanded Rinaldi’s doctor.

A receptionist ushered us to restrooms so we could wash the blood from our hands and arms. Or maybe it was a nurse. Or an orderly. Who knew? Upon our return, she asked us to take seats and wait.

Slidel started to bluster. I led him by one arm to a row of interlocking metal seats. His muscles felt tense as tree roots.

Sensitive to Slidel’s mood, everyone left us alone. Those in law enforcement understood. Their presence was enough.

Slidel and I dropped into chairs and began our vigil, each lost in thoughts of our own.

I kept hearing the shots, picturing Rinaldi’s ghostly face. The blood. Too much blood.

Every few minutes Slidel would lurch to his feet and disappear outside. Each time he returned, cigarette smoke rode him like rain on a dog. I almost envied him the diversion.

Slowly, the number of cops increased. Plainclothes detectives stood in groups with uniformed patrolmen, faces tense, voices hushed.

Finaly, a grim-faced doctor approached wearing blood-spattered scrubs. A stain on one sleeve mimicked the shape of New Zealand. Why would I think of that?

Slidel and I rose, terrified, hopeful. The doctor’s badge said
Meloy.

Meloy told us that Rinaldi had taken two rounds to the chest and one to the abdomen. One wound was through and through. Two bulets remained in his body.

“He conscious?” Slidel asked, face fixed in grim resolution.

“He’s stil in surgery,” Meloy said.

“He gonna make it?”

“Mr. Rinaldi has lost a lot of blood. Tissue damage is extensive.”

Slidel forced his voice even. “That ain’t an answer.”

“The prognosis is not good.”

Meloy led us to a staff lounge and told us to stay as long as we wanted.

“When’s he come off the table?” Slidel asked.

“That’s impossible to say.”

Promising to find us if there were developments, Meloy left.

Rinaldi died at 11:42 P.M.

Slidel listened stone-faced as Meloy delivered the news. Then he turned and strode from the room.

A cop drove me home. I should have said thanks, but didn’t. Like Slidel, I was too battered for niceties. Later I learned her name and sent a note. I think she understood.

Once in bed, I cried until I could cry no more. Then I fel into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke Sunday morning feeling something was wrong, but unsure what. When I remembered, I cried al over again.

The
Observer
’s headlines were huge, the kind reserved for the outbreak of war or peace. Bold, two-inch letters screamed POLICE DETECTIVE SLAIN!

TV and radio coverage was equaly frenzied, the rhetoric wildly speculative.
Gang murder. Assassination. Drive-by shooting. Execution-style killing.

Asa Finney did not escape notice. Finney was described as a self-proclaimed witch arrested for possession of the Greenleaf cauldron skul, and as a person of interest in the Satanic kiling of Jimmy Klapec.

Alison Stalings’s photo of Finney appeared on the front page of the
Observer,
on the Internet, and behind somber reporters at TV anchor desks. Everywhere, reports emphasized the fact that Rinaldi had been investigating both the Greenleaf and the Klapec cases.

My early morning sampling of media coverage left me despondent. And the day went downhil from there.

Katy caled around ten to say she was sorry about Rinaldi. I thanked her, and asked about the picnic. She said it was about as much fun as a boil on the butt. And now they were sending her to some backass place in Buncombe County to help sort and tag documents. I said that her recent negativity was a real downer. Or something equaly imprudent. She said I was the negative one, that I criticized everything about her. Like what? Her taste in music. I denied it. She chalenged me to name a single group she liked. I couldn’t. And so on. We hung up, hostile and angry.

Boyce Lingo was on the air by noon, railing against decadence and corruption and insisting the world remake itself in his narrow image. As before, he encouraged his constituents to take a proactive stance against evil and to insist that their elected officials do likewise.

Boyce pointed to Asa Finney as an example of al that was wrong in today’s society. To my dismay, he referred to Finney as a minion of Satan, and implied a link to Rinaldi’s murder.

A Google of Alison Stalings eventualy revealed that she was a writer of true crime with one publication under her belt, a low-budget mass market exposé of a domestic homicide in Columbus, Georgia. The book wasn’t even listed on Amazon.

Stalings had also earned photography credits in the
Columbus Ledger-Inquirer,
and one big score with the Associated Press.

Dear God. The woman was snooping for book ideas.

Around three, I checked my e-mail. There was a message from the OCME in Chapel Hil. It made three points. The chief was deeply troubled by my rant Friday morning. I was to abstain from al contact with the press. I’d be hearing from him first thing on Tuesday.

Ryan didn’t cal.

Charlie didn’t cal.

Birdie threw up on the bathroom rug.

In between e-mails and phone cals and vomit and tears, I cleaned. Not the run-the-vacuum-swipe-a-dust-cloth type slicking-up. I attacked the Annex with fury, toothbrush-scrubbing the bathroom grout, scouring the oven, changing the AC filters, defrosting the freezer, discarding just about everything in the medicine cabinet.

The intense physical activity worked. Until I stopped.

At six, I stood in my gleaming kitchen, grief once again threatening to overwhelm my composure. Birdie was in bunker mode atop the refrigerator.

“This won’t do, Bird,” I said.

The cat studied me, stil wary of the vacuum.

“I should do something to lift my spirits.”

No response from the lofty height of the Sub-Zero.

“Chinese,” I said. “I’l order Chinese.”

Bird repositioned his two front paws, centering them under his upraised chin.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “You can’t constantly sit home eating out of little white cartons.”

Bird neither agreed nor disagreed.

“Good point. I’l go to Baoding and order al my favorites.”

And that’s what I did.

And the day realy hit the mung heap.

Though restaurant dining is among my favorite activities, I’ve always felt the need of a social component. When alone, I eat with Birdie, in front of the TV.

But Baoding is a southeast Charlotte end-of-the-weekend tradition. On Sunday evenings I always see faces I know.

That night was no exception.

Unhappily, these were not faces I wanted to, wel, face.

Martinis are a Baoding specialty, particularly for those awaiting takeout. Not very Chinese, but there it is.

When I entered, Pete was at the bar, talking to a woman seated on his right. Both were drinking what I guessed were apple martinis.

Quick reversal of course.

Too late.

“Tempe. Yo! Over here.”

Springing from his stool, Pete caught me before I could escape out the door.

“You have to meet Summer.”

“It’s not a good—”

Beaming, Pete tugged me across the restaurant. Summer had turned and was now gazing in our direction.

It was worse than I’d imagined. Summer was overblond, with breasts the size of beach bals, and far too little blouse to accommodate them. During introductions, she wrapped a territorial hand around Pete’s upper arm.

I offered congratulations on their engagement.

Summer thanked me. Cooly.

Pete beamed on, oblivious to the hypothermics.

I asked how wedding plans were progressing.

Summer shrugged, speared an apple slice with a red plastic swizzle stick.

Mercifuly, at that moment their order arrived.

Summer popped from her stool like a spring-loaded dol. Snatching the bag, she mumbled, “Nice to meetcha,” and made for the door, leaving a gale of fleur-de-something in her wake.

“She’s nervous,” Pete said.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“You OK?” Pete studied my face. “You look tired.”

“Rinaldi was kiled yesterday.”

Pete’s brows did that confusion thing they do.

“Eddie Rinaldi. Slidel’s partner.”

“The cop shooting that’s been al over the news?”

I nodded.

“You’ve known Rinaldi forever.”

“Yes.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”