Bare Bones Read online

  “What’s Dorothy’s son’s name?” I asked.

  Slidell smiled. There was no humor in it.

  “Harrison Pounder.”

  Where had I heard that name?

  “You remember him, Doc.”

  I did. From where?

  “We discussed Mr. Pounder just last week.” Toothpick. “And it wasn’t because the squirrel’s appearing on our new career leaflet for police recruits.”

  Pounder. Pounder.

  “Harrison ‘Sonny’ Pounder,” Rinaldi supplied.

  Recollection sluiced through my brain.

  “Sonny Pounder?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Mama Foote’s baby boy,” Slidell said.

  “Who’s Sonny Pounder?” Ryan asked.

  “Sonny Pounder’s a dime-a-dozen, low-life dirtbag who’d sell his mama to the Taliban for the right price.” Slidell.

  Ryan turned to me.

  “Pounder’s the dealer who traded the tip about Tamela Banks’s baby.”

  Thunder cracked.

  “Why didn’t you know this was Pounder’s place?” I asked.

  “When dealing with authorities, Mr. Pounder prefers listing his city address. Legally, this farm is deeded to Mama,” Rinaldi said.

  Another peal of thunder. A low wail from the porch.

  “Tamela may have come here with Tyree, but that doesn’t mean she dealt dope or killed her baby.” My reasoning sounded weak, even to me.

  In the yard, a door banged, banged again.

  “Are you going to talk to Pounder?” I asked Slidell.

  The hound-dog eyes settled on mine.

  “I’m not a moron, Doc.”

  Yes, you are, I thought.

  At that moment, the storm broke.

  * * *

  Ryan, Boyd, and I sat on the porch until the squall played itself out. The wind flapped our clothes and blew warm rain across our faces. It felt wonderful.

  Boyd was less enthused about the raw power of nature. He lay at my side, head thrust into the triangle of space below my crooked knees. It was a tactic on which Birdie often relied. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Ergo, I am safe.

  By six the shower had dwindled to a slow, steady drizzle. Though Slidell, Rinaldi, and the CSU techs continued their search of the house, there was nothing more Ryan and I could do.

  As a precaution, I trotted Boyd around every floor a couple of times. Nothing caught his interest.

  I told Slidell we were taking off. He said he’d call me in the morning.

  Happy day.

  When I let Boyd into the backseat, he circled, curled with his chin on his hind paws, and gave a loud sigh.

  Ryan and I got in.

  “Hooch is probably not looking at a career as a narcotics dog.”

  “No,” I agreed.

  On his first circuit Boyd had sniffed the two bags of cocaine, wagged once, and continued prancing around the basement. On his second visit, he’d ignored them.

  “But he’s a pistol with carrion.”

  I reached back and Boyd licked my hand.

  On the way home I swung by the MCME to pick up a laptop power cord I’d left behind. While I went inside, Boyd and Ryan played the chow’s single idea of a game: Ryan stood stationary in the parking lot and Boyd ran circles around him.

  As I was leaving the building, Sheila Jansen swung in, got out of her car, and crossed to me.

  “You’re here late,” I said.

  “Got some news, so I came by on the chance I might catch you here.” She did not comment on my appearance. I did not offer.

  Boyd abandoned Ryan and shot to Jansen to try the crotch schtick. The NTSB agent cut him off with a double-handed ear scratch. Ryan ambled over and I made introductions. Boyd began orbiting the three of us.

  “Looks like the drug theory’s right on,” Jansen said. “When we rolled the Cessna, damned if the right front door hadn’t been fitted with another, smaller door inside.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A hole was cut in the right front door, then covered by a small flap hinged at the bottom to swing down inside the plane.”

  “Like a one-way doggy door?”

  “Exactly. The modification wouldn’t have been obvious to a casual observer.”

  “Why?”

  “To allow air drops.”

  I pictured the two kilos of blow we’d just left behind.

  “Of illegal drugs.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “To a pickup crew waiting with a car on the ground.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Why go to all the trouble of modifying the plane? Why not simply open the door and shove the stuff out?”

  “Stall speed for a C-210 is around sixty-four miles per hour. That’s the minimum they could fly at drop time. It’s tough to push something out at that speed. Think about holding open your car door while going down the highway at sixty-five.”

  “Right.”

  “Here’s the scenario I’m liking. The right front seat’s been removed for access to the modified door. The passenger is in back. The product is in the small cargo compartment behind the passenger. Are you picturing this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pearce—”

  She flicked her eyes to Ryan. I nodded. She turned to him. “That’s the pilot.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Pearce is using the rock face as his landmark. He spots the cliff, gives the signal, the passenger unbuckles, reaches back, and starts shoving product from the plane.”

  “Coke?” Ryan asked.

  “Probably. You couldn’t get enough weed into a C-210 to make the run worth your while. Though I’ve seen it done.”

  “Wouldn’t a fall from that height cause the packets of coke to explode?” I asked.

  “That’s why they’re using parachutes.”

  “Parachutes?”

  “Small cargo chutes they could have purchased in a surplus store. The locals are checking that out. Anyway, the coke is bundled inside heavy plastic sheeting, padded with bubble wrap, and bound with enough duct tape to cover my aunt Lilly’s ass. Auntie was a big girl.”

  “Sounds like my great-aunt Cornelia,” Ryan said. “Good eater.”

  Jansen glanced at Ryan, turned back at me.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Each bundle is attached to a chute with more duct tape and a cinch strap. The chute is wrapped around the bundle, and a twenty-foot polypropylene line is overwrapped around the chute to hold it tight around the bundle. You with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pearce gives the word. The pax secures the loose end of the line to something inside the aircraft, opens the doggy door, and shoves the bundle out. As the bundle tumbles, the rope unwraps, the chute is pulled free and deploys, and the snort drifts to earth, sweet as a songbird.”

  Boyd nipped Ryan’s calf. Ryan clapped at him. The dog leaped backward and resumed looping.

  “So what went wrong?” I asked.

  “How’s this. They’re flying low over the drop area, close to stall speed, things are hunky-dory, then the last bundle streams back toward the tail. The chute or bundle gets tangled in the rudder or elevator, the pilot can’t steer, loses control. Hello, rock face.”

  “Explains why Pearce was belted and his passenger wasn’t.”

  I pictured the two burned corpses, each coated with the crispy black residue.

  “These chutes are made of lightweight nylon, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about this. The last chute deploys prematurely, inside the plane. It envelops the passenger. He struggles. Pearce reaches over, tries to disentangle him, loses control, flies into the rock face. Fireball.”

  “Explains the black residue. Fried parachute.” Jansen was with me.

  “But this is still all conjecture,” I said.

  “Not really,” Jansen said.

  I waited.

  “Couple of kids made an interesting discovery yesterday morning.”
r />   “THREE KIDS WERE RUNNING THEIR DOGS IN A FIELD EAST OF THE crash site early Monday, spotted what they thought was a ghost flapping around on Grandpa’s old tobacco barn.”

  An image. A pilot’s corpse, parachute rising and falling with the wind. Ryan voiced my thought.

  “Lord of the Flies,” he said.

  “Perfect analogy,” Jansen said. “Having pondered the situation over Nehi and Moon Pies, our little geniuses decided to do some sleuthing. When their beastie turned out to be a parachuted packet of white powder, they voted to stash the booty while considering further action.”

  “That action included a broader search,” I guessed.

  “They found three more packets of blow in the woods. Knowing about the Cessna, and being Cops and CSI regulars, they figured good fortune had befallen them.”

  “They called 911 to inquire about a reward.”

  “Phoned around ten this morning. The Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD contacted the parents, and an open discussion ensued. Bottom line: the kids had four bundles of snort and four parachutes squirreled away in Gramp’s shed.”

  “You’re sure it’s cocaine?” I asked.

  “The stuff will have to be tested. But, yeah, I’d bet my ass it’s coke.”

  “Why would the pilot’s pickup crew leave the stuff behind?”

  “Access to the location is by one narrow, winding road. They probably watched the Cessna go down, figured if they lingered they’d meet emergency responders on their way out. Opting for freedom over fortune, they hauled ass.”

  That made sense.

  “According to our scenario, the last chute opened prematurely,” I said. “Why?”

  “Could have been just lousy luck. Or the blowout could have been caused by an airstream.”

  “How so?”

  “The army airborne has had deaths over the years from parachutes inflating accidentally while the jumper stands in the door. The reserve chute is worn in front, and the whipping airstream sometimes gets inside and rips the pack open, dragging the chute and the jumper out the door prematurely.”

  “Opening the doggy door would have caused an airstream to whip around inside the cabin?” Ryan asked.

  “It’s possible,” Jansen said.

  “But they’d successfully launched four chutes. Why a screwup with the fifth?” I asked.

  “Maybe the last bundle was lighter. Maybe the pax didn’t get the chute wrapped fast enough. Maybe the pilot made a sudden maneuver with the plane.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “The snort was packed in one-foot-square bundles. That was a pretty tight fit for the doggy door. Maybe the last bundle got jammed and the chute blew before they could knock it free,” Ryan suggested.

  “Wouldn’t that leave one bundle in the plane?” I asked.

  “Or under it.” Jansen hesitated a microsecond. “I did find something.”

  “Another packet of drugs?” I asked.

  “Hardly a packet. Mostly ash and melted plastic.”

  “Underneath the wreckage?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ash from what?”

  “I’m not sure. But the stuff doesn’t whisper nose candy to me.”

  “Is a mixed payload common?”

  “As a wino with a muscatel buzz.”

  * * *

  When we arrived at the annex Boyd went straight to his bowl.

  Ryan won the toss on which I insisted. Bad idea. While he showered I checked my messages.

  Harry.

  Katy.

  A UNCC colleague.

  One hang-up.

  I tried Lija’s town house. A male voice answered, said my daughter was out, but that she was expected shortly. The voice did not identify itself.

  I left a message, clicked off.

  “And who the hell are you?” I asked the handset. “The intensely engaging Palmer Cousins?” And why didn’t you say so? Are you living at Lija’s town house, too? I didn’t want to think about it.

  Boyd looked up, went back to eating.

  I tried my colleague. He had a question about a graduate thesis that I could not answer.

  Having inhaled every nasty brown nugget in the bowl, Boyd flopped onto his side.

  To call Harry, or not to call Harry?

  My sister doesn’t grasp the concept of the short conversation. Besides, Harry can smell sex over a phone line, and I didn’t want to discuss my recent adventures. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, I laid the phone on the table.

  Ryan appeared with Birdie pressed to his chest. The cat’s forepaws and chin rested on his shoulder.

  When I reached out, Birdie turned his head.

  “Aw, come on, Bird.”

  Two unblinking eyes swung my way.

  “You’re a fraud, Birdie.” I stroked the cat’s head. “You’re not even trying to get away.”

  Birdie’s chin went up, and I scratched his throat.

  “If he wanted down,” I said to Ryan, “he’d be doing this pushy-paw thing on your chest.”

  “I found him on the bed.”

  Hearing Ryan’s voice, Boyd scrambled to his feet, tags jangling, toenails scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor.

  Birdie rocketed off Ryan’s chest like a shuttle at Canaveral.

  “There’s beer in the fridge,” I said. “Paper’s in the den. I won’t be long.”

  When I returned, Ryan was at the kitchen table, Observer open to the sports section. He’d finished a Sam Adams and started on a second. Boyd’s chin was on his knee.

  When I entered, both looked up.

  “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into mine,” Ryan played Bogey to the dog.

  “Thanks, Rick.”

  “Your daughter called.”

  “Oh?” I was surprised Ryan had answered my phone.

  “The thing was lying here, it rang, I answered by reflex. Sorry.”

  “Did she say why she was calling?”

  “I didn’t realize who it was. I told her you were showering. She said it wasn’t important, gave her name, and hung up.”

  So Katy and I both had some ’splaining to do.

  Ryan and I drove to the Selwyn Pub, a tiny tavern just a few blocks from Sharon Hall. To the uninitiated, the brick bungalow looks like a private home, small for Myers Park, but not intolerable.

  Other than a nondescript sign, the only indication that the place is a bar is the assemblage of cars parked where the lawn should be. When I turned in, Ryan looked puzzled, but said nothing.

  Patrons descend on the Selwyn Pub in two shifts. Early evenings it’s free-range professionals knocking back brews before a game, a date, or dinner with June and Wally and the Beaver.

  Later, as the developers and lawyers and accountants head out, students from Queens College pour in. Silk, gabardine, and Italian leather yield to denim, cotton, and hemp sandals. The Benzes, Beemers, and SUVs give way to Hondas, Chevys, and cheaper SUVs.

  Ryan and I arrived in the lull at shift change. I’d been in good spirits after my shower, a bit down over Tamela’s baby and the privy find, but buoyed by Ryan’s presence. Sad-happy. But crossing the pub courtyard, I felt a gloom settling over me.

  I loved having Ryan here, was having a terrific time with him. Why the sadness? No idea. I tried to push the darkness aside.

  Most of the regulars had gone, and only a few tables and barstools were occupied. Feeling less sociable by the minute, I led Ryan to the pub’s single booth.

  I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Ryan chose the evening’s special from a handwritten blackboard above the fireplace: barbecue and fries.

  Diet Coke for me. Pilsner Urquell for Ryan.

  As we waited, Ryan and I rehashed our conversation with Sheila Jansen.

  “Who owns the Cessna?” Ryan asked.

  “A man named Ricky Don Dorton.”

  Ryan’s draft and my Coke arrived. Ryan flashed the waitress a giant Pepsi smile. She beamed him a Jumbo Super Deluxe. My downward spiral gather
ed speed.

  “Any chance I could have my burger medium rare?” I interrupted the dental exchange.

  “Sure.” Sister Pepsi turned to Ryan. “You all right with Eastern?”

  “Just fine.”

  After smiling the waitress back to the kitchen, Ryan turned to me.

  “What’s geography got to do with barbecue?”

  “The barbecue from down east is made with a vinegar-mustard-based sauce. Western Carolina sauce relies more on the tomato.”

  “That reminds me. What’s ‘swite tay’?”

  “What?”

  “Servers keep offering it to me.”

  Swite tay? I rolled the phrase around.

  “Sweet tea, Ryan. Iced tea with sugar.”

  “Learning a foreign language is a bitch. OK. Back to Mr. Dorton. When we first spoke of him you said the gentleman was saddened by the theft of his aircraft.”

  “Devastated.”

  “And surprised.”

  “Dumbfounded.”

  “Who is Ricky Don Dorton?”

  The waitress delivered our food. Ryan asked for mayo. We both looked at him.

  “For the fries,” he explained.

  The waitress turned to me. I shrugged.

  When she’d gone, I pounded ketchup onto my fries, transferred the lettuce, pickle, and tomato from the plate to my burger, and added condiments.

  “I told you. Dorton owns a couple of strip clubs in Kannapolis, just north of Charlotte.”

  I took a bite. The ground beef was somewhere between scorched and vaporized. I took a swig of Coke. It was Coke. Not Diet Coke.

  My mood was darkening by the nanosecond.

  “The police have been watching Dorton on and off for a few years, but they’ve never been able to nail him with anything.”

  The waitress presented Ryan with a tiny corrugated cup of mayonnaise and more teeth than a coping saw.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Anytime,” she said.

  I felt my eyes roll toward my frontal lobe.

  “They think Mr. Dorton’s lifestyle exceeds his earning power?” Ryan asked, dipping a fry into the mayo.

  “Apparently the man’s got a lot of toys.”

  “Dorton’s back under surveillance?”

  “If Ricky Don so much as spits on a sidewalk, he’s busted.”

  I upended the ketchup, pounded, returned the bottle to the table with a loud crack.