Bare Bones Read online

  Seating himself in the chair opposite my desk, Zamzow got straight to the point.

  “This may be nothing, but I was going to be passing on my way to the Pee Dee Wildlife Refuge in Anson County this morning, so I thought I’d divert over to Charlotte and lay it on you in person.”

  I said nothing, completely at a loss as to what was of such importance that Zamzow felt it needed a face-to-face.

  “Five years back, two FWS agents disappeared. One worked out of my office, the other was in North Carolina on temporary assignment.”

  “Tell me about them.” I felt a shiver of excitement ripple down my spine.

  Zamzow drew a photo from a shirt pocket and laid it on my desk. In it, a young man leaned against a stone bridge. His arms were folded and he was smiling. On his shirt I could see the same badge and shoulder patch that Zamzow was wearing.

  I flipped the picture. Brian Aiker, Raleigh, 9/27/1998 had been handwritten on the back.

  “The agent’s name was Brian Aiker,” Zamzow said.

  “Age?” I asked.

  “Thirty-two. Aiker had been with us three years when he went missing. Nice fellow.”

  “Height?”

  “Tall guy. I’d say six-one, six-two.”

  “He was white,” I said, flipping back to the front of the photo.

  “Yeah.”

  “And the visiting agent?”

  “Charlotte Grant Cobb. Odd duck, but a good officer. Cobb was with the service more than ten years.”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  Zamzow shook his head. “Cobb didn’t like being photographed. But I can request her file if you think it’s warranted. The service has a photo ID of every agent.”

  “Cobb is female?”

  “Yeah. White, I’d say mid-thirties.”

  “What was she working?”

  “Operation FDR. Sea turtles.”

  “FDR?”

  Zamzow shrugged one shoulder. “Franklin wore a lot of turtlenecks. I didn’t pick the label. Anyway, think your unknown could be Aiker or Cobb?”

  “Cobb’s out. DNA from the Lancaster bones came up male. But there could be a link. Was Aiker working the sting with Cobb?”

  “Not officially, though I know he spent time with her.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Not much to tell. Six, seven years ago we were tipped about poachers trucking turtles up to Charlotte from the coast, transferring them on to buyers in New York and D.C. Service sent Cobb to try to infiltrate the ring. Figured a female might get inside quicker.”

  “How?”

  “The usual. Cobb was hanging around places the suspects frequented. Bars, restaurants, some gym.”

  “She was living in Charlotte?”

  “Had an apartment. One of those month-to-month deals.”

  “How was it going?”

  “No idea. Cobb didn’t report to me.” Zamzow snorted. “And the lady wasn’t what you’d call the social type. When she was in Raleigh, Cobb pretty much kept to herself. Guess it’s tough being undercover in this business.”

  “Or being female.”

  “Could be.”

  “Did Cobb and Aiker disappear at the same time?”

  “Aiker failed to show up one Monday in December. I remember. It was cold as hell. We phoned for two days, eventually busted into his apartment. No sign of him.”

  Zamzow looked as though he hadn’t spoken of Aiker in a long time, but had returned to the man many times in his thoughts.

  “When we backtracked, last anyone had seen him was the previous Friday. We thought he might have gone through ice somewhere. Checked rivers, dredged ponds, that sort of thing. Nothing. Never found Aiker or his car.”

  “Any signs he planned on leaving? Emptied bank accounts? Missing prescription medications?”

  Zamzow shook his head. “Aiker ordered two hundred dollars’ worth of fishing tackle over the Net the week before he disappeared. Left fourteen grand in a savings account at First Union.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a man intending to take off. What about Cobb?”

  “Cobb’s disappearance was harder to nail down. According to neighbors she stayed to herself, kept odd hours, often disappeared for days at a stretch. Landlord was persuaded to open the apartment a week after Aiker disappeared. Looked like Cobb had been gone awhile.”

  I thought a moment.

  “Were Aiker and Cobb an item?”

  Zamzow frowned. “There was talk. Aiker made several trips to Charlotte while Cobb was here. Records showed they talked on the phone, but that could have been business.”

  I kept my voice level to mask my excitement.

  “The skeleton I examined is tall, white, and male. From what you tell me, Aiker’s age fits and so does the time frame. Sounds like it could be your missing agent.”

  “As I recall, the Raleigh PD got dental records on both Aiker and Cobb. Never needed them.”

  I was so eager to talk to Slidell I nearly hustled Zamzow out of my office. But I had one more topic to broach.

  “Do you know an agent named Palmer Cousins?”

  Zamzow shifted in his chair.

  “Met him.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I asked, “Your impression?”

  “Young.”

  “And?”

  “Young.”

  “I talked to Cousins the other night, asked about bear poaching in the Carolinas. He seemed to know very little.”

  Zamzow looked me straight in the eye. “Your point?”

  “He knew nothing about the smuggling of exotic birds.”

  Zamzow checked his watch. Then, “Don’t know Cousins myself, but the man attracts his share of admirers.”

  I found the comment odd, but didn’t pursue it.

  “Good luck to you, Doc.”

  Zamzow stood.

  I stood.

  As he turned to go, I picked up the photo of Brian Aiker. “May I keep this?”

  Zamzow nodded. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  With that, he was gone.

  * * *

  Staring at the chair Zamzow had vacated, I wondered what had just happened. Throughout our conversation, the RAC had been friendly and candid. At the mention of Palmer Cousins, the man closed up like an armadillo poked with a stick.

  Was Zamzow holding ranks, refusing to speak badly of a fellow officer? Did he know something about Katy’s friend that he was unwilling to share? Was he simply unacquainted with the man?

  Tim Larabee interrupted my thoughts.

  “Where’s your little pal?”

  “If you mean Detective Ryan, he flew back to Montreal.”

  “Too bad. He’s good for your complexion.”

  A hand rose to my cheek.

  “Gotcha.” Larabee made a finger pistol and fired it at me.

  “You’re so hilarious, Hawkins may have to roll a gurney in here when I die laughing.”

  I told him what I’d learned from Wally Cagle about the Lancaster skeleton, and about my conversations with Hershey Zamzow.

  “I’ll call Raleigh. See if someone can drive Aiker’s dental records down,” Larabee said.

  “Good.”

  “Could be a breakthrough day. Jansen called. Slidell called. Tea party in half an hour.”

  “Do they have news?”

  Larabee checked, then tapped his watch.

  “Main ballroom in thirty minutes. Dress is casual.”

  The corners of Larabee’s mouth curled upward.

  “Your hair’s got a gleam to it, too.”

  My eyes rolled so far back I thought they might never return.

  When Larabee moved on, I checked again with Mrs. Flowers. Still no fax from Cagle.

  I gathered and glanced through my message slips.

  Jansen.

  Slidell.

  Cagle.

  I tried Cagle’s cell. No answer.

  A crime reporter with the Charlotte Observer had called.

  A colleague at U
NC-Greensboro.

  I tried Cagle again. He still wasn’t picking up.

  I looked at my watch.

  Showtime.

  Placing the pink slips in the middle of my blotter, I headed for the conference room.

  * * *

  Larabee and Jansen were discussing the merits of the Panthers versus the Dolphins. The NTSB investigator was dressed in jeans, sandals, and a tan cotton tank from Old Navy. Her short blonde hair looked like it had just been blow-dried.

  Slidell and Rinaldi arrived as Jansen and I were shaking hands.

  Rinaldi was in blue blazer, gray chinos, and a turquoise and lemon Jerry Garcia tie.

  Slidell was in shirtsleeves. His neckwear looked like something one got from a Kmart bargain table after the good ones had already been picked.

  While the others coffeed up, I helped myself to a Diet Coke.

  “Who goes first?” I asked when we’d all taken seats.

  Larabee waved a palm in my direction.

  I repeated what I’d told the ME about the Lancaster remains, described how I’d gotten the details from Wally Cagle, and explained the skeleton’s possible link to the privy head and hands. I outlined what I’d learned from Hershey Zamzow and Rachel Mendelson concerning bear poaching and about the illegal trade in rare and endangered species. Finally, I dropped my bombshell about the missing wildlife agents Brian Aiker and Charlotte Grant Cobb.

  As I spoke, Rinaldi took notes on his designer pad. Slidell listened, legs thrust forward, thumbs tucked into his belt.

  For several seconds, no one said a word. Then Jansen slapped the table.

  “Yes!”

  Slidell’s eyes crawled to her.

  “Yes,” she repeated.

  Unzipping a leather case, Jansen withdrew several papers, laid them on the table, ran her finger down the middle of one, stopped, and read aloud.

  “‘The charred substance from the underbelly of the Cessna contained the alkaloids hydrastine, berberine, canadine, and berberastine.’”

  “That make Ovaltine?” Slidell asked.

  “That makes goldenseal,” Jansen said.

  We all waited for her to go on.

  Jansen flipped to another paper.

  “Hydrastis canadensis. Goldenseal. The roots and rhizomes are thought to have medicinal properties because of the hydrastine and berberine. Cherokee Indians used goldenseal as an antiseptic and to treat snakebite. Iroquois used it to treat whooping cough, pneumonia, digestive disorders. Early pioneers used it as an eyewash, and for sore throats, mouth sores. Commercial demand for goldenseal began around the time of the Civil War”—Jansen looked up from her notes—“and it’s now a top-selling herb in North America.”

  “Used for what?” Larabee’s disdain of herbal medicines came through in his tone.

  Jansen went back to her printout.

  “Nasal congestion, mouth sores, eye and ear infections, as a topical antiseptic, laxative, anti-inflammatory, take your pick. Some people think goldenseal boosts the immune system and increases the effectiveness of other medicinal herbs. Some think it can induce abortion.”

  Larabee sheeshed air through his lips.

  Jansen looked up to see if we were with her.

  “I got on the Net, did a little research.”

  She selected a third printout.

  “There’s been such intensive harvesting for both the domestic and international markets that goldenseal is now in trouble. Of the twenty-seven states reporting native patches, seventeen consider the plant imperiled. Its wholesale value has increased more than six hundred percent in the last decade.”

  “Call the posy police.” Slidell.

  “Does goldenseal grow in North Carolina?” I asked.

  “Yes, but only in a few places. Goldenseal Hollow, for example, deep in the mountains in Jackson County.”

  “Is it considered endangered in North Carolina?”

  “Yes. And because of that status a permit is required to cultivate or propagate the plant within the state. Ever hear of CITES?”

  “Yes.” Three for three.

  “You need a CITES permit to export cultivated or wild-collected goldenseal roots or parts of roots. To get a permit you need to show that your roots, rhizomes, and seeds came from legally acquired parental stock and that the plants were cultivated for four years or more without augmentation from the wild.”

  “So it’s difficult to obtain a supply of living roots with which to start plantations in this country?” Rinaldi asked.

  “Very.”

  “Is there a black market for goldenseal?” I asked.

  “There is a black market for all herbs found in the North Carolina mountains, including goldenseal. So much so that a special five-agency task force has been set up in Appalachia.”

  “Sweet God in heaven, there really is a veggie squad.” Slidell pooched out his cheeks and wagged his head, like one of those dogs in an auto rear window.

  “The task force is made up of agents from the National Park Service, U.S. Forestry Service, North Carolina Department of Agriculture, North Carolina Wildlife Service, and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. It’s headed by the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

  The group went mute as each of us tried to integrate Jansen’s report with my findings. Slidell broke the silence.

  “Some mope was dealing snort out of the Foote farm. We know that ’cause we found product in the basement. You’re saying the place was also used for trafficking dead animals?”

  “I’m suggesting it’s a possibility,” I said.

  “As a sideline to the coke?”

  “Yes,” I said coolly. “And the bird was probably alive.”

  “And this Agent Aiker might have been closing in,” said Rinaldi.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “So the perp gets spooked, kills Aiker, dumps his head and hands in the privy, and hauls his body to Lancaster County?” Slidell sounded unconvinced.

  “We’ll know when we get the dental records,” I said.

  Slidell turned to Jansen.

  “Your Cessna was also flying a cargo of snort. Snort’s heavy time. You get nailed, you do a long stretch inside. Why bother with herbs?”

  “Entrepreneurial sideline.”

  “Like Brennan’s birds.”

  I didn’t bother to comment.

  “Yes,” Jansen said.

  “Why goldenseal? Why not ginseng, or something grows you hair or perks up your pecker?”

  Jansen looked at Slidell like she might have eyed a dead spider in her cat’s litter.

  “Goldenseal makes more sense.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Some people think it masks certain drugs in your urine.”

  “Does it?”

  “Does a line of coke turn you into a rock star?”

  Jansen and Slidell locked eyes. For a few seconds neither spoke. Then Slidell rethumbed his waistband.

  “We’ve been grilling Pounder.”

  “And?”

  “Maroon’s got the brains of a carp. We’re still liking Tyree or Dorton.”

  “Might have to rethink that.”

  The five of us turned as one. Joe Hawkins was standing in the doorway.

  “You’d better come see this.”

  WE FOLLOWED HAWKINS DOWN THE CORRIDOR AND AROUND the corner to the intake bay, where a gurney had been rolled onto the weigh-in scale. The pouch it held showed a very large bulge.

  Wordlessly, Hawkins unzipped the body bag and laid back the flap. Like a class on a field trip, we leaned in.

  Gran called it fay, claimed prescience as a family trait. I call it deductive reasoning.

  Perhaps it was Hawkins’s demeanor. Perhaps it was the image I’d conjured in my mind. Though we’d never met, I knew I was staring at Ricky Don Dorton.

  The man’s skin was the color of old leather, creased by vertical lines beside his eyes and ears and at the corners of his mouth. The cheeks were high and broad, the nose wide, the hair dead black and combed straight back.
Irregular, yellowed teeth peeked from purple, death-slacked lips.

  Ricky Don Dorton had died bare-chested. I could see two gold chains in the folds of his neck, and the Marine Corps emblem on his right upper arm, the words SEMPER FI circling below.

  Larabee scanned the police report.

  “Well, well. Mr. Richard Donald Dorton.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Slidell spoke for us all.

  Larabee handed the paper to me. I stepped close to Jansen so we could read together.

  Larabee asked Hawkins, “You just bring him in?”

  Hawkins nodded.

  According to the report, Ricky Don was found dead in his bed in an uptown motel.

  “Dorton checked in with a woman around one-thirty A.M.,” Hawkins said. “Desk clerk said they both looked hammered. Maid found the body about eight this morning. Knocked, got no answer, figured the room had been vacated. Poor thing’s probably looking through the want ads even as we speak.”

  “Who caught the case?” Slidell asked.

  “Sherrill and Bucks.”

  “Narco.”

  “Room held enough pharmaceuticals and hypodermics to stock a Third World clinic,” said Hawkins.

  “Suppose Dorton’s midnight companion was Sister Mary Innocent working to save his soul?” Slidell asked.

  “Desk clerk suspected the woman was a hooker,” said Hawkins. “Thought Dorton had been there before. Same deal. Late-night checkin. Floozy date.”

  “Get hopped. Get lucky. Get a room.” Larabee.

  “Guess Ricky Don’s luck ran out.” Slidell tossed the report onto the body bag.

  I watched the paper slip to the gurney and settle against Ricky Don’s pricey gold neckwear.

  * * *

  Before his departure, Ryan extracted a promise that I would discuss the previous day’s e-mails with Slidell or Rinaldi. Though my anxiety had diminished considerably overnight, my nerves were still on edge. I was inclined to view the messages as the work of some warped cyber-moron, but had promised myself not to let fear alter my life. Business as usual. But I agreed with Ryan on one point.

  If the threat was real, Katy was also at risk.

  I’d tried to caution my daughter on the night of her party, but Katy’s reaction had been to scoff at the e-mails. When I’d persisted, she’d become annoyed, told me my job was making me paranoid.

  Twenty-something, bulletproof, and immortal. Like mother, like daughter.