“That sister of yours does love a camera.” Cushions hoofed as Slidell deposited his substantial derrière.
Barrow partnered with Slidell back in the eighties and, unlike most, claimed to have enjoyed the experience. Probably their shared concept of witty repartee.
Barrow had just introduced Rodas and Slidell to each other when the door swung out. A man I didn’t recognize entered the room. He had a weak chin and a too-long nose and, standing ramrod, matched me in height. His polyester shirt, tie, and off-the-rack suit suggested midlevel management. His demeanor screamed cop. The four of us watched as polyester man took a place at the table.
“Agent Tinker is SBI.” Barrow’s reference to the State Bureau of Investigation conveyed zero warmth.
I’d heard of Beau Tinker. Intel had him as a narrow thinker with a mile-wide ego. And a player with the ladies.
“Don’t seem like such a long drive was warranted.” Slidell spoke without looking up from the fingers laced on his belly.
Tinker regarded Slidell with eyes as gray and bland as unpolished pewter. “I’m right up the road at the Harrisburg field office.”
Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged, but he said nothing.
Like everywhere else on the planet, North Carolina has its share of interagency rivalries. Sheriff’s, campus, airport, and port police versus local PD’s. The state versus the city boys. The feds versus the world.
Except for some offenses in which it’s required—such as drug trafficking, arson, gambling, and election fraud—SBI involvement in criminal investigations was usually at the request of local departments. The chill coming from Barrow and Slidell suggested no such invite had been issued.
Was Rodas the draw? If so, why the interest in Raleigh about a case from Vermont?
Slidell considers himself a hot property in the homicide squad. Too hot to gasbag around a table, as he’d once put it. I also wondered why he was here.
I remembered the file in the plastic tub.
I glanced over at Slidell. His gaze was up now, aimed at Tinker with the kind of expression normally reserved for pedophiles and mold.
Did the hostility go beyond turf issues? Did Slidell share history with Tinker? Or was Skinny just being Skinny?
Barrow’s voice cut into my thoughts. “I’m going to let Detective Rodas start off.”
Barrow leaned back and repositioned the neck chain holding his badge. He often reminded me of a large leathery turtle. Skin dark and crinkled as that on a shrunken head, eyes wide-set and bulgy above a pointed little nose.
Rodas opened the carton, withdrew a stack of reports, and slid one to each of us. “Sorry if my style’s less formal than yours.” His voice was deep and gruff, the kind you associate with white cheddar and the Green Mountain Boys. “I’ll give you the rundown, then take questions on anything that’s unclear.”
I started flipping through pages. Heard Tinker and Slidell doing the same.
“Between two-thirty and three P.M., on October 18, 2007, a twelve-year-old white female named Nellie Gower disappeared while riding her bicycle home from school. Six hours later, the bike was found on a rural two-lane a quarter mile from the Gower farm.”
A nuance in tone caused me to look up. Rodas’s Adam’s apple made a round-trip before he continued. “Nellie’s body was discovered eight days later at a granite quarry four miles outside town.”
I noted that Rodas was using the child’s name, not depersonalizing, as cops often do—the kid, the vic. It didn’t take Freud to recognize that Rodas was emotionally invested in the case.
“The ME found no signs of trauma or sexual assault. The child was fully clothed. Manner of death went down as homicide, cause as unknown. The scene yielded nothing. Ditto the body. No tire tracks, no trace, no blood or saliva, no forensics at all.