Fatal Voyage (12 page)

 Ryan drew on his cigarette, exhaled.

 “The military is supposed to account for every ounce of plastic
explosive, but construction crews don’t have to ledger up that precisely. Say a blaster gets ten
sticks, uses three quarters of each, and pockets the rest. No one’s the wiser. All the guy needs
is a detonator and he’s in business. Or he can sell the stuff black market.

 Explosives are always in demand.“

 “Assuming Simington filched explosives, could he have gotten them on
board?”

 “Apparently it’s not all that hard. Terrorists used to take plastique,
flatten it to the thickness of a wad of bills, and put it in their wallets. How many security
guards check the bills in your wallet? And you can get an electrical detonator the size of a
watchcase these days.

 The Libyan terrorists that blew up Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie slipped
the stuff on in a cassette case. Simington could have found a way.“

 “Jesus.”

 “I’ve also had news from la belle province. Earlier this week a group
of homeowners got suspicious about a Ferrari parked on their street. It seems sports cars costing
over a hundred thousand dollars don’t commonly overnight in that part of Montreal. Turned out to
be a good call.

 Police found the owner, one Alain ‘ Fox’ Barboli, stuffed in the trunk
with two bullets in his head. Barboli was a member of the Rock Machine and had ties to the
Sicilian Mafia. Carcajou’s got it.“

 Operation Carcajou was a multi agency task force devoted to the
investigation of outlaw bikers in Quebec province. I’d worked with them on a number of
murders.

 “Does Carcajou think Barboli was revenge for Petricelli?”

 “Or Barboli was involved in the Petricelli hit and the big boys are
sanitizing the witness list. If there was a hit.”

 “If Simington could get his hands on explosives, the Hells Angels would
have no problem.”

 “Like buying Cheez Whiz at the 7-Eleven. Look, why don’t you get back
up

 here and tell this Tyrell “

 “I want to check some bone samples to make sure I’m right on my age
estimate. If that foot didn’t come from the plane, the tampering charges will be irrelevant.”

 “I mentioned your suspicions about the foot to Tyrell.”

 “And?”

 “And nothing. He brushed it off.”

 Again I felt the flush of anger.

 “Have you turned up any unlisted passengers?”

 “Nope. Hanover swears deadheading is strictly regulated. No paper, no
ride. The Air Trans South employees we’ve interviewed confirm their CEO’s claim.”

 “Anyone who might have been transporting body parts?”

 “No anatomists, anthropologists, podiatrists, orthopedic surgeons, or
corrective footwear salesmen. And Jeffrey Dahmer isn’t flying these days.”

 “You’re a scream, Ryan.”

 I hesitated.

 “Has Jean been identified?”

 “He and Petricelli remain among the missing.”

 “They’ll find him.”

 “Yeah.”

 “You all right?”

 “Tough as nails. How ‘ you? Feeling lonely all by yourself?”

“I’m fine,” I said, staring at the bed I’d just vacated.

 North Carolina has a centralized medical examiner system, with
headquarters in Chapel Hill and regional offices in Winston-Salem, Greenville, and Charlotte. Due
to geography, and to its physical layout, the Charlotte branch, dubbed the Mecklenburg County
Medical Examiner, was chosen for the processing of specimens collected at the incident morgue in
Bryson City. A technician had been loaned from Chapel Hill, and a temporary histology unit had
been set up.

 The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner is part of the Harold R.
“Hal”

 Marshall County Services Center, which takes up both sides of College
Street between Ninth and Tenth, just on the edge of uptown. The facility’s home was once a Sears
Garden Center. Though an architectural orphan, it is modern and efficient.

 But Hal’s tenure may be threatened. Shunned for years, the land on
which the center sits, with its views of condos, shops, and bistros, has caught the interest of
developers as more fitting for mixed-use commercial expansion than for use as county offices,
parking lots, and a morgue. American Express gold cards, cappuccino makers, and Hornets and
Panthers club seats may soon flourish where scalpels, gurneys, and autopsy tables used to hold
sway.

 Twenty minutes after finally donning the panties, I pulled into the
MCME lot. Across College, the homeless were being served hot dogs and lemonade from folding
tables. Blankets covered the moss strip between sidewalk and curb, displaying shoes, shirts, and
socks for the taking. A score of indigents milled about, nowhere to go, in no hurry to get
there.

 Locking the car, I walked to the low-rise redbrick structure and was
buzzed through the glass doors. After greeting the ladies up front, I checked in with Tim
Larabee, the Mecklenburg County ME. He led me to a computer that had been set aside for crash
victim processing and pulled up case number 387. It was probably violating the terms of my
banishment, but I had to take the chance.

 DNA testing was being done at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg crime
laboratory, and those results were not yet available. But the histology was ready. The samples
I’d cut from the ankle and foot bones had been shaved into slivers less than one hundred microns
thick, processed, stained, and placed on slides. I got them and settled at a microscope.

 Bone is a miniature universe in which birth and death occur
constantly.

 The basic unit is the osteon, composed of concentric loops of bone, a
canal, osteocytes, vessels, and nerves. In living tissue osteons are born, nourished, and
eventually replaced by newer units.

 When magnified and viewed under polarized light, osteons resemble tiny
volcanoes, ovoid cones with central craters and flanks that spread out to flatlands of primary
bone. The number of volcanoes increases with age, as does the count of abandoned calderas. By
determining the density of these features one arrives at an age estimate.

 First I looked for signs of abnormality. In the cross-section of a long
bone, thinning of the shaft, scalloping of its inner or outer edges, or abnormal deposition of
woven bone can indicate problems, including fracture healing or unusually rapid remodeling. I saw
no such anomalies.

 Satisfied that a realistic age estimate was possible, I increased the
magnification to one hundred and inserted a ruled ocular micrometer into the eyepiece. The grid
contained one hundred squares, with each side measuring one millimeter at the level of the
section. Moving from slide to slide, I studied the miniature landscapes, carefully counting and
recording the features within each grid. When I’d finished and plugged my totals into the proper
formulae, I had my answer.

 The owner of the foot had been at least sixty-five, probably nearer to
seventy.

 I leaned back and considered that. No one on the manifest was close to
that age range. What were the options?

 One. An unlisted traveler was on board. A septuagenarian
dead-header?

 A senior citizen stowaway? Unlikely.

 Two. A passenger had carried the foot on board. Ryan said they’d found
no one whose profile suggested an interest in body parts.

 Three. The foot was unrelated to Air Trans South 228.

 Then where did it come from?

 I dug a card from my purse, checked the number, and dialed.

 “Swain County Sheriff’s Department.”

 “Lucy Crowe, please.”

 “Who’s calling.”

 I gave my name and waited. Moments later I heard the gravelly
voice.

 “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”

 “You’ve heard.”

 “I’ve heard.”

 “I could try to explain, but I don’t think I understand the situation
myself.”

 “I don’t know you well enough to judge.”

 “Why are you talking to me?”

 “Gut instinct.”

 “I’m working to clear this up.”

 “That’d be good. You’ve got ‘ buzzing at the top of the heap.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I just had a call from Parker Davenport.”

 “The lieutenant governor?”

 “Himself. Ordered me to keep you off the crash site.”

 “Doesn’t he have better things to worry about?”

 “Apparently you’re a hot topic. My deputy took a call this morning.

 Fellow wanted to know where you live and where you were staying up
here.“

 “Who was he?”

 “Wouldn’t give a name, hung up when my deputy insisted.”

 “Was he press?”

 “We’re pretty good at spotting that.”

 “There’s something you can do for me, Sheriff.”

 I heard the sound of long-distance air.

 “Sheriff?”

 “I’m listening.”

 I described the foot, and my reasons for doubting its association with
the crash.

 “Could you check on missing persons for Swain and the surrounding
counties?”

 “Got any descriptors besides age?”

 “Sixty-three to sixty-six inches in height, with bad feet. When the
DNA’s in I’ll know the gender.”

 “Time frame?”

 Despite the soft tissue preservation, I decided on broad
parameters.

 “One year.”

 “I know we’ve got some here in Swain. I’ll pull those up. And I suppose
there’s no harm in sending out a few queries.”

 When we’d disconnected, I sealed the slide case and returned it to the
technician. As I drove toward home new questions burned in my brain, fanned by feelings of anger
and humiliation.

 Why wasn’t Larke Tyrell defending me? He knew the commitment I felt to
my work, knew I’d never compromise an investigation.

 Could Parker Davenport be Tyrell’s “powerful people”? Larke was an
appointed official. Could the lieutenant governor be putting pressure on his chief medical
examiner? Why?

 Could Lucy Crowe’s reaction to Davenport be accurate? Was the
lieutenant governor concerned with his image and planning to use me for publicity purposes?

 I remembered him at the crash site, hanky to his mouth, eyes down to
avoid the carnage.

 Or was it me he was avoiding? An unpleasant feeling shifted inside me,
and I tried to erase the image. It was no good. My mind was like a computer with no delete
button.

 I thought of Ryan’s advice. Pete’s. Both were saying the same
thing.

 I dialed Information, then placed a call.

 Ruby answered after two rings.

 I identified myself and asked if Magnolia was available.

 “The room’s empty, but I offered it to one of the downstairs
boarders.”

 “I’d like to check back in.”

“They told me you were gone for good.

 Cleared the bill.“

 “I’ll pay you for a week in advance.”

 “Must be the Lord’s will the other ‘ hasn’t moved up there yet.”

 “Yes,” I answered, with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel. “The Lord’s
will.”

 CHARLOTTE IS A POSTER CHILD FOR MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORder, the
Sybil of cities. It is the New South, proud of its skyscrapers, airport, university, NBA Hornets,
NFL Panthers, and NASCAR racing. Headquarters to Bank of America and First Union, it is the
nation’s second largest financial center. It is home to the University of North Carolina at
Charlotte. It yearns to be a world-class city.

 Yet Charlotte remains nostalgic for the Old South. In its affluent
southeast quadrant, it is stately homes and tidy bungalows garnished by azaleas, dogwoods,
rhododendrons, red buds and magnolias. It is winding streets, front porch swings, and more trees
per square mile than any burg on the planet. In spring, Charlotte is a kaleidoscope of pink,
white, violet, and red. In fall it blazes with yellow and orange. It has a church on every corner
and people attend them. The erosion of the genteel life is a constant topic of conversation, but
the same folks lamenting its passage keep one eye on the stock market.

 I live at Sharon Hall, a turn-of-the-century estate in the elegant old
neighborhood of Myers Park. Once a graceful Georgian manor, the Hall had fallen into disrepair by
the 1950s and was donated to a local college. In the mid-eighties the two-and-a-half-acre
property was purchased by developers, up fitted and reincarnated as a modern condominium
complex.

 While most of the Hall’s residents occupy the main house, or one of its
recently constructed wings, my condo is a tiny structure on the western edge of the property.
Records indicate the building started life as an addition to the coach house, but no document
describes its original function. For lack of a better term it is simply called the Annex.

 Though cramped, my two stories are bright and sunny, and my small patio
is perfect for geraniums, one of the few species able to survive my horticultural ministrations.
The Annex has been home since my marital breakup, and it suits me perfectly.

 The sky was resolutely blue as I entered the gates and circled the
grounds. The petunias and marigolds smelled of autumn, their perfume mingling with the scent of
drying leaves. Sunshine warmed the bricks of the Hall’s buildings, walks, and perimeter wall.

 Rounding the Annex, I was surprised to see Pete’s Porsche parked next
to my patio, Boyd’s head protruding from the passenger side. Spotting me, the dog pricked his
ears, pulled in his tongue, then let it dangle again.

 Through the back window I could see Birdie in his travel cage. My cat
did not look pleased with the transport arrangements.

 As I pulled parallel to Pete’s car, he rounded the building.

 “Jesus, am I glad I caught you.” His face looked anxious.

 “What is it?”

 “A client’s knitting plant just went up in flames. The case is certain
to become a matter of litigation, and I’ve got to get out there with some experts before would-be
fire inspectors muck things up.”

 “Out where?”

 “Indianapolis. I was hoping you’d take Boyd for a couple of days.”

 The tongue disappeared, dropped again.