Page 72 of Cold, Cold Bones

“Any chance I could just log into the system?”

“That’s not protocol.”

“I worked the case.”

After a thoughtful pause, Herrin provided a password. “Don’t share that I did this.”

“Gotcha.”

Using Herrin’s info, I logged into the CCC system and entered a name. The file popped right up. CCC-2006020285. I opened it.

Noble Cruikshank had rolled into the morgue at the MUSC,Medical University of South Carolina, in 2006. A disgraced cop working as a PI, Cruikshank had vanished while searching for a televangelist’s missing daughter. Eventually his body was found suspended from a tree, an apparent suicide.

I read the autopsy and anthropology reports. Viewed the photos.

It all came back with crystal clarity.

While logging out, I noticed an odd thing. The file had been accessed three years earlier. Not protocol. And why review a case closed at that point for twelve years? Whose boat would that float?

I tried but could find no info on the other user. Made a mental note to ask Herrin who was allowed into the archives.

Then, anxious to talk to Slidell, I let it go.

A mistake I’d later regret.

At seven, I changed into street clothes and headed out. I passed no one else in the building. The parking lot held only the few cars driven by members of the night shift. I really needed to get a life.

Following up on that theme, I diverted to Park Road for takeout. Lame, but it was a start. The wait took longer than I’d hoped, but Portofino’s made Birdie’s and my favorite pizza.

A nasty surprise awaited me at home. In the dark it looked like a small round lump on the porch. Balancing the pizza box on the railing, I squatted for a closer look.

And felt fireworks explode in my chest.

A turtle lay propped against my door, head and limbs hanging loosely from its shell, eyes dull and cloudy in death.

“Goddammit!”

A light went on in one of the coach house windows. I didn’t care. This time my neighbor had gone too far.

After burying the turtle in my garden, I shared the pizza with Birdie. By then it was cold. The cat didn’t care. But, as usual, he insisted I remove the green peppers from his slice.

Every half hour I dialed Slidell. Either Skinny was busy or, more likely, he was avoiding me.

I had the same luck with Katy. And Mama. And Ryan.

Sensing my agitation, or drowsy with cheese and dough, the cat withdrew to the bedroom.

Slidell finally picked up around nine.

“You got nothing better to do than dog my ass?”

“Frank Boldonado didn’t kill himself.”

“The hanging guy.”

“Boldonado was murdered.”

“Go on.” Not the avalanche of objections for which I’d prepared.