“PRICK JUST WASTED AN HOUR OF MY LIFE.”

“The time wasn’t wasted.”

Slidell and I were back in the Taurus. He was whacking the AC so hard I was sure he’d break one of the levers.

“Maybe Danner still drinks at the Double Shot.”

“Life should be that easy.”

A rivulet of sweat broke from Slidell’s hairline as he yanked his mobile from his belt and punched in digits.

In minutes we had an answer. The Double Shot was still pouring from noon until two a.m. daily.

Mooresville edges up to a meandering man-made body of water called Lake Norman. Situated roughly twenty-five miles from Charlotte, in Iredell County, the little hamlet is home to twenty-five thousand citizens and a buffalo ranch.

Along with the surrounding towns of Huntersville, Cornelius, Kannapolis, and Concord, Mooresville is also home to a truckload of NASCAR team shops. Bobby Labonte. Martin Truex, Jr. Brian Vickers. Thus the burg’s self-selected moniker: Race City, U.S.A.

We found the Double Shot on a narrow strip of two-lane a mile and a half east of I-77. Located on neither the lakeshore nor the interstate, the place in all likelihood depended on the business of locals who were regulars.

Curb appeal was definitely not the draw. The building was a 1950s-style ranch with red siding turned salmon by years of sun. DOUBLE SHOT had been hand-lettered on the highway-facing wall sometime this century, then never touched up.

Four motorcycles formed a line outside the front entrance. Two pickups sat at careless angles in the gravel lot.

I must watch too much TV. When Slidell and I entered, I expected every eye to swing our way. Didn’t happen.

To the left, two men played pool while a third watched, legs straddling, arms draping a back-turned chrome and vinyl chair. At the bar, a pair of beer drinkers continued their conversation. At the opposite end, another customer focused on his burger.

Painted windows kept the Double Shot’s interior dim. Overhead fans created a jumpy, surreal effect by dancing the neon oranges, reds, and blues glowing from wall-mounted beer signs.

As my eyes adjusted, my mind logged detail.

Three wooden booths ran the wall to the right of the entrance. A pointing-finger sign indicated that toilets lay somewhere beyond the booths.

Straight ahead, tables filled floor space fronting the bar. Behind it, a gray-bearded man washed mugs by moving them on a brush fixed upright beside the sink.

Every patron was male. Three were heavily tattooed. Four badly needed a trip to the barber. Two had shaved heads. Despite the ninety-degree heat, all wore jeans and heavy leather boots.

Slidell’s eyes probed every shadow as we crossed to the bar. The tension in his shoulders told me he was locked and loaded.

Though Gray Beard never raised his head, I knew he was tracking us. Slidell and I stopped in front of him and waited.

Gray Beard continued his piston-cycle moves with the glassware.

“You want I should flash the shield, impress your upscale clientele?” Slidell said, not all that quietly.

“They know who you are.” Gray Beard set down a mug. Picked up and started cleaning another.

“That so?”

“They can smell cop.”

“Look at me, dipshit.”

Gray Beard’s eyes rolled up. In the gloom, their whites looked urine-yellow.

“We can chat here,” Slidell said. “Or we can chat someplace nice and official. And while we’re gone, I can have every inspector north of Aiken checking this dump out.”

“How can I help you, Officer?” Faux-polite.

“How about we start with your name.”

“Posey. Kermit Posey.”

“That a joke?”

“I don’t joke.”

“This your joint?”

Posey nodded.

“I’m interested in a guy name of J. D. Danner.”

Posey set the mug beside others sitting on a blue-and-white-checkered towel.

“I’m waiting, asshole.” Slidell’s tone was dangerous. “But not very long.”

“This look like a place folks trade business cards?”

“J. D. Danner.”

“I might have heard the name.”

“I have a witness says Danner was a regular here back in ’ninety-eight.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Says Danner rolled with a group called themselves the Patriot Posse.”

Posey hiked one shoulder. So what? Could be? Who knows?

Reaching across the bar, Slidell grabbed Posey’s beard and pulled the man’s face to within inches of his own. “Having trouble hearing me, Kermit? That better?”

Posey gagged and braced both hands on the bar. To either side, conversation and burger consumption halted. Behind us, pool balls stopped clicking, and the banter went still.

“Danner still enjoying a brew now and then?”

Posey nodded as best he could, then a wet sound rose from his throat, half gag, half cough.

“Where can I find him?”

“I only heard rumors.”

“Indulge me,” Slidell said.

“Word is he lives in Cornelius.” Posey cough-gagged again. “Honest to God, that’s all I know.”

Slidell released his grip.

Posey tumbled backward, fingers clawing the counter for purchase. The towel flew. Mugs hit the floor in an explosion of glass.

Slidell chin-cocked the shards.

“Saved you some washing.”

Back in the Taurus, Slidell again attacked the AC. While he phoned headquarters, I dialed the MCME.

Larabee told me that the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Medical Examiner/Coroner’s Guide for Contaminated Deceased Body Management.

“Because of the ricin,” I said.

“Which is bullshit. The ricin toxin can’t spread from person to person. You’ve got to breathe or eat the stuff.”

Or get jabbed with an umbrella.

Slidell barked something, then tossed his phone onto the dash.

“Where was the body taken?” I asked Larabee.

“The FBI is stonewalling on that. But I’ll find out. I’ll goddamn well find out.”

Slidell positioned the mock Ray-Bans, clicked his seat belt, and shifted into gear.

“Keep me in the loop,” I said, then disconnected.

Gravel flew from our tires as Slidell gunned from the lot.

“Get an address for Danner?” I asked.

“They’re working on it.”

Knowing Slidell would share when ready, I held my tongue. It was pointless to press.

A minute later he was ready.

“Lynn Marie Hobbs attended NC State from ’ninety-eight until 2001. Didn’t graduate. Married a guy named Dean Nolan in 2002, now goes by Lynn Nolan.”

Static spit from the radio. Slidell reached out and twisted the knob.

“After leaving school, Nolan returned to the old homestead. Works for an outfit called the Cryerton Respiratory Research Institute. CRRI. Headquarters is in some sort of industrial park near China Grove.”

I thought a moment. “The Southeast Regional Research Park?”

“That’s it.”

China Grove is a stone’s throw from Kannapolis.

“I assume we’re heading there now?”

“Eeyuh.”

“Is Nolan expecting us?”

“I figure a surprise might liven things up.”

“What does CRRI do?”

“Call me crazy, but I’m guessing they spend a lot of time thinking about lungs.”

Pointedly, I turned my face toward the window.

Corn rows marched to the horizon, dark and shimmery in the afternoon heat. Above them, a red-tailed hawk looped lazy circles low in the sky.

Instead of returning to I-77, Slidell cut west on NC-152. Just before China Grove, he made three right turns, then a left onto a wide paved road.

No cornfields here. Wild flowers as far as the eye could see. A veritable Monet ocean of color.

A quarter mile up the blacktop, redbrick walls stretched to each shoulder, and large iron gates blocked access to manicured grounds beyond. A stone plaque identified the Southeast Regional Research Park.

Slidell stopped at the guardhouse and lowered his window. A uniformed young man emerged with a clipboard. “May I help you?”

“We’re looking for Lynn Nolan.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll check the list.”

“We aren’t on it.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

Slidell held out his badge.

The man studied it earnestly. “Do you have a warrant?”

“Why? Something going on here gonna cause problems?”

“I’ll have to call for clearance.”

“No,” Slidell said. “You won’t. Nolan works for CRRI. Where do I find her?”

“Building Three. Second floor.”

“You have a real special day.” Slidell hit a button and his window hummed up.

The man retreated, the gates opened, and Slidell drove through.

The Southeast Regional Research Park looked like a small college campus in Mississippi. Brick buildings fronted by broad steps, Greco-Roman pillars, porticos, and pediments. Covered parking garages. Well-groomed gardens. Boisterously green grass which seemed to stretch for several hundred acres. Small lake complete with ducks, geese, and a swan.

Yet nothing stirred. The effect was like one of those disaster movies in which a virus destroys life but leaves the hardscape intact.

Building 3 was a four-story number on Progress Avenue. Flanking both sides were half-completed foundations, suggesting progress had been less than desired.

Ignoring the no-parking signs, Slidell pulled to the curb. We got out and entered Building 3 through tinted glass doors.

The lobby was all gleaming rosewood and marble, with a futuristic stone sculpture parked in the center. A directory verified that CRRI was located in 204.

A spotless elevator took us to the second floor. There the decorator’s palette had been labeled something like sand or wheat. Beige walls, beige trim, beige carpet, beige chairs, each shade just a hair off the others. The only color came from framed black and whites with highlighted details. A woman’s red lips. A green umbrella. A blue and yellow tail dangling from a kite.

Room 204 was halfway down on the right.

A woman occupied a desk directly opposite and facing the door. She was tiny, with caramel eyes, sun-bronzed skin, and long brown hair spilling from a barrette atop her head.

When we entered, the woman’s eyes widened. A manicured hand flew to her mouth. “Are you really going to arrest me?”

So much for the guard not announcing our presence.