Moving discreetly, I pried the tack loose with a thumbnail and studied the photo.
Oh, yeah. Rattus rattus.
Story was beside a woman in a sparkly green halter creating va-va-voom cleavage. Both were raising champagne flutes. She was smiling. He was not.
A blond kid sat one barstool down from the woman, leaning at an angle that suggested at least twenty beers. The date embroidered on his varsity jacket was two years back.
Pumped, I burrowed through more stratigraphy.
Pay dirt.
I knew the terrible price of war. I’d seen images of veterans in full dress uniform, heads high, ravaged faces proud. Speaking at rallies. Arm in arm with their beautiful brides.
I’d been told Dominick Rockett’s burns were severe. Still, I was unprepared.
On the left, Rockett’s brows and lashes were gone, and his forehead hung bulbous over a lidless orbit. His lips were bloated and skewed, and his nostril melted into a cheek the consistency of congealed oatmeal.
On the right, save for hair loss and an unnatural smoothing of the skin, his face appeared normal. A knitted tuque was pulled low on his forehead.
I felt pity as I viewed the destruction. The image in the mirror every morning of Rockett’s life. In his mind when a stranger looked away. When a child stared or screamed in fear.
Dear God. What a price.
My eyes moved from Rockett to the other man sharing his table. Wiry, with gaunt cheeks and small rodent eyes.
Casting a quick glance behind me, I thumbed the second snapshot from the board and slipped both into my purse. Then I crossed back to the bar.
Slidell had released Poland but was still grilling him. The beer drinkers and Boob woman remained focused on their beverages.
“—telling you, man, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know much, do you, asshat.”
After a round of my not so subtle throat-clearing, Slidell graced me with a glance. I tipped my head toward the door.
Slidell frowned, then hit Poland with two more questions. Got more nothing, but the point was made. Dirty Harry was in charge.
Slapping a card on the bar, Slidell gave the usual instruction about phoning. Then we left.
Back in the Taurus, I pulled out the purloined pictures and identified the players. Slidell studied the faces without comment. Which surprised me.
“So Story and Rockett are drinking buddies,” he finally said.
“I don’t know about that. But this proves they’re acquainted.”
“What say we poke at that?”
“Oh, yeah. But remember. Dew doesn’t want Rockett spooked.”
“Right.”
We were rolling before my seat belt clicked home.
ROCKETT LIVED OFF HIGHWAY 51 in one of Charlotte’s far southwestern tentacles. During the first half of the drive, Slidell briefed me on what he’d learned from Poland. Which was practically zip.
After some prodding, the bartender admitted he’d seen the tavern’s owner a few times. Said Story hadn’t been a drinker, hadn’t been interested in getting to know his employees.
Poland had the impression Story usually came with men, and that the visits had been more business than pleasure. Wasn’t sure, since Story hadn’t been a smiley guy.
Poland hadn’t a clue who’d started the photo gallery. Or maintained it. Said the collection traced to well before his tenure.
“Apparently Story and Rockett weren’t all that concerned with discretion.” Throughout the trip, I’d been wondering what that implied.
Slidell turned to me, a Chiclet halfway from his palm to his mouth.
“Meaning?”
“Why allow their picture to be posted on that board?”
“Dumb shits probably didn’t know.”
Maybe.
Thirty minutes after leaving South End, Slidell hooked a left past a sign announcing LES FLEURS. Pretentious, I know. But Charlotteans like their neighborhoods christened.
Houses in Les Fleurs were mostly ranches and split-levels dating to the sixties and seventies. Most had meager square footage, detached garages, and some variation on the theme of pastel siding.
The streets were curving, tree-lined, and named after flowers. As Slidell wound from Marigold to Poppy to Rockett’s address on Azalea Court, I noted that every backyard was fenced, every front lawn mowed and edged. Here and there a bike or scooter lay abandoned on a walkway or propped against a staircase, porch, or foundation.
It was a hood that made you think of kids, dogs, and retirees. What did Harry call houses like these? Starter-ender homes.
Slidell pulled to the curb in a cul-de-sac shaded by two magnolias and a towering pine. Behind each magnolia was a ranch, one salmon, one green. Below and behind the pine was a brown two-story that New Englanders would call a saltbox.
“Anything strike you weird about this place?” Slidell had looped the court to park facing out, and was scanning the street we’d just driven down. His jaw was working double time. The gum was making wet popping sounds.