Page 54 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Last week, a stiff turned up over in the state park. We got reason to believe it could be Piccitelli.”
“What makes you think it’s him?”
Slidell cocked his chin from the envelope in my lap toward the man in the road. I withdrew the firestarter and held it up.
Now AK looked surprised. And puzzled. “Yeah? So?”
“The man had this in his pants,” I said.
“Big fucking deal. We give those to everyone who takes the course.”
“We?” Slidell asked.
Realizing his mistake, AK scowled.
“You work here?”
“I work for no man.”
“That would make you Cougar Piccitelli?”
Sullen nod.
“So, this little entrepreneurial triumph is yours?” Slidell’s gesture took in the gate, the barbed wire, the woods.
Not wanting to antagonize Piccitelli further, I leaned my head out the window. “Is there any way to trace the owner of this?” I asked, dangling the firestarter by its lanyard.
Piccitelli crossed to me. “Lemme see it.”
I held the firestarter out. Piccitelli took it. He was relaxing somewhat, realizing that he and his camp weren’t the focus of the inquiry, that our visit had to do with a corpse in a park. A corpse that wasn’t his.
Tossing the firestarter back—I made the catch—Piccitelli shook his head no.
“OK,” Slidell said. “Let’s take a run at it this way. Our vic was short, had a knob on his head the size of a bowling ball, and maybe walked with a limp. That ring any bells?”
Something flicked in Piccitelli’s eyes, then was gone. He didn’t respond.
“I’m sure this man’s family is wondering where he is,” I said.
“The fella hung himself?”
“Yes.”
A beat, then, “Frank Boldonado.”
“Boldonado fits that description?” I asked, wanting to be sure I understood.
Piccitelli nodded.
“What can you tell us about him.”
“Can’t tell you jack shit. He came here once for the course. Never saw him again.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Hell if I know. Three, four years ago?”
“You got contact info?” Slidell barked.
