Page 84 of Evil Bones
“Sardines don’t have arms.”
“Always the know-it-all.” Slidell’s face was glossy, his cheeks flushed from the proximity of so much warm flesh. “You score anything useful?”
“Hugh Norwitz is a creep and an arrogant bully,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“That was the take among the ladies.”
“Well, ain’t that a pisser. The guys I questioned thought he was the salt of the earth.”
“Seriously?”
“One old geezer described him as courtly, whatever the hell that means.” Slidell checked his watch. “I need grub.”
The Crosby wasn’t open for lunch. And Slidell had a “hankering” for pizza. So, we trudged through the heat to the SUV and drove a short distance to a place called Spaghetti Park. Seemed a reasonable choice given Skinny’s craving.
Skinny ordered a build-your-own Sicilian pizzetta. I listened with dismay to the long list of toppings he wanted, including doubles on onions and garlic. Wondered if I should buy a full-face respirator mask for the trip home.
I chose the wild mushroom ravioli. Which turned out to be excellent.
Slidell and I spent the rest of the day interacting with conference attendees, making the same queries again and again. Many of those wequestioned had met Norwitz, but none knew the man well enough to offer insight into his character.
When we asked if any other NCTA member might fit our doer’s profile, one name came up twice. Ozmand “Ozzie” Key.
The last presentations concluded at five. Then the venues and corridors slowly emptied as people headed to their cars, to their rooms, or to The Crosby for drinks.
Slidell and I made one quick swing through the pub. Eyes focused on their Pinots and Manhattans, or on the parquet floor, the badge-wearing patrons were now cool to our presence. Realizing we were accomplishing nothing, we decided to call it a day.
Skinny drove like a madman, saying he was eager to run the name Ozmand Key. With his typical tunnel vision, he was certain the guy would come up on a sex offender list.
Though I suspected the lovely Ms. Lyric was the impetus for Skinny’s lead foot, I said nothing. Buckled up, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought about my upcoming visit with Ryan.
Eager to distance myself from all things taxidermic.
CHAPTER 19
Traffic was heavy and moved like sludge through a clogged pipe. The drive to Charlotte took almost two hours.
Arriving home shortly before eight, I zapped a frozen dinner of P.F. Chang’s Dan Dan noodles and ate while watching CNN with Birdie. The cat appeared to tense during coverage of the Middle East bombings but kept his opinion to himself.
After washing my utensils and wiping down the table and counter, I showered, then tried reading the Sandra Brown novel I was halfway through.
My eyelids grew heavier with each page. Not the fault of the book. A dinner of noodles will do that to my hypothalamus.
At ten I gave up and headed to bed.
Despite my postprandial drowsiness, sleep eluded me.
I spent hours tossing and turning, punching the pillow, kicking off, then retrieving the comforter. Checking and rechecking the time.
Midnight came and went.
Two a.m.
Three-thirty.
My mind scrolled through the possible causes. Maybe the day’s outing with Slidell. Maybe the chemicals contained in frozen meals. The week’s events looped ceaselessly in my overstimulated brain.
