Page 97 of Evil Bones
“Why do you have his picture on your phone?”
“Who is he?” I asked, sidestepping her question.
“Why is this guy’s pic on your phone?” she repeated.
A brief stare down ensued. I cracked first.
“That’s a photo of the body found at the McDowell Nature Preserve, the case I mentioned briefly at dinner. I’m so sorry if he was a friend of yours.”
“How did he die?”
“He was shot.”
Katy flinched as though slapped.
“Who is he?” I asked gently.
“Quaashi Brown. Everyone called him Quash.”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t reallyknowhim. I saw him now and then at the shelter.”
“Can you tell me where he lived?”
“Tent City, until the heartless bastards shut that down.”
Katy referred to a homeless encampment that grew up inconveniently close to Uptown. Upsetting to the more sensitive—the less compassionate?—among my fellow Charlotteans, the hodgepodge of makeshift shelters had eventually been demolished, the unhoused forced into facilities or back onto the streets.
“After that?”
“Rumor was he had one of those tents near the Clanton Road exit off I-77.”
“Are you sure it’s Quash?”
“Oh, yeah. I recognize the earring.”
“What’s his story?”
Katy shrugged both shoulders. “He was an old geezer who occasionally dropped into the shelter for a meal.”
“I believe the man was still in hisfifties,” I noted with an eye roll.
“I’m just saying. The guy wasn’t planning a spring break in Daytona.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted Quash dead?”
Shaking her head glumly, Katy handed back my phone.
“Any idea what the letters ‘PE’ might mean?” I ventured.
“Price to earnings ratio?”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
At ten-thirty, Mama rang to say she had squirrels in her attic. Not a euphemism. She had a legit rodent problem. Lots of scratching and scurrying paws overhead. I helped her search the internet for a pest control service that promised to trap and release.
We’d barely disconnected when Ryan phoned to provide his flight information.
