I described the trauma on Cruikshank's sixth cervical vertebra. Gullet listened without interrupting. I then explained that identical trauma was present on the skeleton Emma and I had recovered from the shallow grave on Dewees.

"Both were white males in their forties," Gullet said, not excited so much as interested.

I nodded.

"Could be coincidence."

"Could be." A coincidence the size of the Serengeti.

Gullet swiveled back to the computer screen. "If Cruikshank didn't die by his own hand, then the question becomes, who helped him? And why? And what's the significance of the place in these photos?"

"Could be the place is incidental," I suggested. "Maybe the subject of interest was one of the people."

"Only one disc is labeled," Pete said. "With Helene Flynn's name."

"Let's check the others," I said.

We did. All were blank.

"You search every box?" Gullet asked.

"Except one."

We trooped back to the conference room. The last box had once held jars of Hellman's mayo. Pete and Gullet watched as I pulled back the flaps.

Books. Framed photos. An album. A trophy. Police memorabilia.

No discs.

"Let's back up a few trots," Gullet said when I'd resecured the flaps. "Could have been Cruikshank staking out that building, could have been someone else. If it was someone else, who? And why? And what's Cruikshank's interest in the pictures?"

"And how did he get them?" Pete asked.

I thought a moment.

"There are several possibilities." I ticked them off on my fingers. "One, Cruikshank took the shots himself. Two, he was given the disc. Three, he was given a camera smart card or photo chip. Four, he received the images electronically."

"Meaning, we haven't a clue," Pete said.

"But we do know one significant thing."

Both men looked at me.

"To download from a camera, smart card, or Web site? To receive e-mail? To save files to disc? To view images on a CD?"

Pete and Gullet spoke simultaneously.

"Cruikshank had a computer."

"I'd say there's a good possibility. Maybe a digital camera, too."

Gullet's eyes narrowed in anger. Maybe. Maybe I imagined it.

"Time to revisit the good landlord Parrot."

I made a gesture that took in the files and box eight. "In the meantime, may we take this?"

Gullet thumb-hooked his belt and pooched out his lower lip. As seconds passed, I was unsure if he was ignoring or considering my request. Then he hitched his pants and let out a long breath.

"Truth is, I'm short a deputy right now. Miz Rousseau trusts you enough to take you on, I guess your poking through some boxes can't hurt. Make sure every item's inventoried and logged, then sign for the lot. And mind the security." Gullet didn't finish the admonition. No point in stating the obvious.

We were entering Mount Pleasant when my mobile rang. Pete was driving.

I dug the phone from my purse. The screen showed a local number I didn't recognize. I started to ignore the call, changed my mind. What if it concerned Emma?

I should have gone with my first instinct.

14

"HOW'S IT GOING, DOC?"

It took a nanosecond to recognize the voice. Plankton.

"How did you get this number?"

"Pretty good, eh?"

"I don't do interviews, Mr. Winborne."

"Did you see my piece in the Post and Courier? The one on the Dewees stiff?"

I said nothing.

"Editor went batshit. Green-lighted me for a follow-up."

I said nothing again.

"So I've got a few questions."

I used my steely voice, the one I'd learned from cops and customs officials. "I. Don't. Do. Interviews."

"It'll take only a minute."

"No." Impermeable.

"It's in your interest to-"

"I'm going to hang up now. Don't call me again."

"I advise you not to do that."

"Do you still have that Nikon, Mr. Winborne?"

"Sure do."

"I advise you to take that camera and shove it where the sun don't shi-"

"I'm hip to the body you cut down in the Francis Marion."

That worked. I didn't disconnect.

"The guy's name is Noble Cruikshank, and he was a Charlotte cop."

So Plankton had a mole.

"Where did you get this information?" I asked, my voice pure ice.

"Doc." Mock disappointment. "You know my sources are confidential. But my facts are solid, right?"

"I'm confirming nothing."

Pete was throwing quizzical glances my way. I gestured that he should keep his eyes on the road.

"But something is bothering me." Slow. Ponderous. Winborne sounded like he'd watched way too many Columbo episodes. "Cruikshank was a PI, a former cop. He was probably on a case when he died. What could be so mind-blowing that it would cause a guy like that to string himself up?"

Silence hummed across the line.

"And the demographic." He pronounced it "dee-mographic." "Male, white, forty-something. Sound familiar?"

"Keanu Reeves."

Winborne ignored that. Or didn't get it. "So I'm checking out what Cruikshank was working when he hanged himself. You got any insight into that?"

"No comment."

"And I'm looking for links between Cruikshank and your bones on Dewees."

"For multiple reasons, I advise you to print nothing."

"Yeah? Gimme one."

"First, if the body from the Francis Marion is that of Noble Cruikshank, a man committing suicide is hardly a scoop. Second, as you know, Cruikshank was a cop. His former colleagues might not appreciate you dragging his name through the mud. And third, whoever the victim turns out to be, it is unethical to reveal information about a death before notification of next of kin."

"I'll think about it."

"I'm going to disconnect now, Mr. Winborne. If you take my picture again I will sue you."

I clicked off.

"Sonovabitch!" I came close to hurling the handset through the windshield.

"Lunch?" Pete asked.

Too angry to speak, I nodded my head.

Just past Shem Creek, Pete turned right from Coleman Boulevard onto Live Oak Drive, a residential side street lined with bungalows and shaded by, yep, you guessed it, live oaks wrapped with Spanish moss. Pete went left onto Haddrell, curved left, then turned into a gravel parking area.

Across the lot, between the Wando Seafood Company and Magwood amp; Sons Seafoods, stood a ramshackle structure that looked like it had been hammered together by a committee sharing no common language. The Wreck of the Richard and Charlene is known to locals as "the Wreck." Unmarked and unadvertised, the restaurant may be Charleston 's best-kept secret.

The story goes something like this. During Hurricane Hugo, a fishing boat named the Richard and Charlene was tossed onto the restaurant owners' property. Seeing it as an omen, the restaurant owner's wife christened her establishment in honor of the wreck.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale…

That was 1989. The wreck is still there, and the Wreck is still there, its owners disdaining all forms of marketing and publicity. Even signs.

Concrete floors. Ceiling fans. Screened porches. An honor system for help-yourself beers in a deck cooler should you have to wait for a table. The formula works, and the place is always packed.

At four thirty in the afternoon things were uncharacteristically quiet. Service didn't start until five thirty, but we were seated. What the hell? The Wreck is that kind of place.

The Wreck's ordering system is as simple as its menu. With the crayons provided, Pete circled the shrimp basket, the gumbo, and the key lime bread pudding, and indicated that he wanted Richard-size portions. I chose a Charlene-size oyster basket. Diet Coke for me. A Carolina Blonde for Pete.

Dixie dining at its best.

"Let me guess," Pete said, when the drinks had arrived. "That call was from a journalist."