I cleaned up and headed out.
Larabee’s car was gone from the lot. But two vans sat outside the security fence. One had WSOC written on the side panel, the other News 14 Carolina.
Crap.
As I crossed to my Mazda, each van’s doors thunked open and a two-person crew leaped out. One member of each pair held a mike, the other a shoulder-propped camera.
I hurried to my car, jumped in, and palmed down the locks. Gunning through the gate, I lowered a window and waved a message that needed no clarification.
I knew the media had picked up on transmissions concerning the discovery of Leal’s body, and that the reporters sitting vigil at the morgue were just doing their jobs. I also knew that dozens more were swarming elsewhere—the underpass, the convenience store, the Leal home—salivating for an inside line to pipe to their editors.
My gesture was unfair. Definitely inelegant. But I refused to provide fodder for voyeurs wanting a peek into the heartbreak of others.
The Penguin drive-in is a clogged artery waiting to take you out. Featuring a menu with caloric levels very possibly illegal, the place has been a Charlotte institution since before I was born. I crave its burgers and fries like an addict craves dope.
The restaurant was close to the convenience store where Shelly Leal was last seen. Where she’d bought milk and candy and it had cost her life.
Pulling from Commonwealth into a spot by the entrance, I could see Ryan and Slidell through the double lens of my windshield and a tinted front window. The look on Skinny’s face almost made me regret my decision to come.
Though it was nearly two P.M., the place was crowded. And noisy with the hubbub of conversation emanating from fat-glutted brains.
The men looked up when I drew close. Ryan scooched left to make space for me in the booth.
Slidell was eating a sandwich that almost defied description. Blackened bologna on Texas toast with lettuce, tomato, and mayo. The Dr. Devil. One of the few offerings I’d never sampled. Ryan was working on a hot dog barely visible under a layer of queso and onion rings. Both were drinking sodas the size of oil drums. The iconic flightless bird grinned from each plastic cup.
I slid in and Ryan handed me a menu. No, thanks. I knew what I wanted.
The waitress appeared and queried my health in a syrupy drawl. I assured her I was swell and ordered the Penguin burger, a heart-stopper topped with pimento cheese and fried pickles.
While waiting for my food, I told Ryan and Slidell about the possible lip print.
“It could be Leal’s.” Ryan sounded skeptical.
“Yes,” I said. “Or it could have been left by her attacker. Maybe Leal fought and was pulled close, to pin her arms. Or maybe her body slipped while being carried to the underpass. There are lots of reasons her abductor’s face might have come in contact with the jacket.”
“You think DNA’s gonna last that long?” Slidell outdid Ryan at dubious.
“I’m hoping so.” I was. And that the match would send Pomerleau straight to hell.
My drink was delivered. Sugary tea, not the unsweetened I’d ordered. While sipping it, I shared my thoughts on the gap year, 2010. And described ME107-10.
The men listened, chewing and wiping grease from their chins. Though he hadn’t been involved, Slidell remembered the case.
I mentioned the media ambush at the MCME. Slidell delivered his usual rant. His suggestions for curtailing the power of the fifth estate did not involve amending the constitution.
By the time my food arrived, Slidell had finished his. He bunched and tossed his napkin and leaned back. “I’m convinced the parents are clear. Co-workers place the old man at the body shop when the kid went missing. Mother’s barely holding it together. Says she was home with the other two, waiting for the milk. It feels right to me.”
Ryan nodded agreement.
“How did they take the news?” I spoke through a mouthful of ground beef and pickle.