“May I ask who you are and why you’re calling?” The formal, official tone to the voice made sense now—this wasn’t a roommate or friend. This was someone with authority who just happened to pick up the phone.
Since I couldn’t come up with a slick and plausible story fast enough, I had only one alternative. “My name is Kitty Norville, and I host a talk radio show. Charles called in to the show last week with a pretty wild story and I wanted to follow up.”
“Ms. Norville, I’m a medical examiner here. Charles Beauregard was killed at his home over the weekend.”
Coincidence, right? Because if you ruled out coincidence, the world became a tangled web of conspiracy. I spoke carefully. “I’m really sorry to hear that. May I ask how he died?”
“He was struck by lightning.”
That seemed pretty clear cut. Weird, but clear cut. Except for the panic tapping in the back of my brain.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the medical examiner asked.
“No. I guess not. Thanks for your help.”
So much for Charles from Shreveport. I wondered if I should add a mark to my map—this would have fit right in with the story he’d told me.
Next I called Cormac. It might have been to simply revel in the fact that I could call him, to get his advice when something weird happened. For the last couple of years, if I wanted to get his advice I had to drive a hundred-plus miles to Cañon City, sit in a sparse, stinking concrete visiting room, and talk to him through glass.
His phone rang and rang, which was normal. Or at least, had been normal. At last, he answered.
“Hey,” he said, sounding rushed, like he’d just come in from outside or had been boiling water on the stove.
“Hey,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“I’ve got some new info on the Speedy Mart case—Harold Franklin’s in town.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Coming to see me and offer a deal to drop the lawsuit.”
He made a noise of surprise. “Can he do that? What kind of deal?”
“He wants me to apologize on the air,” I said. “I didn’t go for it; lawsuit’s still on. He may have been trying to bait me.”
“Look you in the eye, laugh in your face, that kind of thing?” he said.
“Almost his exact words.”
“Classy,” he said with a grunt. “We gotta be able to find something on this guy. There’s more to this than a libel suit.”
“That’s what I keep thinking. There’s something else—I tried to call the guy who called in to the show. The one who blamed Katrina on Franklin? To find out where he got his info.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing—he was struck by lightning and killed over the weekend.”
“That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“Either that or Franklin can summon lightning strikes to kill people.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said. “I’ve got a lot more stones to turn before we start admitting that this guy can control the weather.”
“So Charles from Shreveport was right?” I said, a little too shrilly.
“I didn’t say that,” Cormac said.