SUCKED IN MY BREATH.

Checked the list of incoming calls.

“Shit.”

Sensing agitation, Galimore glanced my way.

With a shaky finger, I rejabbed the icon.

Listened again.

“Jesus.”

“What’s going on?”

I hit speaker while extending the phone in Galimore’s direction.

The voice was low and deep, the message short.

“You’re next.”

“Play it again,” Galimore ordered.

I did.

“Again.”

We listened to the same two words. Still the meaning was unclear. “Is he saying ‘you’re next’? Or is he saying ‘your next’ and then getting cut off?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

Galimore was right. I was being a jerk. It’s the game face I wear when frightened.

“If this is a threat, I intend to take it seriously.”

“Thanks, Hulk.”

“Christ, Brennan. Check the number.”

“The call logged in as unknown.”

“Do you recognize the voice?”

“No. Does it sound like the same guy who threatened you?”

“I can’t be sure. But here’s what you’re going to do.”

“I react poorly when people use that opener.”

“Go home. Arm the security system. Stay there. I’ll contact you when I’m done kicking ass at the Speedway.”

“Can I admit strangers if they’re really polite?”

My surgical strike for groceries ended up costing two hundred and forty bucks. But I had provisions to take me into the next millennium.

While I placed cans and boxes in the pantry, fruit in a bowl, and veggies and dairy products in the refrigerator, Birdie chased empty bags across the floor. Periodically, he’d roll to his back and claw the plastic with four upraised paws.

I ate a carton of yogurt, a peach, and two Petit Écolier cookies. Then I went upstairs to peel off my sweaty clothes and shower with my impulse purchase of pomegranate energizing body cleanser.

When I returned to the kitchen, pits, stems, and tiny globs of pulp littered the floor. Great. The little bugger had eaten three cherries and mangled four more.

While waiting for Galimore, I decided to see what I could scare up on abrin. An hour on the Internet taught me the following.

Abrus precatorius goes by many common names, including but not limited to Jequirity, Crab’s Eye, Rosary Pea, John Crow Bead, Precatory Bean, and Indian Licorice.

The plant is a slender perennial climber that twines around trees, shrubs, and hedges. Its leaves are long and pinnate-leafleted. Its seeds are black and red and contain the toxin abrin.

Though native to Indonesia, Abrus precatorius is now found in many tropical and subtropical areas of the world, including the United States. When introduced to new locales, the species tends to become weedy and invasive.

Known as Gunja in Sanskrit and some Indian languages and Ratti in Hindi, Abrus precatorius is used as a traditional unit of measure, mostly by jewelers and Ayurved doctors. The seeds are valued in native jewelry for their bright coloration. In China, they are a symbol of love. In Trinidad, they are worn to ward off evil spirits.

Jewelry-making with Abrus precatorius is considered dangerous work. Death by abrin poisoning has resulted from finger-pricking while boring the seeds for beadwork.

Symptoms are identical in abrin and ricin poisoning. But abrin is more toxic by almost two orders of magnitude.

Abrin is a macromolecular complex consisting of two protein subunits termed A and B. The B chain facilitates abrin’s entry into a cell by bonding to certain transport proteins on the cell membranes. Once inside, the A chain shuts down protein synthesis.

I was eyeballing pictures of the assassin legume when my iPhone started bouncing across the table. I’d forgotten to switch it from vibrate.

“You’ll never guess what I caught.”

“Scabies,” I said.

“What the hell’s scabies?”

“I’m good, Detective Slidell. How are you?” Why couldn’t the guy ever open with a greeting?

“I was up, so I caught your NASCAR pal.”

It took me a moment to translate. “You’re working the Wayne Gamble investigation?”

“Concord asked for help in sorting the thing. You been watching the news? It’s a shitstorm.”

“Galimore said a lot of media were camped out at the Speedway.”

Slidell did the throat thing. At mention of the media? Of Gali-more?

Disregarding Slidell’s censure, I recounted my visit with Craig Bogan.

“And?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy keeps a spare bedsheet in his closet.”

“Meaning?”

“I think he’s a bigot.”

“Who don’t he like?”

“Anyone who’s not white and straight.”

“Uh-huh.”

I described the phone threat. If it was a threat.

“Where was Galimore?” Stony.

“Right there with me.”

As the words left my lips, I realized that was wrong.

“So what are you doing?”

I knew Slidell was referring to the call. Chose not to acknowledge.

“Researching abrin,” I said.

“You know what you are, Doc?”

“Crafty on the Internet.”

Slidell clucked disapproval but let it go.

“Looks like Gamble was doing some research of his own.”

I waited for him to explain.

“Grady Winge talked about a ’sixty-five Mustang, right?”

“Right.”

“I found a folder in Gamble’s trailer. He’d traced every ’sixty-five Mustang registered in the Carolinas back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Through NCIC?”

“Hell, no. That’s just for people on the job. You gotta take a class, get a user name and password. It’s mandated by the FBI. If the system was open to every Tom, Dick, and Harry—”

“What about DMV records?”

“No.”

“So how did Gamble do it?”

“Maybe he had inside help. Maybe he requested the original file and was given access. Before some FBI spook snatched the bloody thing, of course.”

“Did Eddie put anything in his notes?”

“Yeah. He tracked down eighteen ’sixty-five Mustangs tagged in North and South Carolina. Ran them all. Fifteen came up legit. The other three owners he could never locate.”

“But Gamble found them.”

“One car belonged to a dead woman. Her daughter-in-law ponied up for a tag every year without even asking questions. The dead lady no longer lived at the Raleigh address listed on the paperwork. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Where was the Mustang?”

“Rusting in a storage shed.”

“The second car belonged to a collector with a Myrtle Beach address. Same deal. The guy’s assistant relicensed annually, not knowing the thing was sitting in a warehouse somewhere with no wheels and no engine. The owner was living in Singapore.”

“So his contact information was also useless.”

“The third car belonged to a retired army sergeant. He’d moved the vehicle to Texas but kept the South Carolina plate. When Eddie tried to call, the line had probably been disconnected.”

“So those three owners were effectively lost to the system back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Yeah. But Gamble found them. And all three are dead ends.”

“Like the other fifteen.”

“You’ve got it.”

“How could such a unique vehicle remain untraceable?”

“Good question.”

“Could Winge have been wrong?”

“He was very specific.” I heard paper rustle. “At the Speedway, he told us it was a ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

I felt a tickle deep in my brainpan. What?

Slidell shifted gears. “Your gut about Owen Poteat was right on target. In ’ninety-eight the guy was up to his eyeballs in debt. He hadn’t worked in three years, and he’d dropped a ton fighting the little missus over custody. The poor bastard took out loans, eventually sold his house. Still lost his kids. Never again found gainful employment.”

“But somehow he had twenty-six thousand to invest in their college educations.”

“Winning lottery ticket?”

“What are the odds?”

After we disconnected, I spent a little more time on my laptop. And learned a few more disturbing facts.

Abrin is a yellow-white powder that can be released into the air as fine particles. If released outdoors, it has the potential to contaminate agricultural products.

Abrin can be used to poison food and water.

The fatal dose of abrin is approximately seventy-five times smaller than the fatal dose of ricin.

I checked another site. Got a figure. Did some math in my head.

Holy crap.

Abrin can kill with a circulating amount of less than 3 micrograms.

At seven p.m., I broiled a flounder filet and shared it with Birdie. Preferring a mayo-based sauce, he passed on the slaw. Or maybe he just dislikes storebought salads.

I then worked through my in-box.

Several e-mails concerned casework. A pathologist at the LSJML needed clarification on a report. A prosecutor in Charlotte wanted to schedule a meeting. LaManche wondered when I’d return to Montreal.

Others offered the deal of a lifetime. A Rolex watch for fifty bucks. Access to unclaimed funds in an African bank. A cleanser that would make my skin glow like that of a Hollywood star.

Katy was thinking of quitting her job to spend a year in Ireland. She had an offer to tend bar at a pub in Cork. Great.

Ryan had sent an uncharacteristically long message describing his latest therapy session with Lily. He was dismayed at the amount of anger his daughter seemed to harbor. Against him for being absent during her childhood. Against Lutetia for hiding from him the fact of her existence—and for recently abandoning her to return to Nova Scotia.

He wrote that he was discouraged, homesick, and missed my company. The tenor was so heartbreaking, it drilled a hole through my sternum.

But Ryan’s message wasn’t as sad as the one penned by Harry. Recently, my sister and I had received shocking news not dissimilar from that which had altered Ryan’s world.

Harry’s son, Kit, had fathered a child the summer he was sixteen and in Cape Cod at sailing camp. For reasons that would forever remain a mystery, the child’s mother, Coleen Brennan, of an unrelated branch of the clan, had not disclosed to her summer love that he had a daughter.

Victoria “Tory” Brennan was now fourteen. Upon the sudden death of Coleen, Tory had relocated from Massachusetts and was now living with Kit in Charleston.

Harry had a granddaughter. I had a grandniece.

Harry was furious about all the lost years. And despondent over the fact that Kit, wanting to give Tory time to adjust, wouldn’t yet allow his mother to visit.

I was dialing Harry’s number when the front bell chimed. Thinking it was Galimore, I put down the handset and went to the door.

It wasn’t my worst nightmare.

But it was close.