N EQUALS BLA EQUALS GYE.” I TWISTED IN MY SEAT, EXCITED. “BLA. Boyce Lingo Assistant. GYE. Glenn Evans. That’s got to be it.”

Slidell flicked his eyes to me, back to the road.

“Check out Evans’s middle name,” I said. “I’ll bet the farm it begins with a Y.”

We rode in silence as Slidell merged onto I-277 to loop southeast around uptown.

I tried to reach out to my subconscious. Why the subliminal alert while Slidell was questioning Evans?

Nothing.

“So what’s Lingo’s connection? Was Eddie looking at him as a suspect? What would Lingo’s motive be?”

“Sex. Drugs. Money. Jealousy. Betrayal. Envy. Take your pick. Most murders result from one on the menu.”

There was another long stretch while Slidell considered that.

“What about the artwork on Klapec’s chest and belly?”

I had no explanation for that.

“And one other minor detail. Evans says he and Lingo were in Greensboro when Klapec got capped.”

Or that.

It was 4:40 when Slidell dropped me at my Mazda. Traffic was brutal driving to UNCC. By the time I arrived at the optoelectronics center, Ireland had gone. As promised, she’d left hard copy of her SEM scans.

Wanting to get home before celebrating another birthday, I grabbed the envelope and bolted straight back to my car.

I was on Queens Road when Slidell rang my mobile.

“Glenn Yardley Evans.”

“I knew it.”

“Old Glenn and I are about to have another encounter.”

“I’ve got SEM magnifications of the bone I took from Jimmy Klapec’s femur.”

“Uh-huh.” Slidell sounded decidedly unenthusiastic.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now I talk to Evans and you look at your…whatever the hell it is you just got. We swap stories in the morning.”

My thumb moved to DISCONNECT.

“And, doc.”

I waited.

“Watch your back.”

Knowing the larder was empty, I stopped and loaded up at the Harris Teeter supermarket on Providence Road.

It was dark when I pulled in at Sharon Hall, too late for sunset, too early for moon-or starlight. Entering the grounds was like plunging into a black hole. The ancient oaks loomed like silent black giants guarding the dark swath of drive.

Circling behind the main house, I was surprised to see a red and blue glow pulsating from the direction of the Annex.

I cracked my window.

And heard a recognizable staticky sputter.

My scalp tightened and my palms went moist on the wheel. Killing the headlights, I crept forward far enough to peek around the corner.

A CMPD cruiser was angled toward my condo, doors open, radio crackling, dual beams lighting two cops and a man.

Though my view was partly obscured by bushes and the edge of the coach house, I could see that the man stood with arms raised, palms flat to one wall of the Annex. While one cop frisked him, the other asked questions.

The man was tall and lean and wore a leather jacket and jeans. Though his back was to me, there was something familiar about him.

As I watched, the frisking cop found and examined a wallet. The man spoke. The cop pulled something from inside the man’s jacket.

I couldn’t stand it. Knowing I should stay back, I made the turn and rolled closer.

Porch light haloed the man’s hair. Sandy. Not long, not short.

Something prickly blossomed in my chest.

Impossible.

The frisking cop passed an object to the questioning cop. Words were exchanged. Body language relaxed. It was obvious tension was easing.

Both cops stepped back.

The man dropped his arms and turned. The frisking cop handed the object to him. Tucking it inside his jacket, the man raised his chin. Light fell on his features.

The trio watched as I rolled into my driveway and climbed out of the car. The frisking cop spoke first.

“Good timing, ma’am. We were informed the porch light was a signal for trouble. Seeing it lit, we approached the premises, found this gentleman looking into one of your windows. He says the two of you know each other.”

“Detective Ryan is an old friend,” I said, staring into a pair of Arctic blue eyes.

“You’re good then?”

“We’re good.” Tearing my gaze free, I turned to the officers. “Thank you for your vigilance.”

The cops pulled out. Crossing to my car, I began hauling groceries from the trunk with unsteady hands. Wordlessly, Ryan joined in the effort.

In the kitchen, I offered Ryan one of the beers Katy had left in my fridge. He accepted. I opened a Diet Coke for myself.

Took a long drink. Set the can on the counter. Carefully. Spoke without turning.

“You’ve been well?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.”

“Katy?”

“She’s good.” I didn’t offer that she was out of town for a while.

“I’m glad. She’s a great kid.”

“This is a surprise.” I didn’t ask about his daughter. Mean-spirited, I know, but pain takes you past the point of civility.

“Yes.” I heard movement, a chair scrape, more movement.

“You’ve picked a bad time, Ryan.”

“I came for Rinaldi’s funeral. He was a good man.”

I’d forgotten. How many years now? Three? Four? Ryan met Rinaldi and Slidell while helping me with a case involving black marketeering in endangered species.

“And to see you.”

Tentacles began squeezing my heart.

My eyes fell on Monday’s wineglass, still upturned in the wooden dish rack beside the sink. The newly awakened beast called out.

How welcome that would be. Glowing red warmth, then confidence and conviction. Finally, oblivion.

Followed by self-loathing.

Closing my eyes, I fought to banish the craving.

“Where are you staying?”

“A Sheraton out by the airport.”

“How did you get here?”

“A couple of uniforms dropped me at the corner of Queens and something. I walked over from there. I turned on the porch light and was poking around.”

“And got busted for peeping.”

“Something like that.”

“I could have let you go to jail.”

“I appreciate the character reference.”

I didn’t answer.

“We need to talk.” Ryan’s tone was gentle, yet insistent.

No, wrangler. We don’t.

“I’ve made mistakes.”

“Is that a fact?” I could barely speak.

“It is.”

The refrigerator hummed. The clock ticked on the living room mantel.

I tried to think of something distracting to say, or at least light and clever. Nothing came to mind.

In the end what I said was, “Is the beer cold enough?”

“Just right.”

I could barely breathe as I emptied bags and placed items on my pantry shelves. Ryan watched, silent, aware of the jolt his sudden appearance had delivered. Knowing I’d open real conversation only when ready. Or I wouldn’t.

From the beginning I’d felt an almost overwhelming attraction to this man, initially resisting, finally succumbing. Right off it was more than just sex or the assurance of a Saturday-night date. Ryan and I had spent hours together, days, watching old movies, cuddling by fires, arguing and debating, holding hands, taking long walks.

Though never roommates, we’d been as close as two people can be. We’d shared secret jokes and played silly games no one else understood. I could still close my eyes and recall the way his back curved into his hips, the way his fingers shot through his hair in frustration, the way he smelled just after a shower, the way our bodies molded when dancing.

The way he could stop my breath with a wink from across the room. With a suggestive quip on a long-distance call.

Then, one day, he just walked away.

Now Ryan was drinking beer in my kitchen in Charlotte.

How did I feel?

Hostile. Cautious.

Confused as hell.

Did I still love him?

Pain also has a way of wearing love down. And Ryan had never been easy.

Nor, to be fair, had I.

Did I want that melodrama back in my life?

I felt compelled to say something. What?

The tension in the room was almost palpable.

Mercifully, my cell sounded. I checked the caller ID. Slidell.

Mumbling an apology, I walked into the dining room and clicked on.

“Yes.”

“Talked to Evans.”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“You OK?”

“Yes.”

“What? You sick again?”

“No. What did you learn from Evans?”

“Well, ain’t we Miss Congeniality?”

I was definitely not up to soothing Skinny’s wounded sensitivity.

“Evans?”

“He’s sticking with his story. Lingo had nothing to do with Jimmy Klapec, wasn’t in town on October ninth.”

“Did you confirm that the commissioner was actually in Greensboro?”

“Gee. Never thought of that.” Pause. “Yeah. They were both there, returned to Charlotte late the next afternoon.”

“Too late to kill and dump Klapec.”

“If Funderburke’s remembering right about the body turning up the morning of the ninth.”

“The insect evidence suggests forty-eight hours as a PMI.”

“Yeah.” Skeptical. “The bugs.”

I was so unsettled by Ryan’s sudden appearance my thoughts were all over the map.

“Couldn’t you drive from Greensboro, kill someone, dump the body, and get back to Greensboro in just a few hours?”

“You’d be setting a land record.”

“According to Pinder, Gunther saw Klapec fighting with someone right before Gunther went to jail. Did you ask where Lingo was at that time?”

Slidell gave me a moment of reproachful silence.

“Lingo’s got his eye on the statehouse, so he’s stumping hard to scare up dough. Between September twenty-eighth and October fourth he and Evans were in Asheville, Yadkinville, Raleigh, Wilmington, and Fayetteville. They’ve got dozens of witnesses can put ’em in each place.”

“Does Lingo have a record?”

“I ran a rap sheet search. Not so much as a citation for spitting on the street.” Slidell drew air through his nose. It whistled. “But I’m catching bad vibes off Evans.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s hiding something.”

I was about to press the point when the line beeped, indicating an incoming call.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Lowering the phone, I glanced at the screen. Dear God. Charlie Hunt.

I hesitated. What the hell?

“You looked very down at the cemetery this afternoon.”

“Rinaldi and I worked together for many years. I’ll miss him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Beat.

“That went badly today, didn’t it?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“That wasn’t a line, Tempe.”

“I believe you.” I had to smile. “You use them so sparingly.”

“I really do understand how hard it is to start over. I was married eight years. I loved my wife. She died at the Trade Center on nine-eleven.” Charlie sighed deeply. “Perhaps it’s harder when the other person is still alive.”

“Perhaps.”

“I can work around that,” Charlie said.

“I’m sure you can.”

“Shall I try?”

“The man in question showed up from Montreal today.”

There was a moment of dead air.

“I like a challenge.”

“Your odds are not good, Charlie.”

“I’ve always preferred the tough three-pointer to the easy slam dunk.”

“Outside the arc.”

“That’s me.”

After disconnecting, I stood with the phone pressed to my chest, recalling my admission to Charlie earlier at the cemetery. Until the words left my mouth I’d been in denial. Then, there it was.

Now here he was. Wanting to talk. To admit to mistakes.

What mistakes? Taking up with me? Leaving me? Wearing a jacket that was crazy warm for the day?

The door opened and Ryan came in.

We looked at each other as though across a great chasm.

“I’ve missed you,” Ryan said, spreading his arms and beckoning me forward.

I stood motionless, Gran’s clock ticking a metronome for my crashing emotions.

Ryan moved closer.

And that was it.

I stepped into Ryan’s embrace and pressed my cheek to his chest. I smelled starched cotton, male sweat, and the familiar Hugo Boss cologne.

Ryan stroked my hair and pulled me closer.

My arms went around him.