Dommie is stashing the pellet rifle under his bed so that his parents won't find it. I can't look at Juan for fear of busting out laughing. I, too, kept a pellet gun beneath my bed when I was twelve. However, I also had a pet snake, an arrowhead collection, a homemade basketball hoop and three shelves full of books in my room. Dommie's universe exists largely inside electronic boxes; his games, his reading, his music. I wonder when he last went out to run around in the sunshine. I wonder if he owns a mitt and a bat, or if all he knows about baseball comes from chat rooms and video games.

Then I remember that my own pellet gun was employed chiefly to raise welts on the broad pimply shoulders of one Buster Walsh, a teenage neighbor who occasionally beat me up at the school bus stop. For revenge I'd climb a mossy old oak at the end of our street and snipe at Buster on his way home from wrestling practice. He'd hop around, bleating and slapping spastically at himself as if he were being dive-bombed by hornets. I'd lie low for a week or two, then nail him again when his guard was down. Plinking him was my entertainment, arguably more fiendish than Dommie's impulsive assault on an inanimate computer component. In other words, I'm not the most reliable authority on who's normal and well adjusted.

"If not macaroni then a cheeseburger," Dommie is instructing Juan. "Medium rare. Go tell her, okay? And if she asks about the bang she heard, tell her it was you or Jack that accidentally broke the PC. Okay?"

"No problem," Juan says.

"Don't worry, she won't do nuthin'."

"Thanks for your help," I tell the kid. "Have fun at the ball game."

"I'm taking a lobster net for foul balls," Dommie says brightly. "If I catch one I'm signing Mike Piazza's name and selling it for big bucks on eBay."

"Thattaboy." I flash him a thumbs-up.

Emma is worried about using Evan, but he's perfect: He looks exactly like a delivery boy, guileless and spacey. After a short strategy session I gave him twenty bucks and dispatched him to Cleo's favorite gourmet deli for subs and pasta. He should be calling from her place within the hour. Meanwhile I studiously listen to the CDs that Dommie made from the mystery hard drive.

Jimmy Stoma's unfinished opus.

The songs are in strands, but I can almost imagine how they're supposed to sound when woven together. For a fan it's strange to come upon a bare guitar track or a detached piano; free-floating background harmonies—I'm betting it's the lovely Ajax and Maria, whom I met at the funeral; or Jimmy himself taking three or four unaccompanied passes at the lyrics. Astoundingly, all those years of shrieking like a banshee with the Slut Puppies didn't shred his vocal cords. He sounds good on these recordings.

At first I wasn't looking forward to sitting through hours of raw cuts, but it's been interesting to hear the songs evolve—and instructive. On an early vocal of "Cindy's Oyster" (filed as V4oystio), Jimmy began the third verse this way:

The girl who saved her pearl for me

Showed it to the world on MTV ...

Obviously a sly dig at his young bride, the former Cynthia Jane Zigler. In a subsequent version Jimmy dropped the caustic pose in favor of a leer:

The girl who saved her pearl for me

Keeps it shiny between her knees ...

And by the last cut of the song (Vyoystioall), the line had been altered once more:

The girl who saved her pearl for me

Keeps it hidden in a cold black sea ...

He was no Robert Zimmerman, but James Bradley Stomarti knew how to have fun with lyrics. It's the only reference to Cleo Rio that I've heard so far on any of the discs. While she might not have liked the song, I doubt she would have been moved to murder Jimmy and then Jay Burns in order to gain possession of the recording.

Yet, as young Loreal so sagely observed, it's the music business. Maybe Cleo is a paranoid, egomaniacal kook. Maybe she couldn't bear the idea of seeing a snarky column item pegging her as the inspiration for "Cindy's Oyster." Or maybe she couldn't stand the thought of her husband getting pop ink at her expense.

These theories rest on several wobbly assumptions: one, that Cleo heard the song; two, that she got the point of the song; three, that she believed Jimmy would actually finish it; and, four, that a legitimate record label would put it out.

Unfortunately, "Cindy's Oyster" is the closest thing to a motive I've found, which is to say that the story of Jimmy Stoma's death is a long way from making the newspaper.

Now the phone is ringing and I snatch at it, expecting Evan on the other end.

"Has he called in yet? Is he okay?" It's Emma, the mother hen.

"Not yet. But I'm sure he's all right."

"Jack, I don't like this. I'm coming over."

"Fine, but don't be shocked if the place is crawling with strumpets and wenches."

"I'm serious. If anything happens to him—"

"Bring whipped cream," I tell her. "And an English saddle."

Like many police departments, our sheriff's office tapes all incoming calls, even those on non-emergency lines. In Florida such tapes are a public record, which means access must be provided upon request to any member of the unwashed citizenry, including news reporters. The quality of such tapes is uniformly awful, and sure enough, Janet's alleged phone call to the Beckerville substation sounded like it came from a Ukrainian coal mine. The voice seemed to belong to a woman, but I couldn't have told you whether it was Janet Thrush, Cleo Rio or Margaret Thatcher. Between fuzz-pops and crackles the voice can be heard saying not to worry about the commotion at her house—her drunken boyfriend wigged out, nobody got hurt and things are under control.

The call came from a pay phone outside a Denny's in Coral Springs, which makes it worthless as a clue. Of course I'd hoped that the number would trace back to Jimmy's widow, but no such luck. I've been curious about what Cleo's up to, besides dodging my phone calls and blowing her record producer and meeting with her dead husband's ex-bandmates. So I figured what the hell, let's send young Evan to her condo to scope out the domestic situation. The deli bags would get him past the doorman, but then he'd be on his own. Evan said that's cool, he'd know how to play it out. Perhaps I should have let on that Cleo might be a cold-blooded murderess, but there seemed no point in making him more excited than he already was.

Not ten minutes after Emma hangs up, Evan calls from ground zero.

"Yeah, uh, this is Chuck."

We'd worked out a rough script in advance. Evan picked the name "Chuck" because he thought it fit a delivery guy.

"This run to Palmero Towers," he's saying, "you sure it was for 16-G?"

"Hi, Evan. Everything okay?"

"Well, check it again, wouldya," he goes on, '"cause the lady says she didn't call for no subs."

"Cleo's home?"

"Yeah."

"Excellent. She alone?"

"Nope."

"Here's what you do," I tell him. "Tell her your boss is checking on the order and he'll call you right back. I'll wait about five minutes, that ought to be long enough."

"Absolutely."

"Hang out. Be cool. Don't ask too many questions. But try to remember everything you see and hear."

"Hey, ma'am," I hear Evan saying to Cleo on the other end. "My boss says he'll check on this and call me back. What's the number here?"

"Five-five-five"—Cleo, impatiently in the background—"one-six-two-three. What's the problem—did you tell him we didn't order anything? Is that Lester? Let me talk to him—"

"I'm really sorry, ma'am," Evan says, smoothly cutting her off. Then, to me: "Boss, the number's 555-1623. That's right, apartment 16-G, but it ain't her order."