Fry handed her his paper about the warrior Osceola. Then he went back inside and came out with a towel that he’d soaked with warm water from the kitchen tap. While Honey read through the essay, he wiped the dead mosquitoes from her legs.

He said, “Mom, let’s go in. We need to talk.”

“This is pretty good,” Honey said, tapping a fingernail on the pages he’d written, “except you got Jesup’s name wrong. There’s only one s.”

“I’ll fix it later. How about some dinner?”

“You didn’t put in the part about them stealing Osceola’s head after he died. About that army doctor keeping it at home in a jar, and taking it out to frighten his kids.”

“Are you making this up? Because it’s incredibly twisted,” Fry said.

“I did not make it up!” Honey Santana slapped the essay pages into his hand. He could see she was telling the truth.

“Mom, you’re getting all torqued up again. Maybe you should go back to the doctor.”

She smiled and stretched like a cat. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “You up for pizza? I’ve got a coupon somewhere.”

Dealey was tired of the Shreave case. He’d done his job, nailing the knucklehead in the act, and now he was ready for fresh meat.

“Trust me. Your husband won’t give you any trouble over the divorce,” he assured Lily Shreave. “After seeing what you’ve got on him, he’ll sign anything.”

She said, “I want more, Mr. Dealey.”

“But why? I got you dinner tabs and floral receipts and eight-by-tens and video.” Dealey could not suppress his exasperation. “You said the photos of the blow job weren’t enough. You wanted ‘documentation of intercourse,’ so I got that, too-on tape, for Christ’s sake! What else do you need, Mrs. Shreave?”

“Penetration,” she replied.

Dealey waited for her to chuckle and tell him she was only kidding. When it became apparent that she was serious, he shut the door to his office so as not to offend his assistant, who had recently found religion.

“That video you took was good,” Lily Shreave said, “but I want something a hundred percent irrefutable.”

“Excuse me? I got you a naked woman grinding your husband on the sofa of her living room, and you say that’s not proof of adultery?” Dealey had his share of wacko clients, but Lily Shreave was breaking new ground.

He said, “I’d kill to be in court when Bouncing Boyd tries to explain that little scene. ‘Honest, Your Honor, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a pelvic chiropractor.’”

“Yes, but in the video all you really see of him is the back of his head,” Lily remarked.

“The lady nearly knocks him unconscious with her tits, Mrs. Shreave! In my business, it doesn’t get any better than that. Seventeen years, I’ve never seen a tape of that quality,” he asserted with no small measure of pride.

Lily Shreave had replayed the video over and over during her last visit to Dealey’s office. He remembered her sitting unusually close to the screen-not angry or tearful, but hunched forward and studious. At the time, Dealey had thought it was a little creepy.

He said, “This is a slam dunk, Mrs. Shreave. Ask any divorce lawyer in Texas.”

Lily was unswayed. “I’d prefer to see penetration,” she said flatly. “That would be the smoking gun.”

“No, that would be a fucking miracle,” said Dealey, “literally.”

“I suppose I could find another private investigator.”

“And I’d understand completely.” He passed his invoice across the desk. “That includes gas and expenses.”

As Boyd Shreave’s wife wrote out the check, she said, “You never told me if this slut was really a Fonda.”

“Not even close. No family connection,” Dealey said. “It’s in my report.”

“Right. One of these days I’ll have to read it.” Lily took a tube of mint lip balm from her purse and applied it conservatively.

Dealey glanced at his wristwatch. “Mrs. Shreave, I’ve got another appointment across town.”

She closed the purse and said, “Ten thousand dollars if you get me proof of penetration.”

“That’s just crazy.”

“Cash,” she said.

Dealey sat down slowly. The woman obviously was getting off, watching her old man do it with somebody else. One time Dealey had been hired by a husband who got his kicks the same way, except he didn’t have ten grand lying around.

“Well?” said Lily Shreave.

Dealey pondered the unappetizing dullness of his next case-a fireman who’d claimed he injured his shoulder while hosing a burning Airstream was now playing thirty-six holes of golf daily while on disability leave. The city’s claims adjuster had expressed an interest in either stills or videotape.

Lily said, “Think of it, Mr. Dealey. You pull this off, you’ll be a legend in your business.”

“But logistically, it would be…it would be…”

“A triumph?”

“A bear,” the investigator said. “Just so you know, I don’t do break-ins and I don’t do disguises. That means I’d have to figure out some other way to sneak a camera into her apartment.”

“Not necessarily,” Lily said. “This morning my husband informed me that his company is sending him to Florida to be treated for a rare condition called aphenphosmphobia.”

Dealey winced. “Holy crap. Is it fatal?”

“If only,” said Boyd Shreave’s wife. “It’s a fear of being touched. And as we both know from your excellent surveillance, my husband has no fear whatsoever of being touched. Or sucked, fucked and fondled, for that matter.”

“So he’s faking.”

“Here’s what else: Boyd was fired several days ago from the call center. He was out banging Ms. Fonda when his boss called to ask where to mail his final paycheck-minus the cost of some missing office supplies.”

Dealey said, “Mr. Shreave has no idea that you’re onto him?”

“No, it’s pathetic. I’ll give him as much rope as he needs to hang himself,” Lily said. “The only thing he’s not lying about is going to Florida. A friend of mine works at a travel agency-she went in the computer and found Boyd’s reservation on a flight to Tampa. Guess who’s got the seat beside him.”

“Where will the happy lovebirds be staying?”

“I haven’t a clue. But for ten grand I’ll bet you can find out.” Lily got up and headed for the door.

“Hold on,” Dealey said. “You expect me to do what exactly-hide in the closet of their motel room? This thing you’re asking for, Mrs. Shreave, would take some special planning. Not to mention luck.”

Lily told him to go rent some porn, if he needed tips on the camera work.

“But those are actors. They couldn’t care less if some stranger with a camcorder is crouched between their legs,” Dealey said.

“You’ll think of something.” Lily walked out of the office.

Dealey, who couldn’t recall accepting her offer, followed two steps behind. “It’s ten thousand plus expenses, right?”

“If you get me penetration, yes. Absolutely.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then all you get is a free trip to Florida,” said Boyd Shreave’s wife, “which isn’t such a bad deal, is it?”