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.