I was gathering hand washables when I spotted Ryan walking up the drive, shirt pasted to his chest, face flushed with exertion. He was speaking into his mobile. I could tell he was agitated.

Ryan rounded the corner of the Annex, out of my sight line.

Without thinking, I moved toward the back door.

“I know, sweetheart.”

Ryan was speaking English, not French. Lutetia?

Cold bloomed in my chest.

“That’s the way it’s got to be.”

Breath frozen, I leaned closer to the door.

Pause.

“No.”

There was another, longer pause. Then the knob turned.

Skittering backward, I gathered the abandoned laundry into my arms.

Ryan came through the door. Met my eyes. Waggled his free hand in irritation.

“Not a chance,” he said into the phone.

Lily, he mouthed to me.

“We’ll talk later.”

Snapping the lid, Ryan reclipped the mobile to his waistband.

“Problem?” I asked, casual as hell.

“Lily wants to go to Banff. The terms of her probation restrict her to Quebec.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” He smiled at the bras and teddies pressed to my chest. “Planning a garage sale?”

“I don’t do garage sales.”

“Keep the leopard-skin thong. It was always my favorite.”

I felt my face color.

“Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Please. Do you want anything?”

Ryan flashed lascivious brows.

My innards went for a full double flip.

I looked at the clock. Two thirty. Dear God. What would we do all afternoon?

Remembering my quarrel with Katy, I had an idea. It would require little focus and might channel my restless energy. It would also keep me and my houseguest on neutral ground.

I flapped a hand at Ryan’s shirt. “You really don’t know who the Dead Milkmen are?”

Ryan shook his head.

“My daughter claims I’m abysmally ignorant of today’s rock music.”

“Are you?”

“Abysmal is a bit strong.”

“Kids can be harsh.”

“Tyrell canned me,” I said. “Slidell’s down for beauty rest.”

“Don’t want to interrupt that.”

“Definitely not. After you shower, let’s log on and look up the Milkmen.”

I made popcorn to create a festive atmosphere.

Ryan and I learned that the Dead Milkmen were a satirical punk group whose first official album, Big Lizard in My Backyard, was released in 1985.

“Your shirt could be a classic,” I said.

“Might earn my fortune on Antiques Roadshow.”

My mind flashed an image of April Pinder.

“Do you know the Cheeky Girls?” I asked.

“I’d like to,” Ryan said, giving an exaggerated wink.

My eyes executed a hall-of-fame roll.

We learned that the Cheeky Girls were Romanian-born twins, Gabriela and Monica Irimia. Their first single, “Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum),” spent five weeks in the top five on the UK singles chart. In a Channel 4 poll, it was then voted worst pop record of all time.

“I’ve got to see the words to that,” Ryan said, reading the title.

Finding a site that listed rock-and-roll lyrics, I scrolled down and positioned the cursor over Cheeky Girls.

“Cheap Trick!” Ryan exclaimed.

“What did I do?”

“I want you to want me,” Ryan sang. Badly.

“Did you just do air guitar?”

Ryan pointed to the group directly above Cheeky Girls. Cheap Trick.

“I love those guys,” Ryan said.

Total blank.

“Abysmal may be generous,” Ryan said.

I linked over to the Cheap Trick Web site.

And felt my adrenals fire into overdrive.

“Cheap Trick has been an institution since the seventies. ‘Dream Police.’ ‘The House Is Rockin’.’ You know Comedy Central’s Colbert Report? Cheap Trick wrote and performed the theme song. Also the one for That ’70s Show.”

Ryan’s voice was barely registering. Synapses were exploding in my head like fireworks.

Rinaldi’s call to Slidell, relaying information about his informant.

Rinaldi’s cryptic notes. RN. CTK.

Glenn Evans flanking his boss on the courthouse steps.

“Going to a party,” Ryan sang.

My attention was riveted on a man holding a black-and-white-checkered guitar shaped like roadkill. A caption identified him as Rick Nielsen, lead guitarist.

Ryan misread my interest. “That’s a seventy-eight Hamer Explorer checkerboard. Awesome.”

Normally, I’d have wondered at Ryan’s knowledge of guitars. Not then.

I stared at Nielsen, unbelieving. High, broad cheekbones. Close-set eyes. Sharply sloping jaw. Prominent chin. Baseball cap.

According to Slidell, Vince Gunther had described Klapec’s violent john as Rick Nelson in a baseball cap.

Had Rinaldi actually said Rick Nielsen? Nielsen’s resemblance to Glenn Evans was striking. Had Slidell gotten the name wrong? Someone Gunther’s age would more likely know an active band like Cheap Trick than a dead sixties teen idol.

“Rick Nielsen,” I asked, pointing at the screen. “Does he often wear a cap?”

“Always.” Ryan picked up on the tension in my voice. “Why?”

I told him my thinking.

“Could be big,” he said.

“Before bothering Slidell I have to be sure.”

Ryan and I surfed through dozens of images. Concert shots. Album covers. Promotional pictures.

An hour later, I sat back, impressed but dubious. Unquestionably, Glenn Evans looked like Rick Nielsen. But was it merely coincidence?

Nope, I told myself. No such thing.

I dialed.

Amazingly, Slidell picked up.

“What.” Barked.

I explained the resemblance between Rick Nielsen and Glenn Evans.

“Might you have misunderstood Rinaldi?” I asked.

Slidell made one of his hrlf noises. I pictured him sitting on a bedside in his underwear, struggling to wake up. Not pretty.

“Maybe Klapec’s violent john is actually Glenn Evans.” Another synapse fired. “Holy shit. Maybe CTK wasn’t an airport code. Maybe that was Rinaldi’s abbreviation for Cheap Trick.”

Slidell started to talk. I cut him off.

“Maybe Rinaldi had Lingo’s phone number because he was looking at Evans.”

Slidell thought about that.

“Evans alibis out for the time Klapec’s body was dumped. And for the day Klapec argued with someone and disappeared.”

I had no answer for that.

“I did some checking on Evans and Lingo. Both are clean as a vicar’s ass. No drugs, hookers, or little girls. Besides, where’s motive?”

I started throwing things out, not really convinced.

“Maybe Evans is a closet gay. Maybe he picked Klapec up, things went south, Klapec ended up dead.”

“And the Mephistopheles motif?”

I was too pumped to be surprised at Slidell’s Faust reference.

“Maybe Evans is in some kind of cult.”

“And maybe he runs bare-ass in crop circles under full moons. Think about it. Evans works for Lingo, a power-hungry Bible-thumper with an appetite for airtime. There are whole zip codes who hate the guy. If Lingo’s aide swings with Satan, that fact would hardly stay hidden.”

I had no answer for that, either.

“Now, since you won’t let me sleep, I’m going back to goddamn headquarters.”