“Maybe I should fax that page to Slidell. Can you print it?”

Pointless. But it was something to do.

Returning to the Cheap Trick Web site, Ryan made hard copy and handed it to me. The page made me think of Rinaldi’s notes. Something else to do.

I pulled the papers from my briefcase. Returned to the study.

“Look at this,” I said. “Now everything makes sense.”

Ryan dropped onto the couch beside me.

JK. 9/29. LSA with RN acc. to VG. RN-PIT. CTK. TV. 10/9-10/11? CFT. 10. 500.

“According to Vince Gunther, Jimmy Klapec was last seen alive with Rick Nielsen on September twenty-ninth. Rick Nielsen with pits. Gunther noted the resemblance when he saw Cheap Trick, CTK, on TV. October ninth to eleventh is the time Klapec was found. Rinaldi was meeting Gunther at CFT, Cabo Fish Taco, at ten with five hundred dollars.”

Silently, Ryan and I read Rinaldi’s last lines of code.

RN = BLA = GYE. Greensboro. 10/9. 555-7038. CTK-TV-9/27. VG, solicitation 9/28-9/29.

GYE 9/27?

“Rick Nielsen equals Boyce Lingo’s aide equals Glenn Yardley Evans. Rinaldi called Lingo’s office, and Evans told him that he and his boss were in Greensboro on October ninth, when Klapec’s body was found.”

“Rinaldi must have known something was wrong with the September dates. Cheap Trick appeared on TV September twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth. Vince Gunther was in jail for solicitation on the twenty-eighth, so Rinaldi knew he couldn’t have seen Nielsen, and by extension, Klapec, on that day.”

“So April Pinder got the date wrong. They had their pizza party the day before, not the day after she busted Gunther loose.”

“A day for which Evans may have no alibi.”

“Jesus, Ryan. Somehow, Rinaldi figured all this out. Evans discovered that he knew.”

My fingers were curled so tightly my nails were digging crescents in my palms.

“Evans killed him.”

The phone shrilled.

I leaped for it.

Slidell sounded as wired as I felt. “Evans was in Charlotte on the twenty-seventh.”

I started to speak. He cut me off.

“He drives a white Chevy Tahoe.”

“Holy shit.”

“Judge finally cut paper. We’re going in.”

“I want to be there.”

“How’d I know you’d say that?”

I waited.

“Just you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

36

“WHERE’S YOUR WHEELS?”

Rubber squealed as we hooked a sharp right from the Sharon Hall drive.

“Ryan took my car to check out of his hotel.”

I expected a wisecrack about my sex life. Slidell didn’t make one.

“Tell him it ain’t personal. The DA wants this handled like the world’s watching.”

Though Ryan’s insight would have been an asset in executing the warrant on Evans’s property, I couldn’t fault that reasoning. Given Lingo’s position, a lot of eyes would be watching. Perhaps courtesy of CNN and FOX.

“Is Evans at home?”

Slidell shook his head. “He rents a coach house apartment on property owned by a woman name of Gracie-Lee Widget. What the hell kinda handle is that?”

I gestured for Slidell to continue.

“Gracie-Lee says Evans works Thursday nights, gets home around nine. She ain’t nuts for the idea, but says if I show a warrant she’ll let us into his crib.”

Evans lived in Plaza-Midwood, a neighborhood of winding streets, large trees, and modest turn-of-the-century bungalows. I’d been there many times. Located midway between uptown and the UNCC campus, the area is popular with underpaid university faculty.

Slidell made a right onto Shamrock, another onto a short dead-ender, and parked in front of a lowcountry house with a down-sloping roof, brown stucco walls, and green plantation shutters. The long front porch held rocking chairs and basket-hanging ferns, all looking well past their shelf life.

We got out and climbed the steps. Slidell rang the bell.

It took roughly a decade for the door to open. When it did, I understood why.

Gracie-Lee Widget’s hair floated wispy white around a face shriveled by a thousand wrinkles. Scarecrow lips suggested edentulous jaws. But age wasn’t the woman’s most striking feature.

Gracie-Lee had one arm. That’s it. No other limbs. Her left shoulder was outfitted with an elaborate apparatus ending in two opposable hooks, and she rode a motorized chair that looked like something out of Star Wars. A tartan plaid blanket covered her lap and what looked like two midthigh stumps.

Gracie-Lee scowled up at us, clearly not pleased.

“Detective Slidell.” Slidell badged her. “We spoke on the phone.”

“I don’t need reminding.”

Gracie-Lee snatched the badge. Drew it close to her face. Made a sound like tcht. Gave it back.

Slidell produced the warrant. Gracie-Lee shooed it as she might flies from a cake.

“Mr. Evans isn’t here.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“It’s not right invading a man’s home.”

Slidell held out a hand. “We’ll be real careful.”

Gracie-Lee didn’t move.

“Ma’am?”

“Tcht.” The hook rose and dropped a key into Slidell’s palm.

“Don’t harm none of that nice young man’s belongings.”

With that Gracie-Lee pressed a button on her armrest. The chair swiveled, and the door slammed.

Slidell shook his head as we descended the steps. “Glad I don’t face that every year over Thanksgiving turkey.”

“She’s old.”

“She’s mean as a snake.”

The coach house was a two-story frame affair across a patch of grass at the end of a gravel drive. Double garage down, living quarters up. The second floor was accessed by an exterior wooden staircase.

Ancient myrtle grew thick at the back of the property. Though dusk was fading fast, through the foliage I could see what looked like a vast, sweeping lawn.

“Well, ain’t that sweet. Evans lives at the ass end of Charlotte Country Club.”

Slidell’s voice dripped scorn. For golf? For being on the wrong side of the course? For those rich enough to belong to the club?

I said nothing.

We passed a koi pond that was green with algae. A brick planter overflowing with dead leaves. A birdbath lying in two pieces on the ground.

As we walked, Slidell’s hand drew up to his gun butt. His eyes roved our surroundings. Neck tension suggested alert listening.

At the coach house, Slidell gestured with a downturned palm. Sensitive to his body language, I froze.

Through a dirty window I could see that the garage held only garden equipment, a wooden ladder, and a set of wrought-iron lawn furniture. A door opened from the back wall, I guessed into a small work-or storeroom.

“No Chevy Tahoe,” Slidell mumbled, more to himself than to me.

“Where is CSS?”

“They’re coming.”

Typical Slidell. Giving himself a window alone at the scene.

Slidell moved to the stairs, but must have seen something he didn’t like. Squatting, he inspected the first step. Then he rose and stepped high onto the step above.

I looked down.

A wire stretched low across the riser. I nodded that I’d seen the trap.

On the top landing, Slidell waved me behind him with another palm gesture. Then he banged on the door. “Glenn Evans?”

A train whistled somewhere very far off.

“Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police. I have a warrant to search these premises.”

No answer.

Slidell drew his gun and leaned close to the door. After turning his head left then right, he stood back and banged again.

“I have a key, Mr. Evans. I’m coming in.”

The door opened easily.

Every shade was down. A floorboard creaked, otherwise the interior was deathly still.

Slidell flicked a wall switch.

The kitchen was European modern. Black and white floor tile. Sleek black cabinets with lots of glass. Stainless steel appliances.