"She's Harry."

"Introduce me to your parents." Dr. Phil prompting a talk show guest.

"Michael Terrence Brennan, litigator, connoisseur, and good-time drunk. Katherine Daessee Lee, known to one and all as Daisy."

"Thus your unpronounceable middle name."

"Like Daisy, with a soft s."

"Daisy. I kind of like-"

"Don't even think of saddling me with that moniker."

Ryan flourished two scout's-honor fingers.

I swallowed and began.

"Michael's Chicago Irish, Daisy's old-line Charlotte. College sweethearts, they marry in the fifties. Michael signs on with a big Chicago law firm and the happy couple settle in Beverly, an Irish neighborhood on Chicago's south side. Daisy joins the Junior League, the Ladies' Auxiliary, the Rosary Society, and the Friends of the Zoo. Temperance Daessee, their firstborn, puts an end to Mrs. Brennan's social ambitions. Harriet Lee follows in three years. Three more, and it's Kevin Michael."

Almost four decades and the pain still sliced me in two. I was aware I was speaking in third-person present tense, but couldn't help myself. Somehow the ploy helped. Ask Freud.

"Nine months later, baby Kevin succumbs to leukemia. Devastated, Daddy sets a land speed record for the single-malt sprint into unemployment, cirrhosis, and an overpriced coffin. Mama retreats into debilitating neurosis, eventually slinks back to Charlotte with young Temperance and Harriet. The trio take up residence with Grandma Lee."

Ryan reached out and thumbed a tear from my cheek. "Thanks." Spoken so softly, I barely heard.

"Next installment, the Charlotte years." I arced a hand, suggesting a movie marquee.

Pub sounds swirled around us. Seconds passed. A minute. When Ryan's gaze met mine some of the tension had eased in his face.

Leaning back, Ryan raised his brows as though seeing me for the first time. The man loved raising his brows. And it worked for him. Gave him an air of unruffled curiosity.

I imagined my appearance. Smudged mascara. Tear-streaked face. River-rat hair yanked up in a knot.

I knew what was coming. An unspoken question as to today's events. OK. Business. Familiar ground. Neutral.

"It's a long story," I said.

"Involving mud wrestling?"

"Involving a reptile named Ramon."

"Loved Henry Silva as the big-game hunter."

Blank stare.

"Alligator. 1980. Heartlessly flushed in his youth, Ramon grows to thirty feet and wants out of the Chicago sewer system. Great film. Classic B creature feature." 1980. Heartlessly flushed in his youth, Ramon grows to thirty feet and wants out of the Chicago sewer system. Great film. Classic B creature feature."

"Do you want to hear this?"

"I do."

"Can I have a cheeseburger?"

Ryan signaled the waitress, ordered, then chest-crossed his arms and thrust out his legs, ankles crossed.

"You know about the Dewees skeleton," I began.

"The one your students unearthed."

I nodded. "He was a white male, probably in his forties. Probably dead at least two years. I found an odd fracture on one of his neck vertebrae, and nicks on his twelfth rib and on several lower back vertebrae. He'd had dental work, but nothing popped when we ran his identifiers through NCIC. Ditto for a match with local MPs. One item of interest. I found an eyelash with the bones. The Dewees guy is blond. The lash is black. Emma's sent it to the state lab for DNA testing."

"Emma?"

"Emma Rousseau is the Charleston County coroner." I couldn't handle discussing Emma right then.

"The Dewees skeleton is body number one."

"Yes. Pete's in Charleston doing a financial investigation and searching for a client's daughter. Helene Flynn disappeared over six months ago while working at a street clinic operated by God's Mercy Church, the brainchild of a local televangelist named Aubrey Herron.

"When Helene vanished, her father, Buck Flynn, hired a private investigator named Noble Cruikshank. Two months into the investigation, Cruikshank pulled his own vanishing act. Cruikshank drank. He'd been on benders before where he just disappeared for a time, so no major search was launched. Last Monday, kids found a body hanging from a tree in a national forest just north of town. We got prints, ran them through AFIS. Bingo. The dangler was Cruikshank, who, by the way, was carrying the wallet of a guy named Chester Pinckney, a local swamp rat."

"Why?"

"No idea. Pinckney says his wallet was stolen. More likely, he lost it."

My cheeseburger arrived. I added lettuce, tomato, condiments.

"Cruikshank was male, white, forty-seven. He had a neck fracture like the man on Dewees. Same vertebra, same side, though the noose was knotted at the back of his head."

"Nicks in the ribs and lower back?"

"No."

I took a moment to devour a significant portion of my burger.

"Gullet, that's the Charleston County sheriff, got Cruikshank's belongings from the guy's landlord. Among them was a disc of photos showing people coming and going from the clinic at which Helene Flynn worked. Another box held files. Some contained the stuff you'd expect on a PI's cases. Notes, canceled checks, copies of letters and reports. There was one file on Helene Flynn. Others held nothing but clippings on missing persons. Still others held only handwritten notes."

"Get much from the notes?"

"Zilch. They're in code. We also have Cruikshank's PC, but so far no password."

"OK. Cruikshank is body number two. When do we get to Ramon?"

I told him about the woman and the cat in the barrel.

"She's white, approximately forty, and probably died of ligature strangulation. The cat was registered to one Isabella Cameron Halsey. I plan to follow that up tomorrow."

"Anything to connect the three cases?"

"The deceased are all white and middle-aged. The two men have identical neck fractures. The woman's been strangled. Beyond that, not really. But I haven't finished with the barrel lady. Her bones won't be fully cleaned until Monday."

Ryan dropped his eyes to the little metal disk filled with cigarette ash. But he wasn't really seeing it. He looked like he was focusing on some thought, coming to grips with some realization.

"You really have pulled the plug on Pete?" he asked.

"I moved out on the man how long ago?" Words chosen carefully.

Ryan's gaze came up and settled on mine. The blue eyes, the sandy hair, the lines and creases in all the right places. Looking like that must be breaking six state laws and a dozen federal guidelines, I thought. What was I doing? Why hadn't I simply said yes to Ryan's question about Pete? Would I now get a brotherly kiss on the cheek and a fond good-bye? My fingers remained tight on the handle of my mug.

Then Ryan smiled.

"Startovers?" he asked in a quiet, calm voice.

"Olee ocean free," I answered, relief flooding through me.

Ryan held out a hand. We shook. Our fingers lingered, then separated slowly.

"My dear old Irish mother gave a lot of thought to choosing my Christian name," Ryan said.

"Don't push it, bucko," I said.

"I'll keep trying."

"Fair enough."

"I'm a detective," Ryan said.

"I know."

"I detect things."

"A special skill."

"I could, if properly persuaded, place my years of experience at your disposal."

"With Isabella Halsey?"

"And the cat. I love cats."

"What sort of persuasion?"

"Persuasive persuasion." Ryan ran one finger across my hand and up my wrist.

I signaled the waitress.

When the bill arrived we both went for it. Ryan won. As he dug out his credit card, I rose and circled the table.

Arm-wrapping Ryan's shoulders, I laid my cheek on the top of his head.

Ryan agreed to move into the house.

22.

RYAN AND I WERE EATING CAP'N CRUNCH WHEN WE HEARD Pete's bedroom door open.

"Lucy, I'm home!" Desi Arnez boomed across the house. "What's that Jeep" - Pete bounded into the kitchen - "ers creepers."

Boyd jumped up. Ryan did not. The cop and the chow did the eyebrow thing. The counselor shot his to the hairline. Like Desi.

"And who's this nice young man?" A smile tweaked the corners of Pete's mouth.

I made introductions. Ryan half rose and the men shook hands.

Pete was in running shorts, a sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck cut off, and Nikes. Turning his back to the counter, he palmed himself up and sat facing us, lower legs dangling.

"Interesting time at GMC yesterday?" I asked.

"Not as interesting as yours." Pete's gaze slid to Ryan, back to me. The corners of his mouth again twitched.

I narrowed my eyes in a "don't you dare" warning.

Pete's face went Lucille Ball innocent.

Ryan's attention remained focused on the Cap'n.

"Money in. Money out," Pete said. "I'm of the growing opinion that Daddy Buck needs an accountant, not an attorney."

"Did you speak to Herron?"

"Damndest thing. The rev had to make an unscheduled trip to Atlanta. Unavoidable. So sorry. The staff will do everything they can to help."

"Everything except talk about Helene."

"They talk. What they say is, she was here, she's gone, we don't know, we haven't heard. Maybe California." Pete's feet were swinging, his heels thunking the under-counter cabinets. "Oh. And pray God she's well."

"Have they offered insight on how one of their brethren vanishes leaving no trace?"

"They're sticking with the gospel according to California. There are dozens of street clinics in the land of fruit and nuts, many operated, not surprisingly, by fruits and nuts. They suspect Helene may have abandoned the gospel for the teachings of crazoids and slipped outside the system."

Thunk. Thunkety-thunk-thunk went the Nikes. went the Nikes.