AFTER BREAKFAST, PETE LEFT TO FLY HIS FIRST SORTIE OVER GMC. I settled on the veranda, Boyd at my feet, twenty blue books in my lap.

Maybe it was the ocean. Maybe the quality of the take-home exams. I found it hard to concentrate. I kept seeing the grave on Dewees. The bones on the autopsy table. Emma's pained face.

Emma had started to speak outside the hospital, then changed her mind. Was she about to explain what she'd learned on the phone? The call had obviously upset her. Why?

Was she about to say something concerning the skeleton? Was she withholding information? Improbable.

I stuck with grading until I could bear it no longer. Just past one I checked a tide chart, then laced on my Nikes and did a couple of miles on the beach with Boyd. It was not high season, so the "unleashed dog" hours weren't strictly enforced. The chow darted in and out of the surf while I pounded the hardpack left by its retreat. The sandpipers weren't thrilled with either of us.

On the return loop I cut over to Ocean Boulevard and picked up Sunday papers. A quick shower, then Boyd and I inventoried Pete's contributions to the pantry.

Six varieties of cold cuts, four cheeses, sweet and dill pickles, wheat, rye, and onion bread. Coleslaw, potato salad, and more chips than a Frito-Lay factory.

Pete had a lot of shortcomings, but the man could stock a larder.

After constructing an artwork of pastrami, Swiss, and slaw on rye, I popped a Diet Coke and lugged the newspapers out to the veranda.

I spent a blissful hour and a half with The New York Times. And that's not counting the crossword. All the news that's fit to print. You gotta love it.

Having eaten my crusts and whatever pastrami I was willing to share, Boyd dozed at my feet.

Ten minutes into the Post and Courier I nearly lost my sandwich.

Local section. Fifth page, below the fold. Headline pure alliterative art.

Buried Body on Barrier Beach

Charleston, SC. Archaeology students excavating a Dewees Island site dug up more than dead Indians this week. The group, led by Dr. Temperance Brennan of UNC-Charlotte's Anthropology Department, stumbled upon a recent grave occupied by a very modern corpse.

Brennan refused comment on the grisly discovery, but the remains appeared to be those of an adult. According to student excavator Topher Burgess, the body had been bundled in clothing and buried less than two feet below the ground surface. Burgess estimates the grave had been dug sometime during the past five years.

Though police were not called to the scene, Charleston County Coroner Emma Rousseau deemed the discovery significant enough to personally oversee excavation of the grave. A two-term electee, Rousseau has come under criticism recently for the role of the coroner's office in the mishandling of a cruise ship death last year.

Following recovery, the unidentified remains were transported from Dewees to the MUSC morgue. Morgue personnel refused comment on the case.

—Special to the Post and Courier by Homer Winborne

A grainy black-and-white showed my face and Emma's south end. We were on our hands and knees on Dewees.

I flew into the house, Boyd at my heels. Grabbing the first phone in reach, I punched in a number. My actions were so jerky, it took two tries.

Emma's voice mail answered.

"Sonovabitch!"

I waited out the message, moving pointlessly from room to room.

Beep.

"Have you seen today's paper? Happy day! We made the news!"

I hit the sunroom, threw myself onto the couch. Got up. Birdie dropped to the floor and slunk out of sight.

"Forget the Moultrie News. Winborne hit the big time! Charleston Post and Courier. The boy's on the way up!"

I knew I was ranting at a machine. I couldn't stop myself.

"No wonde—"

"I'm here." Emma sounded sluggish, as though I'd awakened her.

"No wonder the little worm forked over his Nikon. He had a backup camera. Probably a whole stash!"

"Tempe."

"An SLR in his shorts! A wide-angle in his ballpoint! A miniature camcorder strapped to his dick! Who knows? We might make Court TV!"

"Are you finished?" Emma asked.

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes."

"And?" I considered crushing the handset.

"And what?"

"You're not furious?"

"Sure I'm furious. My butt looks huge. Are you done venting?"

That's what it was, of course. Venting.

"Our goal is to get the skeleton identified." Emma's voice sounded dull. "Exposure could help."

"That was your line on Friday."

"It still is."

"Winborne's article could tip the killer."

"If there is a killer. Maybe this guy died of an overdose. Maybe his buddies panicked and dumped his body where they thought it wouldn't be found. Maybe we have nothing more serious than a Chapter Seventeen violation."

"I'll bite."

"Improper disposal of a corpse. Look. Someone's probably missing this guy. If that someone is local, he or she may read the piece and make a call. Admit it. You're just pissed that Winborne outwitted us."

I threw up a hand in an "I'm not believing this" gesture.

When puzzled, Boyd twirls his eyebrow hairs. He did that now, from the safety of the doorway.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," Emma said.

Climbing the stairs, I went to my bathroom and rested my forehead on the mirror. The glass felt cool against my flushed skin.

Goddamn nosy, interfering reporters! Goddamn Winborne!

I breathed deeply and let it out slowly.

I have a temper. I admit that. Occasionally, that temper triggers overreaction. I admit that, too. I despise such lapses. And I resent those able to trip that switch in my head.

Emma was right. The article was benign. Winborne was doing his job and he'd outmaneuvered us.

I took another deep breath.

I wasn't angry at Winborne. I was angry at myself for being outsmarted by plankton.

I straightened and stared at myself in the mirror, assessing.

Hazel eyes, bright, some would say intense. Crow's-feet at the corners, but still my best feature.

High cheekbones, nose a bit on the small side. Jaw holding firm. A few gray hairs, but the honey-brown still in charge.

I stepped back for a full body view.

Five-five. One twenty.

Overall, not bad for an odometer reading forty plus.

I locked on to the hazel gaze in the glass. A familiar voice sounded in my brain. Do your job, Brennan. Ignore the distractions and focus. Get it done. That's what you do. Get it done.

Boyd padded over and nudged my knee. I directed my next comment to him.

"Screw Winborne." The eyebrow hairs went crazy. "And the byline he rode in on."

Boyd shot his snout skyward in full agreement. I patted his head.

After splashing water on my face, I applied makeup, twisted my hair into a topknot, and hurried downstairs. I was filling pet dishes when the front door slammed.

"Honey! I'm home!"

Pete appeared with yet more groceries.

"Planning a reunion of your entire Marine unit?"

Pete snapped a salute and replied with the Marine Corps motto. "Semper Fi."

"How did it go with Herron?" I extracted a jar of pickled herring from Pete's bag and placed it in the fridge.

Reaching around me, Pete grabbed a Sam Adams and popped the cap on a drawer handle.

I bit back a rebuke. Pete's annoying habits were no longer my problem.

"Spent my time doing recon," Pete said.

"You couldn't get anywhere near Herron," I translated.

"No."

"What did you do?"

"Watched a whole lot of prayin' and making joyful sounds unto the Lord. When the show let out, I floated Helene's picture to a few of the faithful."

"And?"

"They are a spectacularly unobservant flock."

"No one remembered her?"

Pete drew a snapshot from his pocket and laid it on the table. I crossed to study it.

The image was blurry, a blowup of a driver's license or passport photo. A young woman stared, unsmiling, into the camera.

Helene wasn't pretty, though her features were even in a bland sort of way. Her hair was middle-parted and drawn back at the nape of her neck.

I had to admit. Helene Flynn had little to distinguish her from a thousand other women her age.

"Afterward I had a chat with Helene's landlady," Pete said. "Didn't learn much. Helene was polite, paid her rent on time, had no visitors. She did volunteer that the kid seemed agitated toward the end. But Helene's leaving took her by surprise. Until the envelope with the final rent showed up, she had no idea Helene was leaving."

I looked again at the face in the photo. So forgettable. Witnesses would give unusable descriptions. Medium height. Medium weight. No recall of the face.

"Flynn had no other photos of his daughter?" I asked.

"None post-dating high school."

"Odd."

"Flynn's an odd bird."

"You said he hired an investigator."

Pete nodded. "Former Charlotte-Mecklenburg cop named Noble Cruikshank."

"Cruikshank simply vanished?"

"Stopped sending reports and returning phone calls. I did a little digging. Cruikshank wasn't in the running to be CMPD poster boy. Got invited off the force in ninety-four for substance abuse."

"Cocktail of choice?"

"Jimmy B neat. Cruikshank's also a non-nominee for PI of the Year. Seems he's pulled his disappearing act on other clients. Takes a job, collects an upfront fee, goes on a bender."

"Wouldn't a PI lose his license for that?"

"Apparently Cruikshank doesn't believe in paperwork. That was also a problem with the CMPD."

"Flynn didn't know Cruikshank drank and wasn't licensed?"

"Flynn hired him off the Net."

"Risky."

"Cruikshank's ad said he specialized in missing persons. That's the skill set Flynn needed. He also liked the idea that Cruikshank worked Charlotte and Charleston."

"When did Flynn hire him?"

"Last January. Couple months after Helene dropped out of sight. Flynn thinks their last conversation was in late March. Cruikshank said the investigation was moving forward, but provided no detail. Then nothing."

"Where did Cruikshank go on his other benders?"

"Once to Atlantic City. Once to Vegas. But not all Cruikshank's clients were unhappy. Most that I contacted thought they'd gotten their money's worth."

"How did you find them?"

"Cruikshank gave Flynn a list of references. I started with those, picked up new names as I worked my way backward."

"What do you know about Cruikshank's final activities?"

"Cruikshank never cashed the last check Flynn sent him. That was the February payment. There's been no activity on his credit card or bank account since March. He owed over twenty-four hundred on the former, had four fifty-two in the latter. The last phone bill was paid in February. Account's since been cut off."

"He must have had a car."

"Whereabouts unknown."

"Cell phone?"

"Terminated in early December for nonpayment. Wasn't the first time Cruikshank had been dropped."

"A PI without a mobile these days?"

Pete shrugged. "Maybe the guy worked alone, did all his phoning from home."

"Family?"

"Divorced. No kids. The split wasn't amicable. The wife's remarried and hasn't heard from him in years."

"Brothers? Sisters?"

Pete shook his head. "Cruikshank was an only child and the parents are dead. Toward the end of his stint with the Charlotte PD he'd become pretty much a loner, and wasn't close to anyone."

I looped back to GMC.

"If you can't get to Herron, what's your next step?"

Pete pointed a finger heavenward. "Fear not, fair lady. The Latvian Savant has just entered the footrace."

Pete was a law student when we met. He'd already adopted the nickname back then. I never learned who coined it. I suspected it was Pete.

Rolling my eyes, I returned to the groceries and put a package of feta into the fridge.

Pete tipped back his chair and rested his heels on the table edge.

I started to object. Not my problem. Anne's? She invited him here.

"And how was your day, sugar britches?"

I retrieved the Post and Courier, dropped it on the table, and pointed.

Pete read Winborne's article.

"Hey, nice use of alliteration. 'Buried Body Barrier Beach.'"

"Pure poetry."

"I take it you're not pleased this kid talked to the press."

"I'm not pleased with any of it."

I hadn't even thought about Topher. When had Winborne buttonholed him? How had he persuaded Topher to give a statement?

"The photo's not bad."

I shot Pete a look.

"What's this cruise ship thing your friend screwed up?"

"I don't know."

"Gonna ask her?"

"Definitely not."

Roast peppers, salmon spread, and Ben & Jerry's into the fridge and freezer. Chocolate chips and pistachios into the cabinet. Then I turned back to Pete.

"A man is dead. His family doesn't know that yet. I view Winborne's story as an invasion of that family's privacy Am I way off base?"

Pete shrugged, then drained his beer.

"News is news. Know what you need?"

"What?" Wary.

"Picnic."

"I had a sandwich at three."

Dropping his chair to the floor, Pete stood, turned me by the shoulders, and gently pushed me from the kitchen.

"Go grade a paper or something. Meet me at the gazebo at eight."

"I don't know, Pete."

I did know. And every cell in my hindbrain was running up a warning flag.

Pete and I had been married for twenty years, separated for only a few. Though our marriage had posed many challenges, sexual attraction had never been one of them. We'd rocked when we were newly-weds. We could still rock.

If Pete hadn't rocked off the reservation.

My libido's view of Pete worried me. Things were going well with Ryan. I didn't want to do something that might compromise that. And the last time Pete and I spent an evening together we'd ended up like kids in the back of a Chevy.

"I do know," Pete said. "Go."

"Pete—"

"You've got to eat. I've got to eat. We'll do it together and include a little sand."

There's something deep in my psyche that links food with human interaction. When home alone, I live on carry-out or frozen dinners. When solo on the road, I order room service and dine with Letterman or Raymond or Oprah.

Company did sound nice. And Pete was a good cook.

"This isn't a date, Pete."

"Of course not."