I LEFT MY CAR AND RODE WITH SLIDELL. SEEMED I WAS DOING A lot of that lately.

April Pinder lived at Dillehay Courts, a public housing project off North Tryon, not far from a small city park.

Pulling to the curb on Twenty-eighth Street, Slidell checked the address provided by the bondsman.

“Gotta be over there.”

He pointed to one of several oblong boxes divided into two-story townhouses faced with cheap vinyl siding above, brick below.

We got out and walked in silence, each pointed at the same thought. As the crow flies, Rinaldi was gunned down just across the rail bed running to our right.

In this part of town, it was hard telling which side of the tracks was the wrong one.

Like its neighbors, Pinder’s unit appeared to have enjoyed little attention since construction in the midseventies. The paint was flaking and the window AC units were rusting. Plastic lawn chairs didn’t improve the ambience.

Double-checking numbers, Slidell pressed his thumb to the bell.

Dogs started barking, voices up at the glass-shattering end of the spectrum.

Slidell puffed his cheeks and shook his head. Holding comment, he rang again.

The dogs grew even more frenzied.

“I hate yappy little mutts.”

How did I know that?

Slidell was about to try pounding when a voice called out, “Who’s there?”

“Police.”

A key turned and the door swung in. A woman peered up at us through the gap allowed by the security chain. She was squatting, holding a wriggling Pomeranian under one arm while restraining another at her feet by its collar. Both dogs were shaking and barking hysterically.

“April Pinder?”

The woman nodded.

“I called this morning.” Slidell held his badge low so Pinder could see it.

The floor Pomeranian peed on the tile.

“Hold on.”

Pinder rose and started to close the door.

“How about you lock up the pooches?” Slidell made no attempt to mask his disgust.

“What, you don’t like dogs?”

“This pair seems a bit high-strung.” Dripping with sarcasm.

Seconds later, Slidell and I were seated on an overstuffed sofa in an overfurnished living room. Pinder sat opposite in a Brentwood rocker. From the back of the unit came frenzied scratching and yipping, muted now by walls and a door.

While Slidell opened the interview, I studied Pinder. She had pale skin, bottle blond hair, and oddly lopsided cheekbones, the left jutting forward more than the right. Were it not for an overabundance of makeup, her aquamarine eyes would have been striking. I put her somewhere just south of twenty.

The apartment put her somewhere just north of eighty. Doilies. Knickknacks. Carved wooden pieces straight out of the Depression.

And photos. Lots of them. All showing people or pets. Apparently there’d been a long march leading up to the current Pomeranians.

The air was thick with odors. Fried food? Mothballs? Soiled laundry? Cigarette smoke?

I refocused on Pinder. She was describing her job at a bar on Wilkinson Boulevard. Slidell was taking notes. Or pretending to. Every now and then Pinder would pause, as though listening over the sound of the dogs. I suspected we weren’t alone in the house.

“Let’s talk about Vince Gunther.” Slidell got to the point.

“He’s my boyfriend. Was my boyfriend. What’s he done?”

“What makes you think he’s done something?”

“Why else would you be here?”

“Where is he?”

Pinder shrugged. She was wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt that said Cheeky Girls.

Cheeky girls? A club? A philosophy? A rock group? Katy was right. I was growing old and losing touch. I made a note to find out. Maybe I could impress her by dropping the name.

“Wrong answer,” Slidell said.

“I don’t know. Maybe California.”

Pinder began worrying the fringe on a rocker cushion, twisting and untwisting strands around her index finger.

“California?”

“He talked about going west to work on his tan.”

“Let me explain something, Miss Pinder. You cross me, and roughly ten tons of do-do will descend on your head.”

“We broke up.”

“When?”

“A couple weeks ago. Maybe three.”

“Why?”

“’Cause Vince’s a creep.”

Thumping and rattling joined the canine cacophony, suggesting the dogs were now throwing themselves at a door.

“If Vince’s a creep, why go his bail?”

“He said he loved me. I’m an idiot. I believed him.”

Grabbing the armrests, Pinder twisted to shout over one shoulder, “Poppy! Peony! Knock it off!”

“Explain how that worked,” Slidell said, voice edged with annoyance.

Settling back, Pinder sighed theatrically.

“Vince asked me to take five hundred dollars to some office down by the courthouse. He said he’d pay me back as soon as he was out.” The fringe-twisting resumed.

“He stiffed you,” Slidell guessed. “Then dumped you.”

Pinder’s eyes came up, misty and red with anger. “Vince’s a fag-fucking whore.”

All righty then. A woman spurned.

“He could have made me sick.” Her lips trembled and moisture welled on her lids. “Who knows? Maybe he has.”

Tears broke free and rolled down her cheeks, taking a lot of mascara with them.

“My granny’s got Alzheimer’s. There’s no one here but me. Who’ll tend to her if I die?”

Granny was probably upstairs sleeping. That’s why Pinder was alert to sounds in the house.

“Don’t sound like Vince’ll be stepping up to the plate.”

I gave Slidell the Look.

He hiked both shoulders. What?

“You’re really not sure where Vince has gone?” I asked.

Shaking her head, Pinder backhanded more tears.

I decided to try another tack. “How did you and Vince meet?”

“He came into the bar.”

“How long did you date?”

“Three months.” Mumbled. “Maybe a year.”

“You were close?”

She snorted.

“Did the two of you talk?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he confide in you?”

“Apparently not.” Bitter.

“Did he ever mention a kid named Jimmy Klapec?”

She looked surprised. “I know Jimmy.”

Slidell’s brows shot to his hairline.

“Can you tell me about that?” I asked.

“Jimmy and Vince are friends, you know, both being on their own.” She looked from me to Slidell and back. “Jimmy’s nice. Shy, you know? And kind of sweet.”

“Jimmy Klapec is dead,” I said.

The heavily mascaraed eyes went wide.

“He was murdered.”

Wider.

“When was the last time you saw Jimmy Klapec?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe last summer. I only met him once or twice when he came into the bar with Vince.”

Slidell began thumbing pages over the top of his spiral. “Vince was busted on September twenty-eighth, you pried him loose on the twenty-ninth. He mention seeing Klapec around that time?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Impatient.

“The night Vince got out we stayed here, caught some TV and ordered a pizza. Cheap bastard. That’s pretty much all we ever did. Problem is, my granny was having her nightmares, so I ended up mostly upstairs. Vince was watching some rock-and-roll thing. Hold on.”

Shooting to her feet, Pinder disappeared through a doorway. In seconds we heard banging, then, “Poppy! Peony! I’m gonna whip your butts.”

Seconds later, Pinder returned and dropped into her chair.

“Go on,” Slidell said.

Pinder looked blank.

“You’re nursing Granny and Vince’s catching some tube.”

“Oh, right. One time I’m passing through the room he’s pointing his beer at the TV, laughing and hooting. I ask, What’s so funny? He says, Looks just like him. I say, Who? He says, Friend of Jimmy’s. I say, Where is Jimmy, anyway? He says, Jimmy got into it with this dude and took off. I say, When? He says, Earlier that night. Then the asshole cracks up again. Vince is moody. I was glad he was happy. And I figured he was probably drunk.”

“Who was he pointing at?”

“Some dork in a hat.”

“Vince ever mention someone looked like Rick Nelson?” Slidell asked.

“Who?”

“A singer.”

“Sounds like him. Jerk was always comparing people to movie stars and stuff. He once said his former girlfriend looked like Pamela Anderson.” Pinder snorted. “In his dreams.”

Slidell looked at me. I shook my head, meaning I had no other questions.

Slidell handed Pinder a card. “You see Vince, you give us a call, eh?”

Pinder shrugged.

Back in the Taurus, Slidell said, “Not the brightest bulb in the marquis.”

I asked, “Got Rinaldi’s notes?”

Slidell dug the photocopies from a grease-stained canvas bag on the backseat. As he drove, I reviewed what his partner had written.

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

“Pinder’s story supports our take on this. According to VG, presumably Vince Gunther, JK, presumably Jimmy Klapec, was last seen alive with RN, presumably Rick Nelson, on September twenty-ninth. RN’s probably the violent john that Gunther quit doing.”

“The guy Klapec fought with,” Slidell said.

“The guy who killed him.”

“And that guy’s Asa Finney. Rick Nelson with pits.”

I still wasn’t totally convinced.

“Did you check out CTK?” I asked.

“Yeah. And PIT. No record of Finney or Klapec flying to Akron or Pittsburgh any time in the last thirty days.”

I looked at Rinaldi’s final entry.

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

GYE 9/27?

“Vince Gunther was arrested for solicitation on September twenty-eighth, spent the night in jail until Pinder arranged for his release the following day. OK. That part’s clear.”

“When I find the little greaseball he’ll wish his ass never left the slammer.”

Slidell made a hard right. I braced on the dash, then refocused on the notes.

Boyce Lingo’s phone number.

“Glenn Evans says Rinaldi never called his boss. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. What’s important is Rinaldi recorded Lingo’s number. Why?”

“I don’t know. Yet. But I do know one thing. I’m gonna put a car on Miss April Pinder.”

“You think she might be hiding Gunther?”

“A little surveillance never hurts.”

I went back to the notes.

“Greensboro. Evans said he and Lingo were in Greensboro on October ninth. Was that what interested Rinaldi? And if so, why?”

Suddenly, a line connected two dots.