“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.

No freezer large enough to hold a body.

“Stay here.” Gruff.

Glock double-fisted beside his nose, Slidell strode to an open door opposite the entrance and pressed his back to the wall. I darted to his side.

Slidell whipped my way and glared. I raised my hands in acquiescence. I would stay put.

Slidell disappeared through the doorway.

I peeked around the jamb. Darkness.

Drawing back, I waited. It was so quiet I could hear my breath rising and falling in my throat.

Finally, a second light went on.

“Clear,” Slidell said.

I stepped from the kitchen into a short interior hall. Doors opened on the left, the right, and straight ahead. Slidell was banging drawers beyond the latter. I joined him.

“Real palace, eh?” Slidell’s tone was once again dialed to disparaging. “Living room, bedroom, kitchen, bath. Guess Lingo don’t overpay his staff.”

I looked around.

The room set a new standard for understatement. Beige walls, furniture, drapes, and carpet. White ceiling and woodwork. No funny coasters or pillows. No snapshots of dogs or friends in bad party hats. No trophies, photos, mementos, or artwork.

A brass floor lamp rose from behind the couch. A flat-screen TV occupied the top shelf in a set of recessed shelving. To the left of the recess was a series of built-in drawers. That’s where Slidell was searching. To its right was a cabinet.

The shelves below the TV held scores of DVD’s. Pulling on latex gloves, I walked over and ran through the titles.

The Matrix. Gladiator. The Patriot. Starship Troopers. A trio of flicks having to do with Bourne.

“Evans likes action,” I said.

Slidell slammed a drawer and yanked out another. Rifled with one gloved hand.

I opened the cabinet. Liquor.

“He isn’t a teetotaler.” I checked labels. Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch whiskey. Evan Williams twenty-three-year-old bourbon. Belvedere vodka. “The guy drops some bucks on booze.”

I looked around. Slidell was on the bottom drawer. Seeing nothing else of interest, I moved on to the bathroom.

Clean enough. Old-fashioned pedestal sink and commode. Black vinyl shower curtain. Black and white towels.

On the toilet back were a boar bristle brush, a Bic razor, a can of Aveeno shave gel, and a Sonicare toothbrush in its charger.

The medicine cabinet held the usual. Dental floss. Toothpaste. Aspirin. Pepto. Nasal spray. Band-Aids. A tube of dandruff shampoo sat on the tub ledge. Rope soap dangled from the showerhead.

Slidell clomped up the hall. I joined him in the bedroom.

Here Evans had shown a bit more flair. The walls were red, and a fake zebra-skin carpet lay on top of the beige wall-to-wall. A black sateen spread covered the mattress, and a leopard-skin hanging served as a headboard. The rest of the room was taken up by a pair of bedside tables and a metal cart holding another flat-screen TV.

“Toad should have stuck with bland.”

For once Skinny’s comment on taste was apt.

Slidell slid back a closet door and started going through clothes. I opened a drawer in the near bedside table.

“Check this out,” I said.

Slidell joined me. I pointed to a small blue package with a Texas big-hair cowgirl on the label.

“Rough Rider studded condoms,” Slidell read. “So our boy’s a player.”

“Or wants to be. Any missing?”

Slidell counted. Nodded. Returned to the closet.

Seconds later I heard, “Hell-o.”

I turned.

“Look what our rough rider’s hiding with his loafers.”

Slidell held a shoe box. In it were perhaps a dozen DVD’s. He read several titles.

College Boys Cummin’. Gang Banging Gays. Bucking Black Stallions.

Slidell’s eyes rolled up to mine. A grin crawled one corner of his mouth.

“So Evans twirls baton for the other team. Guess that takes care of motive.”

Tossing the box to the bed, Slidell thumb-hooked his belt. “No room in the kitchen. So where would this douche bag stash a freezer?”

“There’s an interior door in the garage.”

“There surely is.” Slidell checked his watch. “Let’s have us a look-see.”

Slidell thundered down the stairs. I followed at a slightly safer pace.

Outside it was dark, the crepe myrtles a ragged barrier between Widget’s yard and the golf course beyond. No lights shone from the brooding bunker that was the main house.

The garage was unlocked. Slidell charged straight to the inside door and tried Gracie-Lee’s key. It didn’t fit.

Slidell twisted the knob to the right and the left. Shoulder-slammed the wood. The door held fast.

Slidell raised his foot and kicked hard. Still the latch held. He kicked again and again. The jamb buckled and splintered. A final hard thrust and the door flew in.

Slidell found a switch. The man was damn good with lights.

A fluorescent tube came to life with a loud, buzzing hum.

The room was about eight by ten. On the left was a sideboard or old bathroom vanity wrapped with padded quilting secured by rope. On the right was shelving.

Straight ahead, the wall was covered with pegboard studded with metal hooks. A tool hung from each hook. Hammers, screwdrivers, a wrench, a carpenter’s saw.

My heart leaped to my throat.

No way. Klapec wasn’t decapitated with a handsaw.

I scanned the shelving.

Overhead, the fluorescents hummed and sputtered.

I spotted it on the second shelf down. A cardboard box with the words 6¼ inch power saw printed on the side.

Beside me Slidell was tugging at the rope covering the quilted object. My hand shot out and wrapped his arm. He turned.

Wordlessly, I nodded at the box. Reaching up, Slidell jerked it to the floor and tore back the flaps. Inside was an old McGraw-Edison circular saw.

Our eyes met.

“Yes” is all I said.

Unhooking a hedge clipper from the pegboard, Slidell cut the bindings on the quilt with four quick snaps. Together we grabbed the fabric and pulled.

The object wasn’t furniture or cabinetry. It was a Frigidaire chest freezer, standard white, maybe eight-cubic-foot capacity.

“Sonovabitch.” Slidell elbowed me aside in his eagerness to view the contents.

“Shouldn’t CSS take photos before we open this?”

“Yeah,” Slidell said, flipping the latch and heaving upward with both hands.

Above the whoosh of frozen air and the overhead buzzing I heard a muted pop.

“What was that?” I asked.

Slidell ignored my question. “Don’t look like Evans ponied up for the auto-defrost model.”

Though the comment was flip, Slidell’s tone was stony. And he was right. The freezer’s interior was completely crusted over with snow and ice crystals.

On the upper left was a rectangular wire basket filled with plastic bags. I scraped several to clear the labels. Frozen supermarket vegetables. Ground beef. What looked like a pork roast.

Flashback to the imprint on Klapec’s back. The basket?

No. That pattern was linear. The basket was constructed of stainless steel in a woven arrangement.

I kept the observation to myself. I was mesmerized by another plastic-wrapped object tucked into a corner on the freezer’s bottom.

Roughly round. A ham? Too large. A small turkey?

I reached in and lifted the frozen mass. The plastic was surprisingly frost free. What was wrong there?

The object was heavy, maybe four or five kilos. As I balanced it on the freezer’s edge, my own words slammed back from the past. My lecture to Slidell on the weight of a human head. About the same as a roaster chicken, I’d said.

Hands trembling, I pressed the clear plastic against the object inside. Details emerged, cloudy and blurred, like objects at the bottom of a murky pond.

An ear, blood pooled in the delicate arcs and folds. The curve of a jaw. Purple-blue lips. A nose, flattened and pressed to a blanched white cheek. A half-open eye.

Suddenly, I had to have air.

Thrusting Klapec’s head at Slidell, I rushed outside.

Gnawing at a thumbnail, I paced, waiting for Slidell to emerge. Waiting for the CSS truck to arrive.

Seconds dragged by. Or maybe they were minutes.

I heard the muffled sound of Slidell’s phone.

My eye drifted to the myrtles and the hint of golf course beyond. I crossed to the hedge, wanting a peaceful vista to calm my nerves.

And tripped over something lying in the shadows.

Something with bulk and weight. Dead weight.

Heart hammering, I scrabbled to my knees and turned.

Glenn Evans lay faceup on the lawn, eyes vacant, blood oozing from a hole dead center in his forehead.