AFTER HUSTLING SUMMER OFF THE LINE WITH SOME VAGUE promise of support, I phoned Slidell. Got voice mail. Left a message. Urgent. Call me.

I tried Galimore. Voice mail. Same message.

Frustrated, I tossed my Diet Coke can into the recycling bin, grabbed my purse and laptop, and headed out.

Something was happening at the NASCAR Hall of Fame that night. I averaged about four miles a decade crossing uptown.

The bumper-to-bumper crunch changed my supper plan. No way I’d divert to Price’s for fried chicken. A salad made from produce in my refrigerator would have to do.

I was finally heading south on Providence Road when my iPhone sounded.

Galimore.

“I think I know what concerned Rinaldi,” I said.

“You’re breaking my heart.” Galimore sounded, what? Coy? “I thought you’d changed your mind about dinner.”

“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”

“I can check.”

“Poteat had two daughters, didn’t he?”

“That sounds right.”

“Get their names, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ahead, the light turned red. I stopped at the intersection. To my left, Providence Road cut south. To my right, it became Morehead Street.

“What about bank records? Tax records?” I asked.

“Whose?”

“Any account bearing Poteat’s name.”

“It would help to know the bank.”

The light went green. I proceeded straight on what was now called Queens Road. See. I wasn’t kidding.

“Start with Wells Fargo,” I said. “Work backward to 1998.”

“I’ve got sources who can do that. What are you thinking?”

“How long will it take?”

“The names, a matter of minutes. Tax and financial records, that’s tougher. Why aren’t you getting this through Slidell?”

“He’s either tied up or ignoring my calls.”

“Don’t expect Skinny to come around easily. The guy’s a champion grudge-holder.”

I turned in at Sharon Hall.

“I’m at my town house. I’ve got to go.”

“A quiet meal at home alone?”

“I’ll be dining with my cat.”

Birdie had other thoughts. Upon hearing me enter the kitchen, he retreated to a dining room chair.

I knew what was up. The feline coolness was a comment on the lateness of the hour. Normally Birdie eats at six.

I checked my phone, hoping for a message from Ryan or Charlie.

Neither had called.

Disappointed, I flipped on the TV. Two overly keen sports analysts were discussing potential lineups for the upcoming Coca-Cola 600. One predicted Sandy Stupak’s #59 Chevy would start near the front.

Hearing an unhappy meow, I went to the dining room, reached under the table, and stroked Birdie’s head.

“Sorry, Bird. I’ve been wicked busy.”

The cat didn’t budge.

“Cut me some slack. I’ve been to Concord and Locust all in one day. Slidell berated me. Hawkins lectured me. Ryan and Charlie have apparently dumped me. Katy and Summer both whined in my ear. Oh yeah. And an old coot held me at gunpoint with a Winchester.”

The cat remained obstinate.

After filling Birdie’s bowl, I went upstairs to shower. Then I threw on shortie-PJ bottoms and an old tee. No bra or panties. The freedom was exhilarating.

Back to the kitchen.

The tomato was flaccid, the cucumber slimy, the lettuce limp and black on the edges. So much for a salad.

Plan B. Something in a can.

I was rooting in the pantry when the back doorbell chimed. Wary, I peeked out.

Galimore was standing on the porch, face bathed in a yellow wash from the overhead bulb.

I closed my eyes. Tried to wish myself gone.

I heard the cadence of the evening news. The cat crunching Iams.

But gone where? What did I really wish for? To let Galimore in? To send him away?

Both Hawkins and Slidell disliked the man. Were they bitter that Galimore had made mistakes?

Had Galimore betrayed the badge? Were their concerns justified?

Had Galimore really taken a bribe? Or had there actually been a frame-up back in 1998? A frame-up in which police officers participated?

Had Galimore impeded the Gamble-Lovette investigation? Was he trying to do so now? Or was he genuinely interested in righting a wrong to the Gambles, which he saw as partly of his making?

Ryan wasn’t exactly burning up the phone line. Nor was Charlie Hunt.

Did I just need a booster? What was this peculiar attraction I felt for Galimore?

I sneaked another look.

Galimore was holding a flat square box. DONATOS was visible in big red letters.

My eyes drifted to the tomato and cuke. Which were now oozing liquid across the sideboard.

What the hell.

I crossed and unlocked the door.

Galimore smiled. Then his gaze dropped.

Too late, I remembered my lack of undies. One hand rose, pointlessly, to my chest.

Galimore’s eyes snapped up. “Totally loaded.” He raised the pizza. “Hope you like anchovies.”

I gestured toward the table. “Let me throw on some clothes.”

“Not on my account.” Galimore winked.

A flush rose up my neck.

Oh, yes, cowboy. On your account.

When I returned in jeans, a sweatshirt chastely concealing my bosom, the table was set. A small bottle of San Pellegrino sat beside each wineglass.

Out of courtesy to me? Or was Galimore also a nondrinker. Given his past, it seemed likely.

Before taking my place, I muted the TV.

“What did you learn?” I started off, wanting to set the tone.

“Not yet.” Galimore slid an overloaded slice of pizza onto my plate. “First, we eat. And enjoy the lost art of conversation.”

In the course of three helpings, I learned that Galimore lived alone uptown, had four brothers, hated processed food, and besides auto racing, enjoyed football and opera.

He learned that I had one daughter and a cat. And that the latter was inordinately fond of pizza.

Finally Galimore bunched his napkin and leaned back in his chair.

“I know where you’re going,” he said. “And I think you’re dead-on.”

“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”

“Timothy.”

“And his daughters?”

“Mary Ellen and Sarah Caroline.”

“Yes!” I performed the “raise the roof” pantomime with both hands.

“What I can’t figure is how you got that.”

“First, I spoke to my daughter earlier this evening. She talked about a man who opened tax-advantaged savings plans for his kids’ educations.

“Second, I have a friend who is getting married. Right after my conversation with Katy, she phoned to complain about her bridesmaids.”

“Condolences.”

“Thanks. Both bridesmaids go by double first names.”

“True maidens of Dixie.”

“As I listened to Summer, I was studying Rinaldi’s code.”

“Summer is the lovely bride-to-be?”

“Do you want to hear this?”

Galimore raised apologetic palms.

“The plan Katy described is named after Section 529 of the Internal Revenue Code. 529s are investment vehicles designed to encourage saving for the future college expenses of designated beneficiaries.”

“OK. How do they work?”

“A donor puts money in and can take it any time he or she wants. The main benefits are that the principal grows tax-deferred, and that distributions for higher-education costs are exempt from federal tax.”

Pete and I had considered a 529 when Katy was small. Never followed through.

“A side bennie is that the assets in a 529 plan are not counted as part of the donor’s gross estate for inheritance tax purposes,” I added.

“So a 529 can be used as a sort of estate planning tool, a way to move assets outside your estate while retaining control if the money is needed in the future.”

Galimore was a very quick study.

“Yes,” I said.

“How much is a donor allowed to put in?”

“Thirteen thousand per year.”

Our eyes met.

“Get the code.” Galimore sounded as jazzed as I was.

I dug the spiral page from my purse and unfolded it on the table.

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU

Wi-Fr 6–8

Silently, we both translated the first line.

Mary Ellen. Sarah Caroline. Two times thirteen thousand into a 529 plan. Owen Timothy Poteat. First Union.

“First Union National Bank became Wachovia, then Wells Fargo,” I said.

Galimore cocked a brow.

“Right. You knew that. When can you get your hands on Poteat’s financial records?”

“Now that I know what I’m looking for, the job will be easier.”

“Tomorrow?”

A waggled hand. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“So.” Galimore gave me a high-beam smile.

“So.” I smiled back.

“Why did Rinaldi think it was worth writing down?”

“Poteat is the single witness who claimed to have seen Cale Lovette after the night of October fourteenth. The man has no job and no assets. Suddenly he parks twenty-six thousand in accounts for his kids?”

“Someone paid him to lie.” Galimore was right with me.

“Or at least Rinaldi thought so.”

“Who?”

I’d given the question a lot of thought. “The FBI? The Patriot Posse? A party wanting to make it look like Lovette and Gamble were still alive?”

Galimore leaned back and took a swig of his San Pellegrino.

Moments passed. In the dining room, Gran’s clock bonged nine times.

“Big weekend coming up.” Galimore’s eyes had drifted to the TV behind my back.

“Want audio?” I asked.

He shrugged.

As I crossed to turn up the sound, the station cut to a commercial.

We are the champions, my friends?….

“That’s what we are.” Galimore laughed. “The DOD’s going to be recruiting our asses to join some secret cryptography unit.”

“Yep,” I agreed. “We dazzle.”

Shooting to his feet, Galimore sang another line of Queen. “‘No time for losers!’”

“‘Cause we are the champions,’ ” I joined in.

Galimore caught me in a waltz hold and swirled me around.

We finished the lyrics together.

“‘Of the world!’”

More swirling.

I laughed like a kid at a carnival.

Finally we stopped. The emerald eyes caught mine. Our gazes locked.

I smelled Galimore’s sweat and cologne. Traces of tomato and garlic on his breath. I felt his body heat. The hardness of muscle below his cotton shirt.

I experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming yearning.

A memory flashed in my brain. Andrew Ryan and I dancing in this same room. A little black dress dropping to the floor.

Yearning for whom? I wondered. Galimore, who was here? Ryan, who was so far away?

Heat rushed up my face.

Palm-pushing from Galimore’s chest, I turned toward the TV.

A kid from Yonkers was singing about heartbreak, hoping to be America’s next idol. He hadn’t a chance.

As the kid crooned, a crawler appeared at the bottom of the screen. For distraction, I read the words.

My hands flew to my mouth.

“Oh my God!”