Frustrated, I returned to the desk and idly ran my fingertips under the blotter’s plastic edging.

Nothing.

I lifted a corner and peeked underneath.

A single card lay on the desktop under the blotter. I picked it up.

The logo resembled a police badge. I was about to read the printed information when the deb receptionist reappeared in the door, breathless from running up the stairs.

“I just talked with Dr. Cagle’s housemate.”

An agitated hand fanned the air in front of her face.

“Dr. Cagle’s in intensive care on life support.”

Laying both hands on her chest, the deb looked from me to Slidel and back, mascara-rimmed eyes wide with alarm.

“Sweet Lord Jesus. The doctors don’t think he’l last out the day.”

25

CAGLE LIVED IN A SMALL BRICK BUNGALOW IN A NEIGHBORHOODof smal brick bungalows a short drive from Hamilton Col ege. The trim was lilac, and four straight-backed lilac rockers sat in perfect alignment on the broad front porch. The lawn was mown, every border edged with military precision.

An ancient live oak shaded the right half of the property, its roots crawling below the earth’s surface like giant, serpentine fingers clinging for support.

Jumbles of brightly colored annuals elbowed for room in beds along the walkway and porch foundation. As we approached the house, the odor of petunias, marigolds, and fresh paint sweetened the hot, humid air.

Climbing the steps, Slidel jabbed a thumb at a green metal holder attached to the house. Someone had coiled the garden hose in perfectly matched loops.

“Guess we got the right place.”

The bel was answered within seconds. The man was younger than I expected, with black hair that had been gel ed, spiked, and gathered from his forehead with an elastic headband. I guessed his age as mid-thirties, his weight at 140.

“You are the officers from Charlotte?”

Not bothering to correct him, Slidel merely held up his badge.

“Lawrence Looper.” Looper stepped back. “Come in.”

We entered a smal foyer with a covered radiator to the left, sliding wooden doors straight ahead, and an open archway to the right. Looper led us through the archway into a living room with throw rugs on a polished oak floor and Pottery Barn furnishings. A wood-bladed fan turned lazily overhead.

“Please.” Looper extended a manicured hand. “Do sit. Can I get either of you a cool beverage?” Declining, Slidel and I seated ourselves on opposite ends of the sofa. The room smel ed of artificial floral deodorizer from a plug-in-the-socket dispenser.

Looper lifted a footstool, placed it against the wal , considered the arrangement, repositioned the stool.

Beside me I heard Slidel puff air through his lips. I gave him a warning look. He rol ed both eyes and his head.

Feng shui restored, Looper returned and took the chair opposite us.

“Wow. Dolores is real y cross with me. I suppose she has a right to be.”