“At least two fil ings.” I pictured the nasal. “And he had something going on with his nose. I’l let you know on that, too.”

“My turn.” Jansen flipped pages in her notebook. “The plane was registered to one Richard Donald Dorton. Ricky Don to his friends.”

“Age?” I asked.

“Fifty-two. But Dorton wasn’t flying yesterday. He’s riding out the heat wave atGrandfatherMountain . Claims he left the Cessna safe and sound at a private airstrip nearConcord .”

“Did anyone see the plane take off?” I asked.

“No.”

“Flight plan?”

“No.”

“And no one spotted it in flight.”

“No.”

“Do you know why it crashed?”

“Pilot flew it into a rock face.”

We let that hang a moment.

“Who is Ricky Don Dorton?” I asked.

“Ricky Don Dorton owns two strip joints, the Club of Jacks and the Heart of Queens, both inKannapolis . That’s a mil town just north of here, right?” Nods al around.

“Ricky Don supplied sleaze for gentlemen of every lifestyle.”

“Man’s a poet.” Larabee.

“Man’s a lizard.” Jansen. “But a rich lizard. The Cessna-210’s just one of his many toys.”

“Are tits and ass that profitable?” I asked.

Jansen gave a beats-me shrug.

“Could it be that Ricky Don is also in the import business?” I asked.

“That thought has crossed the minds of local law enforcement. They’ve had Dorton under surveil ance for some time.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Ricky Don doesn’t hang with the Baptist choir.”

Larabee clapped me on the shoulder. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

Jansen smiled. “One problem. The plane was clean.”

“No drugs?”

“Nothing so far.”

We al stood.

I asked one last question.

“Why would a grown man cal himself Ricky Don?” It sounded like one of Harry’sTexas saloons.

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to appear pretentious.”

“I see,” I said.

I didn’t.

It was four-thirty by the time Jansen left. I wanted to go home, take another long shower, tap into theVictoria ’s Secret knockoff reserve, and spend the evening with Ryan.

But I also wanted to split for the beach first thing in the morning.

And I had bear bones in the cooler.

If annoying tasks are avoidable, I am a world-class procrastinator. I advance mail from pile to pile, then chuck it when the deadline or opportunity has passed. I wait out snow until it melts. I coexist with dandelions and weeds. My garden relies on rain.

Conversely, unfinished but ultimately unavoidable chores hang over my head like guil otine blades. Al through school I submitted papers in advance of due dates. I never pul ed an al -nighter. I pay bil s on time. I can’t rest until the inescapable is put to bed.

I phoned Ryan’s cel . Four rings, then his voice requested a message in French then in English.

“Get cooking, slick. I’l be home by seven.”