Crossing to the bureau, I glanced at the focus of everyone’s attention.

And felt the buzz electrify in my chest.

I raised my eyes, not comprehending.

“What’s up is your baby kil er,” said Slidel . “Take another gander.”

I didn’t need a second look. I recognized the object. What I didn’t understand was its meaning. How had it come to be in this dreadful room with its terrible flowers?

My eyes dropped back to the white plastic rectangle.

Tamela Banks stared from the lower left corner, curly black hair outlined by a red square. Across the top of the card a blue banner declaredState of North Carolina.Beside the banner, red letters on white statedDMV.

I looked up.

“Where did you find this?”

“Under the bed,” said the CSU tech.

“With enough crud to make a bioterrorist pee his shorts.” Slidel .

“Why would Tamela Banks’s driver’s license be in this house?”

“She must have come here with that hump, Tyree.”

“Why?” I repeated myself. This wasn’t making sense.

The CSU tech excused himself, returned to processing the next room.

Slidel pointed his toothpick at Rinaldi.

“Gosh, what do you think, Detective? Think it could have something to do with the two kilos of blow we found in the basement?” I looked at Rinaldi.

He nodded.

“Maybe Tamela lost the license,” I groped. “Maybe it was stolen.”

Slidel pooched out his lips and rol ed the toothpick. Looking for gonadal camaraderie, he turned to Ryan.

“What do you think, Lieutenant? Either of those theories ring true to you?”

Ryan shrugged. “If the queen invited Camil a to that Golden Jubilee concert, anything’s possible.” Slidel ’s left eye twitched as a drop of sweat rol ed into it.

“Did you run a history on this place?” I asked.

Another toothpick repositioning, then Slidel pul ed a notebook from his back pocket.

“Until recently, the property didn’t change hands that much.”

Slidel read his notes. We al waited.

“Place belonged to Sander Foote from 1956 until 1986. Sander got it from his daddy, Romulus, who got it from his daddy, Romulus, blah, blah, blah.” Slidel rotated a hand. “String of Romulus Sanderses on the tax records prior to fifty-six. Not real y relevant to current events.”

“No,” I agreed impatiently.

“When Foote died in eighty-six, the farm went to his widow, Dorothy Jessica Harrelson Oxidine Pounder Foote.” Slidel looked up. “Lady was the marrying kind.”

Back to his notes.

“Dorothy was the third Mrs. F. She and Foote married late, had no kids. He was seventy-two, she was forty-nine. But here’s where the story gets interesting.”

I wanted to shake Slidel to make him go faster.

“The widow didn’t real y inherit the farm. Foote’s wil al owed Dorothy, and her son by a previous marriage, to live on the place until her death. After that, the kid could stay until he was thirty years old.”