Slidel shook his head. “This Foote must have been some kind of fruit bat.”

“Because he wanted his wife’s son to have a home until the boy was established?” I kept my voice calm.

The wind picked up. Leaves thrashed the window screen.

“After that?” Ryan asked.

“After that, the place goes to Foote’s daughter by his first marriage.”

Something rol ed across the lawn with a hol ow, thunking sound.

“Dorothy Foote is dead?” I asked.

“Five years ago.” Slidel closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

“Has her son turned thirty?”

“No.”

“Does he live here?”

“Technical y, yes.”

“Technical y?”

“The little sleaze rents the place out to turn a few bucks.”

“Can he do that under the terms of the wil ?”

“Couple years back Foote’s daughter hired a lawyer to look into that. Guy couldn’t find any way to get the kid tossed. Kid does everything under the table, so there’s no record of money changing hands. Daughter lives in Boston, never comes to God’s little acre here. Place isn’t worth that much. Kid’s twenty-seven.” Slidel shrugged. “Guess she decided to wait it out.”

“What’s Dorothy’s son’s name?” I asked.

Slidel smiled. There was no humor in it.

“Harrison Pounder.”

Where had I heard that name?

“You remember him, Doc.”

I did. From where?

“We discussed Mr. Pounder just last week.” Toothpick. “And it wasn’t because the squirrel’s appearing on our new career leaflet for police recruits.” Pounder. Pounder.

“Harrison ‘Sonny’ Pounder,” Rinaldi supplied.

Recol ection sluiced through my brain.

“Sonny Pounder?” I asked, incredulous.

“Mama Foote’s baby boy,” Slidel said.

“Who’s Sonny Pounder?” Ryan asked.

“Sonny Pounder’s a dime-a-dozen, low-life dirtbag who’d sel his mama to the Taliban for the right price.” Slidel .

Ryan turned to me.

“Pounder’s the dealer who traded the tip about Tamela Banks’s baby.”

Thunder cracked.

“Why didn’t you know this was Pounder’s place?” I asked.

“When dealing with authorities, Mr. Pounder prefers listing his city address. Legal y, this farm is deeded to Mama,” Rinaldi said.

Another peal of thunder. A low wail from the porch.

“Tamela may have come here with Tyree, but that doesn’t mean she dealt dope or kil ed her baby.” My reasoning sounded weak, even to me.

In the yard, a door banged, banged again.

“Are you going to talk to Pounder?” I asked Slidel .

The hound-dog eyes settled on mine.

“I’m not a moron, Doc.”

Yes, you are, I thought.

At that moment, the storm broke.

Ryan, Boyd, and I sat on the porch until the squal played itself out. The wind flapped our clothes and blew warm rain across our faces. It felt wonderful.