“Scabies is caused by mites.” My voice was chil ier than the car interior.

“Exactly. You wouldn’t have believed that shithole.”

“You should have worn gloves.”

“You got that right. And a respirator. These people—”

“What people would that be, Detective?”

“Some folks live like pigs.”

“Gideon Banks is a hardworking, decent man who raised six children largely on his own.”

“Wife beat feet?”

“Melba Banks died of breast cancer ten years ago.” There. I did know something about my coworker.

“Bum luck.”

The radio crackled some message that was lost on me.

“Stil don’t excuse kids dropping their shorts with no regard for consequences. Get jammed up? No-o-o-o problem. Have an abortion.” Slidel kil ed the engine and turned the Ray-Bans on me.

“Or worse.”

“There may be some explanation for Tamela Banks’s actions.”

I didn’t real y believe that, had spent al morning taking the opposite position with Tim Larabee. ButSlidel was so irritating I found myself playing devil’s advocate.

“Right. And the chamber of commerce wil probably name her mother of the year.”

“Have you met Tamela?” I asked, forcing my voice level.

“No. Have you?”

No. I ignoredSlidel ’s question.

“Have you met any of the Banks family?”

“No, but I took statements from folks who were snorting lines in the next room while Tamela incinerated her kid.”Slidel pocketed the keys. “Excusez-moiif I haven’t dropped in for tea with the lady and her relations.”

“You’ve never had to deal with any of the Banks kids because they were raised with good, solid values. Gideon Banks is as straitlaced as—”

“The mutt Tamela’s screwing ain’t close to straight up.”

“The baby’s father?”

“Unless Miss Hot Pants was entertaining while Daddy was dealing.”

Easy!The man is a cockroach.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Darryl Tyree. Tamela was shacking up in Tyree’s little piece of heaven out onSouth Tryon .”

“Tyree sel s drugs?”

“And we’re not talking the Eckerd’s pharmacy.”Slidel hit the door handle and got out.

I bit back a response.One hour. It’s over.

A stab of guilt. Over for me, but what about Gideon Banks? What about Tamela and her dead baby?

I joinedSlidel on the sidewalk.

“Je-zus. It’s hot enough to burn a polar bear’s butt.”

“It’s August.”

“I should be at the beach.”

Yes, I thought. Under four tons of sand.

I fol owedSlidel up a narrow walk littered with fresh-mown grass to a smal cement stoop. He pressed a thumb to a rusted button beside the front door, dug a hanky from his back pocket, and wiped his face.

No response.

Slidel knocked on a wooden portion of the screen door.

Nothing.

Slidel knocked again. His forehead glistened and his hair was separating into wet clumps.

“Police, Mr. Banks.”

Slidel banged with the heel of his hand. The screen door rattled in its frame.

“Gideon Banks!”