“What?” Exhaustion and frustration were turning Forex’s voice shrill.

“Just wondering about her musical selection.”

Forex’s head thrust forward, causing the tendons in her neck to go taut. “What the flip does it matter?”

“I always do ‘Fat Bottom Girls.’”

Forex threw up both hands. “She fucking hates me!” Hitting hard on the verb and elongating the e.

Ollie didn’t get the reference. “You gotta grow thicker skin, Foxy.”

“Puddle of Mudd,” I said.

Three faces swiveled my way.

“They’re out of Kansas City. The song may actually be titled ‘She Hates Me.’ With the expletive implied.”

“Are you three for real?” Forex dropped her arms. “I’ve got a headcase doing blow au naturel on my lawn, and you morons are playing Name That Tune?”

I glanced at Ryan. Though he turned away, the ghost of a smile played on his lips.

“Did you ask Devereaux to leave?” Now Ollie was all business.

“Right after I ordered her to cover her puffy white ass. She cussed me out, slammed into her room, and locked the door. That’s why I called you.”

“Is she still in there?”

“The door’s still locked.”

“You don’t have a key?”

“I like my face arranged as it is.”

“OK. Here’s what’s going to happen. While we roust Devereaux, you’re going to disappear. No commentary. No interference. No input of any kind.”

“That ungrateful—”

“We’re outta here.” Ollie turned toward the door.

“OK. OK.” Forex snagged his arm. “Her room’s in back, above the garage.”

“Same crib Annaliese Ruben used?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Never a free lunch.” Forex removed a key from an end-table drawer and tossed it to Ollie. “No need to mess the place up. Anything Annaliese left is in a duffel in the closet.”

Forex led us to into the kitchen to a back door that opened onto a small patio overlooking a nicely kept lawn.

“Devereaux own a firearm?” These were the first words Ryan had spoken since entering the house.

“Not that I know of. It’s against my rules. But what the hell? Her Highness ignores them.”

As we filed out, Forex called to our backs, “Watch yourselves. Coming off the junk, she’ll be mean as a snake.”

Cars entered the garage from an alleyway in back, people from a door in the side facing the house. We followed a trail of concrete pavers to the latter.

The door was unlocked, so we went in. The interior smelled of oil, gasoline, and a hint of rotting garbage. A silver Honda Civic occupied most of the space. The usual garden tools, recycling tubs, and rollout trash bins lined the walls. Directly ahead, through a tiny storage room, a set of stairs ascended to a second story. We quietly climbed them. At the top, we assumed our back-to-the-wall formation, then Ollie knuckle-rapped the door.

“Ms. Devereaux?”

No answer.

“Aurora Devereaux.”

“Kiss off.” Muffled and slurry.

“It’s the police. Open up.”

“Go away.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I’m not dressed.”

“We’ll wait.”