"Al right, I'd had a lot of beer. But I don't do drugs. I told you that. Christ, you're acting just like my father."

"Or any concerned parent." Love and anger battled for control of my voice.

"Look, I did my community service and went to their lame substance abuse program. Aren't you people ever going to ease up?"

With that he lurched from the chair and slouched out of the room. In seconds I heard the slam of the guest room door.

Wel -done, Brennan. Take a gold star for effective parenting.

I cleared the table, repackaged the uneaten portions of food, loaded the dishwasher, and tried Howard's number.

No answer.

Damn you, Harry, for not tel ing me about this. And damn you for being in Mexico.

I tried Isabel e, hoping to ask about Lyle Crease.

Machine.

I spent the rest of the evening with the Pat Conroy book I'd laid down a week earlier. Nothin' could be finer than to be in Carolina.

Predictably, Kit was sleeping when I left for work. This day, I attended the morning meeting.

When I returned to my office, Claudel was there.

"Figure out who kil ed Dorsey?" I asked as I threw the morning's case log on the desk.

He gave me a look that could freeze molten lava, then held out an envelope.

I sat, unlocked my desk drawer, and handed him the Myrtle Beach photo.

"Where did you say this came from?"

"I didn't." I gave him the lens. "Because I don't know."

"It just appeared?"

His eyes roved the print.

"I noticed it yesterday. I can't say for certain when it arrived on my desk."

After several seconds the lens froze and he drew closer to it. Then, "You're talking about the man next to Z. Z. Top?"

"Show me," I said, surprised at the musical reference. I would have pegged Claudel as strictly classical.

He turned the photo and pointed.

"Yes. The girl next to him is Savannah Osprey." Back to the lens.

"You're sure?"

I dug out the yearbook portrait Kate had given me. He studied it, then the picnic shot, going back and forth like a fan at Wimbledon.

"You're right."

"What about Buckle Boy?"

He indicated the envelope in my hand. "Desjardins was a large man before his il ness."

I shook out the photos and Claudel circled the desk so we could view them together

Large was an understatement. The partial y headless form I'd seen in the chair was a feeble reminder of the body that once had housed Cherokee Desjardins. Before cancer had parched his innards, and drugs and chemo had done their magic, the man had been massive, though in a spongy gut-bulging sort of way.

The file photos spanned a period of years. Beards came and went and the hairline crept backward, but the bel y and facial features changed little.

Until the cancer struck.